It was 6:30 this morning when my Ernest Lee Purring brand 4-Legged, Head-Butting alarm clock went off. I hit the snooze, a couple times, but the damn thing kept landing on its feet and popping back up on the bed to try again. My regular alarm wasn't set to go off for another 20 minutes. It was, in the immortal words of every surfer dude, a bummer.
I could have used the sleep after a long road swing. You know, you never sleep as well on the road. It isn't he comfort of the bed, or the quality of the surroundings. It's more likely the late night Taco Bell runs that do it. 4th meal indeed.
I have been making hay the last few days, really trying to get up on top of the pile of things that have been slipping past my reach. So far, so good. I Think I can manage to get caught up by Friday afternoon. This is a good thing, because I simply cannot put off starting working on windows any longer.
Tonight is poker night. I have to defend my 9th rank. At least I'm not last. the guy in last place I'm not even sure he exists. He's in last because he never plays. The guy in 4th is sick, so I figure I can jump a spot or two if I focus and concentrate. Pshaw. At least at the end of the night, I can't be out more than $20 bucks and I won't be worse than 9th. In short, when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose. All apologies to Mr. Zimmerman for cribbing his immortal lyric.
I went bowling last night, for work, because my job sucks. Of course, I am kidding about the last part. I get paid to have cocktails and bowl with people who are by-and-large really fun. Tough gig. We went bowling on my birthday and bowled two games. The first was a 138, the second a 160. Last night, I had a 102 and a 67. I quit after the 67. I was not fully recovered from the previous outing. I could not grip the ball at all by the end. Frustrating. Today the knuckle on my middle finger is singin' and aria. Whooo, boy. It's sad when bowling has the effect on your body as a full-contact sport.
I guess going on the national thumb wrestling tour is out of the question.
Oh, well. I am home now and the work week is winding down. These two things are good enough for me to declare that all is well in this life right now.
Wish me luck tonight in poker... I'm gonna need it.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Grand Rapids Five-O
The police scanner is awesome. I have always loved watching live music concerts on TV, because you get to see the epic-ness of the whole thing, without hanging out with the unwashed masses. You see the guitar hero, fingering your favorite riff without the smell of puke and stale alcohol, or the 50 year old teenager in front of you who won't sit down, and definitely won't stop screaming "WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" You can pause the show, grab a snack that doesn't cost a mint and not wait in an interminably long line just to not be able to pee in a trough because you easily get stage fright.
Maybe that last part is an over share.
So it is with the police scanner. I can sit and listen to the seamy underbelly of my city, without actually being there. I can be on scene without being on site. It is the best of both worlds - satisfying my morbid curiosity for the daily suffering that comes with the human condition, and siting placidly at my desk, working.
At various times in my life, I have been a devotee of certain daytime teleplays, but none are as intriguing as reality. Even in my little mid-western city, there is reliably a fire, traffic accident, theft, domestic dispute, hit-and-run, or someone just actin' the fool each and every day. And I'm not even talking about listening after the sun goes down! This is at 2:00 in the afternoon! The men and women who work as first responders truly have my respect. The ones that do it at night, have my cautious sidelong glance, for they must be crazy.
My imagination makes the voices I hear look like dashing Hollywood types straight out of central casting, with improbably arranged soot on their face and impossibly gleaming teeth as they walk triumphantly in a slow-motion stride, from the burnt out remains of a warehouse. The look on their faces a studied and practiced mixture of exhaustion and elation that only adrenaline can provide. You just know they will go home to their also incredibly blemish-free wives who will greet them with a single-lipped kiss that lingers just long enough for 2.5 perfect children to come happily around the corner shouting "daddy, daddy!".
Over the radio, or at least the iPhone app that stands in for the radio, I tend to see a romanticized view of the drama unfolding. All the bad guys are really, really bad and the good guys are Dudley Doright. The good guys win, the bad guys get what they deserve and old ladies sleep well at night with their biggest worry being finding enough time to tend to their prize-winning begonias.
But it isn't that way, is it? As I listen, there is a man who hit another car and ran who is now out on the streets calculating his next move. Did he run because he is a coward? Does he have insurance? Is he wanted? Is rushing to the hospital to say goodbye to a loved one for the last time?
And what about the man in his early twenties who just stole something from a store? Is he being initiated in a gang? Is he a misanthrope who is just acting out? Did he lose his job and is desperate for money to eat, or a place to stay?
