Off season is called that for a damn good reason. Thoreau who cooed, “Live each season as it passes, breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit…resign yourself to the influences of each season.” Well Thoreau didn’t know dookee about the Myrtle Beach restaurant off season.
In one fall full moon you rappel from the rarified air of Everest to the cash-register emptiness of the Marianas Trench. Some winter days you open the door and absolutely no one (zero, nada) darkens your door cept a map salesmen and a coupon-book purveyor dunning you for overdue bills and an Irish Traveler offering you a too-good-to-be-true asphalt patch.
Another except from Dino's book
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