I recently had a couple of conversations that mock troubled me. The gist is my life is rather blandly calm. Suburban, contented, if you will.

Shit that I am, and warped to boot, I can’t really wrap the old brain pan around simple and quiet and comfortable. Like some lizard point inside my skull would prefer that M. took a swing every now and again, because that would be so fucking punk rock.

The problem with being in your 40s is you start to make choices. Cost benefit analyses like the reality that mopping vomit chunks out of the metal teeth of your leather jacket clearly loses out to the clarity of never letting the Jager burn your throat in the first fucking place.

Boozing, drugs and unbridled sex are fun and all, in their respective times and places, and whilst hewing to the Aristotleian Golden Mean, of course. But, eventually, you learn a Sunday morning discovered and awoken to without pain is a fine fucking day. Seriously, the recovery now sucks the fun out of the night before.

I mean plain old vanilla intercourse is just easier without stumbling, insensitive numbness and the hydration issues of imbibing. I’m going die eventually, I don’t have the hours to waste trying to resucitate a whiskey dick.

All of this info is prologue to the real point of my writing. Some of the coolest folks I know from Boston comedy, the ones I truly call friends, who were denizens and main players of my two favorite comedy haunts, the Lizard Lounge and the Great and Secret Show, are taking it onto the ultimate comedy road. They’re heading to the Edinburgh Fringe Fest

This is them (or themself):

I seriously love these people. I mean a nice friend love, not the kind where I let them touch the flowering labia of my womanhood.

So, in my stable life, my happy life, my peaceful life, I’m conflicted. I have the means, and with a little cajoling action and hard work with some co-workers to smooth the demands of the day job, I have the time to make a week’s vacation visit to their month-long entertaining. But, with comfort comes complacency, so I’m having trouble embracing the 14-hour flight with a backpack and the floor-sleeping adventure.

If I can swing it, I’ll go. Alone, because M. has a far higher commitment to his career.

Feeling old and feeling distinctly not punk rock is worrying about creature comforts in place of adventure.

When did I become so fucking lazy and so fucking wimpy.

But, when I show up, it will be totally kick ass. Even if I end up baring all to the Scots and making them laugh.

Thanks, Dot, for spreading the rumor that I was rolling the idea of a trip around in my head.