In life, it is never so cut and dry. The good guys get hurt or killed putting out the fire at the meth lab and the bad guys get away. Good people make bad mistakes. The least among us pay inordinately high prices for merely being indigent and desperate.
And this is why I choose to think of every cop being Erik Estrada and every fireman John Wayne. Each EMT is a young, good looking idealist, working and scrapping their way through the big bad world, but making it just the same. The old lady that just had a medical episode and crashed on the highway is going to fine. In fact, she will be able to see her grand child in the school musical tonight.
And people call me a cynic. Really, I'm just a frustrated romantic.
Maybe that last part is an over share.
So it is with the police scanner. I can sit and listen to the seamy underbelly of my city, without actually being there. I can be on scene without being on site. It is the best of both worlds - satisfying my morbid curiosity for the daily suffering that comes with the human condition, and siting placidly at my desk, working.
At various times in my life, I have been a devotee of certain daytime teleplays, but none are as intriguing as reality. Even in my little mid-western city, there is reliably a fire, traffic accident, theft, domestic dispute, hit-and-run, or someone just actin' the fool each and every day. And I'm not even talking about listening after the sun goes down! This is at 2:00 in the afternoon! The men and women who work as first responders truly have my respect. The ones that do it at night, have my cautious sidelong glance, for they must be crazy.
My imagination makes the voices I hear look like dashing Hollywood types straight out of central casting, with improbably arranged soot on their face and impossibly gleaming teeth as they walk triumphantly in a slow-motion stride, from the burnt out remains of a warehouse. The look on their faces a studied and practiced mixture of exhaustion and elation that only adrenaline can provide. You just know they will go home to their also incredibly blemish-free wives who will greet them with a single-lipped kiss that lingers just long enough for 2.5 perfect children to come happily around the corner shouting "daddy, daddy!".
Over the radio, or at least the iPhone app that stands in for the radio, I tend to see a romanticized view of the drama unfolding. All the bad guys are really, really bad and the good guys are Dudley Doright. The good guys win, the bad guys get what they deserve and old ladies sleep well at night with their biggest worry being finding enough time to tend to their prize-winning begonias.
But it isn't that way, is it? As I listen, there is a man who hit another car and ran who is now out on the streets calculating his next move. Did he run because he is a coward? Does he have insurance? Is he wanted? Is rushing to the hospital to say goodbye to a loved one for the last time?
And what about the man in his early twenties who just stole something from a store? Is he being initiated in a gang? Is he a misanthrope who is just acting out? Did he lose his job and is desperate for money to eat, or a place to stay?
In life, it is never so cut and dry. The good guys get hurt or killed putting out the fire at the meth lab and the bad guys get away. Good people make bad mistakes. The least among us pay inordinately high prices for merely being indigent and desperate.
And this is why I choose to think of every cop being Erik Estrada and every fireman John Wayne. Each EMT is a young, good looking idealist, working and scrapping their way through the big bad world, but making it just the same. The old lady that just had a medical episode and crashed on the highway is going to fine. In fact, she will be able to see her grand child in the school musical tonight.
And people call me a cynic. Really, I'm just a frustrated romantic.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Thursday Miscellany
Modest Relationship Advice to Women
In a conversation about successful marriage and monogomy, I had this to say: "Ladies, if you want your man to stand by your side and not stray, you need to do two things - give him some, and then give him something to do." The first part identifies the importance of a mutually fulfilling life of intimacy. The second, is pretty simple, too. A man can't have a 'secret other family' if he is so busy fixing things around the house, attending events with family and community, teaching junior to weld... whatever. The task itself isn't the key. The time it takes is.
____________________________________________________________
A New Word for the New World
My friend, Greg, coined a new word. You know how I love new words. The word is "expectable". It is a confluence of Expected and Acceptable. It was coined while having a discussion about my blentry on the subject of fast food. Greg was indicating his agreement with my premise that while McDonald's is not to be regarded as the standard bearer of our collective gastronomy, it is certainly exactly what you expect it to be. Each time. Each location. It is, in fact, expectable in that it is acceptable simply because it is exactly what you expected it to be.
I am still trying to figure out whether the connotation of this word is generally positive, neutral, or damning in the faintness of its praise. I welcome feedback.
