Next weekend is a road trip. We'll throw a dart at the seaboard map and wander forth, a stochastic journey with a CD player and a change of clothes. Virginia, North Carolina, or perhaps we'll give up and traipse to Atlantic City for an amateur bacchanal, shots and slots, $20 in blackjack, no hookers, no pawn shops, no high-roller's suites.

"I will wear no underwear from the time we leave New York until we return," said my friend, who owns the new car, the vessel of release.

I will wake struck by amnesia in a jail, alone, with new tattoos.

I know I will not remember this time as my life's most wonderful or thrilling, but you have to make good with what God gives you.