The Brown Man is at the beach getting browner.
It would probably be easier for our household to get to the beach if I ran for president and got elected. The Obamas probably leave town with less stuff than we do. And they've got help.
One of the Resident Diva's friends came along with us. The look on her face as she sat at the dining room table for an hour, watching us go through our final departure checklists and room sweeps said "it can't take all this effort to leave town for a week.
But the house is clean, all the doors and windows have been triple checked, and every imaginable convenience we could think of, from books to medicines to enough clothes to avoid any need to do laundry while we are gone, was been stuffed into the back of our truck.
On the highway down here yesterday, as we rode through the middle of Georgia to the coast, I said, "Barack Obama is going to have to have another press conference just to get on TV - Michael Jackson is on so much, I almost forgot Obama was president."
S. said, "he's probably glad for the break."
So while the rest of you guys are watching the parade of elephants or whatever the Jackson's have cooked up for their brother's send off, and Al Sharpton's latest hairdo, and Jessie Jackson's tears, and the sea of black designer sunglasses that will adorn the faces of the sea of celebrities who pack the VIP section of the Staples Center, I will be watching the waves of the Atlantic lap at the sand.
Because next week, when some of the fanfare over Michael Jackson's death finally subsides, we'll be back to the all-American lineup of distressed mortgages, depraved politicians and a depressed economy.
I'll be rested and ready.
And a whole lot browner.