____________________________________________________________
Stop Yelling at Me
I just heard a song from a group from Mongolia. I don't think Austin or Nashville have any need to worry about Mongolia establishing a preeminent music festival. And, I don't think I need to go to Mongolia. Their barbecue is not good enough to make up for their music. No wonder the Chinese built a wall.
____________________________________________________________
A Handy Diagnosis
"You have carpal tunnel, I can tell you that." said the rehab doctor on Tuesday after repeatedly poking my arm and wrist with electrodes and needles.
"Actually, I could have told you that, and there wouldn't have been a co-pay," came my terse reply as I sat up, rubbing my arm.
"Let me finish," the doctor added, not liking being put into the position of defending his practice, "You have one of the worst cases I have ever seen."
"Well, that's better." I said.
I will go back to the surgeon week-after-next to discuss my fate, but it looks like I will be facing the knife at some point here in the future. That's okay. I can't imagine it being any worse than having 3 surgical and 1 medical wisdom tooth extractions in one day. I seem to recall bouncing back from that one pretty well.
In my mind, I think of the scene in Empire Strikes Back where Luke has a bionic wrist and hand installed in place of the one his daddy sliced off with a light sabre. sorry for the spoiler, but if you haven't seen it by now...
Anyhow, I doubt it will be that cool. At the end, I won't be bionic, just sore. A chiropractor friend of mine gave me some stretches and rubs to do to see if there was enough improvement to avoid the knife, so I am trying those to see if there is a marked improvement. It's been 3 years, though, so I am not holding out too much hope.
I also recall my wisdom teeth as the event that introduced me to Vicodin. Oh, what a sweet, toxic and unsustainable relationship we had. I had to leave her for my own good and I sure ain't going back, so I guess it will be Tylenol (that's Acetimoaniphone to you, Em) this time around.
In a conversation about successful marriage and monogomy, I had this to say: "Ladies, if you want your man to stand by your side and not stray, you need to do two things - give him some, and then give him something to do." The first part identifies the importance of a mutually fulfilling life of intimacy. The second, is pretty simple, too. A man can't have a 'secret other family' if he is so busy fixing things around the house, attending events with family and community, teaching junior to weld... whatever. The task itself isn't the key. The time it takes is.
____________________________________________________________
A New Word for the New World
My friend, Greg, coined a new word. You know how I love new words. The word is "expectable". It is a confluence of Expected and Acceptable. It was coined while having a discussion about my blentry on the subject of fast food. Greg was indicating his agreement with my premise that while McDonald's is not to be regarded as the standard bearer of our collective gastronomy, it is certainly exactly what you expect it to be. Each time. Each location. It is, in fact, expectable in that it is acceptable simply because it is exactly what you expected it to be.
I am still trying to figure out whether the connotation of this word is generally positive, neutral, or damning in the faintness of its praise. I welcome feedback.
____________________________________________________________
Stop Yelling at Me
I just heard a song from a group from Mongolia. I don't think Austin or Nashville have any need to worry about Mongolia establishing a preeminent music festival. And, I don't think I need to go to Mongolia. Their barbecue is not good enough to make up for their music. No wonder the Chinese built a wall.
____________________________________________________________
A Handy Diagnosis
"You have carpal tunnel, I can tell you that." said the rehab doctor on Tuesday after repeatedly poking my arm and wrist with electrodes and needles.
"Actually, I could have told you that, and there wouldn't have been a co-pay," came my terse reply as I sat up, rubbing my arm.
"Let me finish," the doctor added, not liking being put into the position of defending his practice, "You have one of the worst cases I have ever seen."
"Well, that's better." I said.
I will go back to the surgeon week-after-next to discuss my fate, but it looks like I will be facing the knife at some point here in the future. That's okay. I can't imagine it being any worse than having 3 surgical and 1 medical wisdom tooth extractions in one day. I seem to recall bouncing back from that one pretty well.
In my mind, I think of the scene in Empire Strikes Back where Luke has a bionic wrist and hand installed in place of the one his daddy sliced off with a light sabre. sorry for the spoiler, but if you haven't seen it by now...
Anyhow, I doubt it will be that cool. At the end, I won't be bionic, just sore. A chiropractor friend of mine gave me some stretches and rubs to do to see if there was enough improvement to avoid the knife, so I am trying those to see if there is a marked improvement. It's been 3 years, though, so I am not holding out too much hope.
