Flying on 9/11 may not be the smartest thing I have ever done (then again neither was this. Or this. Or this), but, as the rabid Carolina Hurricanes fan sitting next to me on the plane said yesterday “If we do not fly on 9/11 then the fucking terrorists win.” Preach on, guy who loves Rod Brind’Amour, preach on (note to Perez: ‘Canes fan was a former Philadelphia Flyers fan which almost made me stop talking to him until I asked him why he stopped rooting for the Flyers. His response, “Because my wife and I have been living in Raleigh for the past seven years and, well, fuck the Flyers“). Sitting in the CLT, here are some highlights from my recent business trip to North Carolina:
- North Carolina is green and lush. I mean really green and lush. I guess I am too used to the yellow-brown hue Colorado is covered in year-round. There are a plethora of pine tress in the greater Raleigh-Durham area, too. I was not aware the Carolinas were so friendly to the coniferous tree family.
- Various topics discussed with our client that was not related to his website: Carolina Panthers football, the point spread on the UNC-Rutgers game, Indian hotel investors, hairy pussy, bald pussy, Viagra and wine.
- Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had nothing to do with design or development: their T1 connection.
- Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had to do with design or development: none.
- I enjoyed a ridiculous meal at a five-star resort called Herons. I gorged myself on a tremendous meal of sea bass, hush puppies, numerous expensive glasses of wine and sweet potato pie.
- How many times our client’s partner urged me to “beat my children with a strap” upon telling him that my wife was pregnant: 3.
- How many times our client’s partner passed on the restaurant valet service even though it was free: 2.
- The next time I will be to invited fly to Raleigh and “talk about the website”: 6 months.
Kaye: Where are you working from today?
Me: A coffee shop in Boulder. I am meeting with a vendor this morning and he chose this joint.
Me: I cannot wait to be an old man at a coffee shop. These codgers are sitting next to me and have been talking about the weather for the past hour.
Kaye: With their newspapers and their sweater vests?
Me: Well it is Boulder, so gray beards, flannel shirts…
Kaye: …and some LL Bean khaki pants?
Me: Right. And instead of a regular newspaper they are reading an alternative paper. Something that bashes Republicans and the “establishment.”
Kaye: God. Old Boulder dudes.
Me: They are not even cool old dudes wearing a Fedora, walking all slow and talking about losing their buddies during the WW-deuce.
Kaye: Ha! They are just old Hippies. The worst kind of Hippy.
Me: Yes. Because they are old enough to know that their peace-loving, cheeba-smoking rhetoric does not work anymore.
Kaye: Totally. You know what looks good on a Hippy?
Kaye: No. Fire.
Me: Even better.
My sister has been working as a county social worker for the past decade. Yesterday she was at the jail administering a training class for fellow county employees. While walking through the intake area, a young woman called out to her from the holding cell. The young woman asked my sister her name, where she went to high school and if I was her brother. After answering yes to all the young woman’s queries, she blurts out, “Oh my god! I used to date your brother! Tell him I said hello!” Hello back at you, crazy drugged-up bitch I used to date in high school. Be sure to tell your Mom that she still owes me gas money for driving you to softball practice during the summer of 1994.
After running down an errant couch on I-25 with the Ghost of War, the wife and I decided the time was nigh to purchase a new automobile. We first called our credit union to get pre-approved for a loan and were pleased to learn they offered their customers a free auto broker service. This was exactly what I wanted to hear as car salesman rank in character somewhere between necrophiliacs and Rent-A-Center employees to me. The wife and I were referred to a genial gentleman named Gordon. He called to inform of us of an auto inventory showcase they were having the next day and invited us to come down and test drive whatever he had. So we did. He introduced himself and then became scarce and the wife and I spent the rest of the morning speeding new and used whips around the hills near Morrison, Colorado. We fell in love with the 2008 Toyota RAV4, both for the V6 engine and the stellar Consumer Reports ratings (thanks EZ). After discussing the features we were looking for in an automobile with Gordon, he informed us that he would scour the Denver metro area for what we wanted. The next day he called to inform us that he procured a 2008 flint-colored, moonroofed Toyota RAV4 and that he was driving it up to the crib to let us take it for a spin. We loved the damn thing (of course) and two days and fifteen minutes of paperwork later, the wife and I had us a new ride.
I made my final voyage in the Ghost of War yesterday (a youngster in Castle Rock bought her for $500) first to Santiagos for a sack of breakfast burritos and then to the office. She was a steady machine that gave me scant trouble in ten years of hard driving (I work a clutch like a Mexican field hand works a burro). Godspeed, Ghost of War. May all your future rides be down the smoothest of couch-free roads.
Long time friends of the MB, Mark and Sara, ruined their lives over the weekend. It was a lovely affair that went down at Red Rocks Amphitheater and included Apache Wedding blessings, drinking and revelry, an R2D2 cake and a slide show of two fine-looking youngsters in love. I understand your reasoning for putting us at the Smashing Pumpkins table, Mark, but were we at least considered for The Clash table? I must know. Congratulations (again) from the wife and I. Enjoy England/Scotland/Ireland. Also, something for you to consider.
In just a few short hours World Series tickets will be going on sale. I will be attempting to score seats for games three, four and/or five. Being as tickets are only being sold online, season ticket holders get first dibs and only 18,000 seats will be available to the general public per game, chances are slim that I will be drunkenly heckling Coco Crisp for being benched from the nosebleeds. If no tickets are procured, I will officially renounce the Christian messiah and go the god-hating way of Perez.
Update: The risen infant Christ has forsaken me. Ticket purchasing attempts were made on a Mac via Firefox, Safari and Netscape while simultaneously rolling the office PC test computer on IE, Firefox and Netscape. All to no avail. (Shaking fist at sky and screaming, “Evolution rules!”)
Conspiracy theorists have long been masturbating to DIA for its seemingly clandestine activities. To date, the Freemasons, Illuminati, UFOs, underground military bases and reptilian aliens have all been linked to Denver International Airport. Prophetic messages are claimed to be seen in the art murals of Leo Tanguma that predict the impending apocalypse (conspiracy theorists apparently have never taken an art history course nor are familiar with Mexican muralista painters). Traveling in and out of DIA on countless occasions I have never seen any concentration camps full of reptilian aliens nor any Freemasons holding a virgin sacrifice in Concourse A, but I have seen some long goddamn lines at the Frontier check-in counter.
Nameless Elevator Rider #1: I hate snow. We had an inch and half of it on the ground when I woke up this morning.
Nameless Elevator Rider #2: We didn’t get any snow at our house.
Nameless Elevator Rider #1: (angrily) Well you don’t live in Conifer.
My Thought Bubble: Conifer. Eight thousand feet above sea level. In the Rocky Mountains. Where it snows at least eight months out of the year. You dumb bitch.