The vaunted Pensacola Grand Hotel, in which I’m writing this, is self-described as possessing “old world charm,” which means it’s highly flammable and ever-so-slightly culturally insensitive. Christian Contemporary superstar Lauren Daigle and her thousand semi trucks are parked at the arena next door, and I’ve reconciled myself to the world’s saddest chicken salad sandwich and accompanying gastrointestinal discomfort. ‘Tis a silly place.

But my gallows humor’s a good sign, it means we’re a few weeks into a long run and I’ve still got my wits about me, romping all cathartically sardonic through life’s infinite preposterousness.