I also recall my wisdom teeth as the event that introduced me to Vicodin. Oh, what a sweet, toxic and unsustainable relationship we had. I had to leave her for my own good and I sure ain't going back, so I guess it will be Tylenol (that's Acetimoaniphone to you, Em) this time around.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
I'm Your Vehicle, Baby. I'm Your Designated Driver...
I find myself frustrated. The other night, while I was in bed not sleeping, as is my habit, I had some really funny observations that would have made some good blog material. Knowing that I would really be chasing sleep away if I got up and jotted down what I was thinking, I decided to just commit it to memory and do something with it in the morning.
Uh-huh. That's kind of like trying to complete a reading assignment by placing the book between your head and the pillow. I need to commit to putting a notebook by my bedside so I can scribble a line or two, because as much as it pains me, I am most creative lying in bed not sleeping between the hours of 2:30 and 5:00. My normal doldrums.
One funny thing that happened which I did remember was the other night before Heather and I went out to the comedy show. Thursday before Easter, (Maundy Thursday for the 8 people in the world who know that term), Heather came in to town for a music concert. I was going to go with her, but had been traveling a lot, and my niece, Skylar was in town for her spring break. Since I wasn't really around for much of it, I elected to stay home to spend time with Em and Skylar.
Turns out, it's a good thing I did since Skylar popped a fever of nearly 103 degrees in the afternoon. Now, Em is good at a lot of things, but treating illness and ailments is not the biggest arrow in her quiver of talents. This is no bad thing and I am not putting her down. I think she would agree with me. For instance, she can't remember the difference between Tylenol and Advil, a situation made worse by the fact I require her to buy only generic drugs, so the bottles don't say Advil or Tylenol. They say Ibuprofin and Acetaminophen, (Which Em somehow thinks is pronounced Assetamoanaphone, or whatever she says).
Anyway, none of this is the point. I bowed out of the concert so I could stay home, hang with family and get some rest. Which, for the sake of telling the story brings us up to the moment the phone rang. It was Heather on the other line.
"HI BILL!" was the all-together artificially chipper voice of Heather on the line. And even though she was speaking very loudly, I was hard pressed to hear her over the din of background noise and revelry. Hearing the level of noise, I was very glad I did not go. "Say, I, for some reason, thought a shot drinking contest was a good idea. I am hanging with my new best friends, Joe, (Hertler- the guy who was performing), and his tour bus manager, (whose name I don't remember, so I shall refer to him here as Guerrero, since I like the name) and I don't think I should drive.
"OK, I said, when the concert is over, call me, I'll come get you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Sweet. I totally owe you!"
"Yes."
"I mean, are you sure, because..."
"Because, what? You are all of a sudden going to become tolerant of hard liquor and be alright to drive? Say, what time is the concert going to be done?"
"Well, they were supposed to start at 8, but nothing's going on."
"Its 9:15!"
"Dude, I know!"
"Quit drinking with the band and let them play!"
Cut to about an hour later. Skylar is peacefully in bed and I am watching the never ending car auction on Speed Channel, resigned to the fact I'm gonna be up awhile. The phone rang and I was naively thinking it was a short show and/or Heather was asked to leave and it was go time.
"HEY BILL!"
"Heather."
"Just wanted to make sure you are still cool with picking me up!"
"Yes."
"'Cause, I am in the loo and I just realized, I can't figure out how to work it. I mean..."
"Yes, Heather. Stop calling, enjoy the concert and call me when it's done."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, not this again..."
"You are the best, dude! I totally owe you!"
"Yes."
So now it's quarter-til-one and I am just about to lose my collective stuff when the phone rings.
"HEY BILL!"
"Heather."
"I think I am okay to drive."
"$%@#$#^&, I knew you were going to say that. Well, guess what? Em and I have waited up to get you and your car back here, so you are going to go to your car and wait and we are going to pick you up!"
"Okay, good, because I really don't think I should drive."
"Then why did... Oh, forget it. Go to your car."
Click.
On the way home, Heather explained the concert did indeed get done just before midnight, but she was chillin' with Guerrero and the rest of the performers. This was information I did not need to know, but I think I managed to bite my tongue.
"Hey, is there food, somewhere?" Heather asked, one minute and twenty-three seconds after we passed the only lit building for miles, which just happened to be festooned with golden arches.
"Yes, we passed it." I said. I received no verbal reply, but instead turned to see the saddest little face I have ever seen on a human... or on Heather. "Fine, we'll go to the one on Madison."
