I’ve always loved that line from The Shining — Jack’s maniacal face sticking through the hole he just chopped in the door with a fire axe, declaring triumphantly: “Honey, I’m home!”

(That was from the bad version of The Shining, the Stanley Kubrick version, not the other bad version of The Shining, the TV mini-series where Stephen King himself crapped all over the page and called it a script. What’s up with Stephen King books and the big/small screen anyway? Books = good / screen = crap, pretty universally in both cases. Hmm…)

(And yeah, okay, now that I think about it maybe the line was really “Wendy, I’m home!” and maybe he said it some other time during the movie since the line when he chopped the door down was “Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!” but, hey, this is my blog and I’m writing this entry and so we’re doing things my way, okay? Okay. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, after all.)

(And how weird is it that as I trolled through the satellite TV channels a little while after first writing this entry I stumbled across the Kubrick Shining?)

Anyway, I’m home. And just as a reminder to myself, don’t declare a hotel “not bad” until you’ve actually tried the bed. Let’s just say the Shilo Inn’s bed had nothing on the West Bestern ones, and those have nothing on going camping and sleeping in a sleeping bag on the ground in the middle of a rock garden. I’m just sayin…

Anyway, I’m home. For 32 hours, at least.