Wilmington, North Carolina
I rode through Myrtle Beach today, the last place to solidify my hatred for South Carolina. A surrogate Daytona Beach replete with gift shops, mini-golf, and chain restaurants. It even has its own bike week, full of the same bearded businessmen riding forty-thousand dollar Harley's acting hard, as in Florida.
I was confused as to the type of person that takes a vacation to Myrtle Beach. Is there really that large of a population of vacuous, unmotivated people whose only desired experiences are Puddfuckers and Red Lobster? Do the people in those commercials really exist? There were a dozen mini-golf courses all down the same strip of U.S. 17. Their variability ran the gamut of all possible put-put themes from volcanoes and tikis, to pirates, to live alligators, to crashed planes, to dinosaurs, to crashed planes on dinosaur island. Every one of them with the same distinctive dull, opaque blue water required for a put-put licence. The overwhelming corporatism of it was dumbfounding, with every sort of overpriced, crappy tourist attraction I'd ever seen along one long strip. Planet Hollywood and Hard Rock, Wonderworks and Ripley's, Dolly Parton presents Pirates! and a large television advertising "BATS." The sign telling me that I was entering "the most military friendly state in the nation," was the most welcoming sight thus far.
Wilmington was the longest trip at one hundred miles. It wasn't unbearable, but I'm glad to take the next day off. I spent the night in the middle of some heavy girl-talk that would've made me fret endlessly in high school. I woke up the next day to an underage girl trying to discreetly bone her military boyfriend on the futon near my head. I tried to sleep as long as I could amid the unintelligible whispers breaking the rhythm of wet kisses. They finished whatever they were attempting and I overheard them talk about the guy on the ground. The girl thought him funny, but wouldn't let a stranger into her house because she says she has trust issues.
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