"Dude, are you sure?"
"Quit asking me that!"
Flash to a week ahead and I was the designated driver for the comedy show. I made a joke to Em before we left and asked if she could drop us off and pick us up.
"Don't call me!" she said. "Wait, don't NOT call me... but don't call me!" Why men spend half their lives confused and the other half annoyed I'll never know. But the message was clear, even if the delivery was convoluted. Take my DD responsibilities seriously, as the alternative would be very bad for all parties involved.
So that was a long way to a finish that, as I read what I just wrote, was not worth the time it took to write, nor the effort it took to read. Now I really wish I could remember what it was I thought about the other night. You have to believe me... it was great.
Uh-huh. That's kind of like trying to complete a reading assignment by placing the book between your head and the pillow. I need to commit to putting a notebook by my bedside so I can scribble a line or two, because as much as it pains me, I am most creative lying in bed not sleeping between the hours of 2:30 and 5:00. My normal doldrums.
One funny thing that happened which I did remember was the other night before Heather and I went out to the comedy show. Thursday before Easter, (Maundy Thursday for the 8 people in the world who know that term), Heather came in to town for a music concert. I was going to go with her, but had been traveling a lot, and my niece, Skylar was in town for her spring break. Since I wasn't really around for much of it, I elected to stay home to spend time with Em and Skylar.
Turns out, it's a good thing I did since Skylar popped a fever of nearly 103 degrees in the afternoon. Now, Em is good at a lot of things, but treating illness and ailments is not the biggest arrow in her quiver of talents. This is no bad thing and I am not putting her down. I think she would agree with me. For instance, she can't remember the difference between Tylenol and Advil, a situation made worse by the fact I require her to buy only generic drugs, so the bottles don't say Advil or Tylenol. They say Ibuprofin and Acetaminophen, (Which Em somehow thinks is pronounced Assetamoanaphone, or whatever she says).
Anyway, none of this is the point. I bowed out of the concert so I could stay home, hang with family and get some rest. Which, for the sake of telling the story brings us up to the moment the phone rang. It was Heather on the other line.
"HI BILL!" was the all-together artificially chipper voice of Heather on the line. And even though she was speaking very loudly, I was hard pressed to hear her over the din of background noise and revelry. Hearing the level of noise, I was very glad I did not go. "Say, I, for some reason, thought a shot drinking contest was a good idea. I am hanging with my new best friends, Joe, (Hertler- the guy who was performing), and his tour bus manager, (whose name I don't remember, so I shall refer to him here as Guerrero, since I like the name) and I don't think I should drive.
"OK, I said, when the concert is over, call me, I'll come get you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Sweet. I totally owe you!"
"Yes."
"I mean, are you sure, because..."
"Because, what? You are all of a sudden going to become tolerant of hard liquor and be alright to drive? Say, what time is the concert going to be done?"
"Well, they were supposed to start at 8, but nothing's going on."
"Its 9:15!"
"Dude, I know!"
"Quit drinking with the band and let them play!"
Cut to about an hour later. Skylar is peacefully in bed and I am watching the never ending car auction on Speed Channel, resigned to the fact I'm gonna be up awhile. The phone rang and I was naively thinking it was a short show and/or Heather was asked to leave and it was go time.
"HEY BILL!"
"Heather."
"Just wanted to make sure you are still cool with picking me up!"
"Yes."
"'Cause, I am in the loo and I just realized, I can't figure out how to work it. I mean..."
"Yes, Heather. Stop calling, enjoy the concert and call me when it's done."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, not this again..."
"You are the best, dude! I totally owe you!"
"Yes."
So now it's quarter-til-one and I am just about to lose my collective stuff when the phone rings.
"HEY BILL!"
"Heather."
"I think I am okay to drive."
"$%@#$#^&, I knew you were going to say that. Well, guess what? Em and I have waited up to get you and your car back here, so you are going to go to your car and wait and we are going to pick you up!"
"Okay, good, because I really don't think I should drive."
"Then why did... Oh, forget it. Go to your car."
Click.
On the way home, Heather explained the concert did indeed get done just before midnight, but she was chillin' with Guerrero and the rest of the performers. This was information I did not need to know, but I think I managed to bite my tongue.
"Hey, is there food, somewhere?" Heather asked, one minute and twenty-three seconds after we passed the only lit building for miles, which just happened to be festooned with golden arches.
"Yes, we passed it." I said. I received no verbal reply, but instead turned to see the saddest little face I have ever seen on a human... or on Heather. "Fine, we'll go to the one on Madison."
"Dude, are you sure?"
"Quit asking me that!"
Flash to a week ahead and I was the designated driver for the comedy show. I made a joke to Em before we left and asked if she could drop us off and pick us up.
"Don't call me!" she said. "Wait, don't NOT call me... but don't call me!" Why men spend half their lives confused and the other half annoyed I'll never know. But the message was clear, even if the delivery was convoluted. Take my DD responsibilities seriously, as the alternative would be very bad for all parties involved.
So that was a long way to a finish that, as I read what I just wrote, was not worth the time it took to write, nor the effort it took to read. Now I really wish I could remember what it was I thought about the other night. You have to believe me... it was great.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Heather and Bill Get Stricken by the Stars
I have way too much to do to be writing this blentry, but I also have a lot to talk about, so I will consider this a "mind clearing" exercise necessary to complete my actual work. You know, the stuff I get paid tens-of-hundreds-of-dollars-per-year to do.
This past weekend, my friend Heather and I, comedy nerds since our college days, went to go see TJ Miller, a comedian Heather really likes. She bought the tickets, I picked up the bar tab. We had a great time. We thought the crowd was mostly pretty good and we marveled at how hard it is to do the job of telling jokes. And it is a job. More on that later.
Heather is a Miller devotee. I confess, I had only a basic knowledge of him going in to this show. She was all excited to meet him. In fact, she had invited him out for beers a few weeks before the show through his Facebook page. He responded that he would like that, but in the end, it didn't happen. I was personally relieved because I don't consider myself interesting enough to host an entertainer who is, from my vantage point, significantly richer and famous-er than my normal circle of friends, who are mostly ordinary, average guys - like from the Joe Walsh song.
We sat at a table next to where the comics stood to go on stage. Miller did not know we were the people who had asked him for beers. He leaned over to Heather and said, "Everyone here thinks this show is for them... it's for you two." He then went on stage and did his thing.
We learned later he does this every show, but he means it. He picks people out of the crowd, and if nothing else plays to them. Lucky for him we didn't make him work too hard.
Heather, spurred on by Miller's gesture, grabbed my arm at the end of the show and said with all seriousness, "We are going to be the last two people out of here, got it?" It was clear there would be no argument, as Heather, not usually a heavy drinker, was brandishing her 5th bottle of beer at me whilst saying this. Did I mention she is a blackbelt in tae-kwon-do? My elastic belt in fried- fat-dough is no match. And I didn't have a gun. And she was scaring me a little.
So we waited, casually at first, and then a little weirdly, I thought, though I did not dare to say it. Heather, already basically albino, was growing almost translucently white as we got closer. TJ was meeting his adoring fans one-by-one and taking pictures and sharing smiles. I got out my phone so I could take a picture of Heather with TJ Miller and she looked at me and said, "We're not gonna do that." Okay, then, suave and sophisticated it is.
Finally our turn, Heather introduces herself as the stalker-fan who invited him for beers and we loved the show and... and...
I jumped in and admitted I was so glad he stopped, because his closer was so funny, I was literally in pain. I didn't think I would live if I kept laughing. This netted me a hug from TJ Miller.
"So, let's go have some beers! Can you guys wait a minute for me?" And so, now we were having beers and chillin' with Miller. Thankfully, he did not perform for us. He was real. We talked. he shared experience. he opened up. He was not phony, not pretentious. He was cool.
Of course I am sure we asked him all the same questions that all the local rubes ask. I am sure we didn't have any insight, nor were we particularly memorable in the final analysis, but one of the prices of fame is that you are expected to be the giver. All the time. He was kind enough to respond back to my tweet thanking him for a great night.
Heather and I were sad to learn out of 5 shows, our audience was only the 3rd best. Just below average. I was not at all surprised that this performer could quantify that. True professionals measure everything, go over everything, try to improve constantly... and are very hard on themselves.
Then there is the matter of occasionally reducing yourself to doing material you don't want to do to placate an audience that is not as sophisticated or open-minded as you would like them to be. TJ Miller did not put down his Grand Rapids audiences - In fact, he had praise for the city and the people who came to see him. But, somewhere in there was a whisp of a wish that he could have let it all air out and really go for the moon with his material and he felt the crowd was not ready for it.
This was too bad as I like to think that for a little, mid-western city, we are a pretty intelligent and sophisticated group. But, maybe we aren't.
I used to think that being a comedian was my dream. I see life very comically. I see good in bad, and bad in good. I hear dirty jokes and entendre in every sermon or lecture. I see joy in pain and sadness in success. These things make a good comedian, or at least a good writer of humor. Miller puts it best when he says, "You have to be willing to get up there and access those feelings and be vulnerable. We are all up there because we see joy and hate and we need to turn it all around to make sense of it." Admittedly, I should not have put quotes around that because I wasn't taping the conversation and that's not exactly what he said. If you want journalism, look elsewhere, this is my blog, remember!
The gist of it is, that these comics may start out doing this because they crave the attention and they need to find the funny. But at the end of the day, it is work. It is a job they go to and do, sometimes when they don't want to. They do it on the road, often alone and often lonely. They do it in shady rooms rotten with the smell of beer and fetid with the stench of bad attitude. They are forced to manage people who think their ticket says "Comedian TJ Miller with special guest Drunk Ignorant Guy Shouting Shit From the Audience". And when they "make it", they are often derided by their fans for selling out, as Miller has been for his involvement in Yogi Bear 3D.
By contrast, I get to feel funny sometimes, write it down and am lucky enough to have people placate me and tell me they enjoyed what I wrote. I can be the funny guy at the party and not feel like it is work. I leave feeling great and go home with my wife and sleep in our bed, in our house, with our cats, and I say a prayer of thanks each night for my wonderful life.
For me, it is the best of both worlds. I confess that I do hope TJ Miller's path is a happy one for him. further, I hope that, assuming we never again speak or meet, he enjoyed his time in our fair city just a little more for having us a company for a short time.
This past weekend, my friend Heather and I, comedy nerds since our college days, went to go see TJ Miller, a comedian Heather really likes. She bought the tickets, I picked up the bar tab. We had a great time. We thought the crowd was mostly pretty good and we marveled at how hard it is to do the job of telling jokes. And it is a job. More on that later.
Heather is a Miller devotee. I confess, I had only a basic knowledge of him going in to this show. She was all excited to meet him. In fact, she had invited him out for beers a few weeks before the show through his Facebook page. He responded that he would like that, but in the end, it didn't happen. I was personally relieved because I don't consider myself interesting enough to host an entertainer who is, from my vantage point, significantly richer and famous-er than my normal circle of friends, who are mostly ordinary, average guys - like from the Joe Walsh song.
We sat at a table next to where the comics stood to go on stage. Miller did not know we were the people who had asked him for beers. He leaned over to Heather and said, "Everyone here thinks this show is for them... it's for you two." He then went on stage and did his thing.
We learned later he does this every show, but he means it. He picks people out of the crowd, and if nothing else plays to them. Lucky for him we didn't make him work too hard.
Heather, spurred on by Miller's gesture, grabbed my arm at the end of the show and said with all seriousness, "We are going to be the last two people out of here, got it?" It was clear there would be no argument, as Heather, not usually a heavy drinker, was brandishing her 5th bottle of beer at me whilst saying this. Did I mention she is a blackbelt in tae-kwon-do? My elastic belt in fried- fat-dough is no match. And I didn't have a gun. And she was scaring me a little.
So we waited, casually at first, and then a little weirdly, I thought, though I did not dare to say it. Heather, already basically albino, was growing almost translucently white as we got closer. TJ was meeting his adoring fans one-by-one and taking pictures and sharing smiles. I got out my phone so I could take a picture of Heather with TJ Miller and she looked at me and said, "We're not gonna do that." Okay, then, suave and sophisticated it is.
Finally our turn, Heather introduces herself as the stalker-fan who invited him for beers and we loved the show and... and...
I jumped in and admitted I was so glad he stopped, because his closer was so funny, I was literally in pain. I didn't think I would live if I kept laughing. This netted me a hug from TJ Miller.
"So, let's go have some beers! Can you guys wait a minute for me?" And so, now we were having beers and chillin' with Miller. Thankfully, he did not perform for us. He was real. We talked. he shared experience. he opened up. He was not phony, not pretentious. He was cool.
Of course I am sure we asked him all the same questions that all the local rubes ask. I am sure we didn't have any insight, nor were we particularly memorable in the final analysis, but one of the prices of fame is that you are expected to be the giver. All the time. He was kind enough to respond back to my tweet thanking him for a great night.
Heather and I were sad to learn out of 5 shows, our audience was only the 3rd best. Just below average. I was not at all surprised that this performer could quantify that. True professionals measure everything, go over everything, try to improve constantly... and are very hard on themselves.
Then there is the matter of occasionally reducing yourself to doing material you don't want to do to placate an audience that is not as sophisticated or open-minded as you would like them to be. TJ Miller did not put down his Grand Rapids audiences - In fact, he had praise for the city and the people who came to see him. But, somewhere in there was a whisp of a wish that he could have let it all air out and really go for the moon with his material and he felt the crowd was not ready for it.
This was too bad as I like to think that for a little, mid-western city, we are a pretty intelligent and sophisticated group. But, maybe we aren't.
I used to think that being a comedian was my dream. I see life very comically. I see good in bad, and bad in good. I hear dirty jokes and entendre in every sermon or lecture. I see joy in pain and sadness in success. These things make a good comedian, or at least a good writer of humor. Miller puts it best when he says, "You have to be willing to get up there and access those feelings and be vulnerable. We are all up there because we see joy and hate and we need to turn it all around to make sense of it." Admittedly, I should not have put quotes around that because I wasn't taping the conversation and that's not exactly what he said. If you want journalism, look elsewhere, this is my blog, remember!
The gist of it is, that these comics may start out doing this because they crave the attention and they need to find the funny. But at the end of the day, it is work. It is a job they go to and do, sometimes when they don't want to. They do it on the road, often alone and often lonely. They do it in shady rooms rotten with the smell of beer and fetid with the stench of bad attitude. They are forced to manage people who think their ticket says "Comedian TJ Miller with special guest Drunk Ignorant Guy Shouting Shit From the Audience". And when they "make it", they are often derided by their fans for selling out, as Miller has been for his involvement in Yogi Bear 3D.
By contrast, I get to feel funny sometimes, write it down and am lucky enough to have people placate me and tell me they enjoyed what I wrote. I can be the funny guy at the party and not feel like it is work. I leave feeling great and go home with my wife and sleep in our bed, in our house, with our cats, and I say a prayer of thanks each night for my wonderful life.
For me, it is the best of both worlds. I confess that I do hope TJ Miller's path is a happy one for him. further, I hope that, assuming we never again speak or meet, he enjoyed his time in our fair city just a little more for having us a company for a short time.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Dear Blog Part 2
Dear Blog,
I really didn't sleep too badly at all, despite my negative attitude and the incumbent flaws of the Holiday Inn Express on the shoulder of I94 at Jake Brake Lane. 5:30 came around right when I expected it to and, as per usual, I was already stirring in anticipation of the morning. My shower was hot, there was a free USA Today under my door and I was up and out in plenty of time.
Of course, it wasn't all perfect. Whatever that brown meat was that I put on my English muffin was not sausage. I understand sausage in and of itself is a pretty liberal term, not meant to denote any specific ingredients or processes, but calling this stuff sausage was taking it all too far.
It is easy to see from looking at me that I don't often skip a meal. I am nearly as indiscriminate as a shark. One day, when the coroner is performing a post mortem on my beautiful body, he may find a license plate, a tin can, or $1.36 in coins I ate on a dare as a kid. Ok, a college kid.
When you eat like I do, (sort of more of a constant high-velocity vacuum process rather than actual eating as humans define it), some chaff is bound to find its way in. This is why I don't chew and just keep my throat open.
This so-called sausage tasted like nothing I have ever had before and never want to have again. Counter to history's teachings, the young lady attending to the breakfast bar area was not festooned with tattoos and piercings and did not smell like she rolled in her car's ashtray to minimize the smell of the methamphetamine she smoked on the way to work. She was an attractive, if not a little bookish looking college coed. I assumed from her demeanor she was working through school. We made pleasant chit chat as I tried to hide my sausage with the USA Today so she wouldn't be offended. For all I know, it was her mother's secret recipe.
Yes, I did just say "hide my sausage". Grow up, I meant it literally.
The first meeting by Willow Run Airport was a whirling dervish. See, I am putting a package together, (along with every other building service contractor in the western hemisphere), for a large, multinational conglomerate that services many industries from real-estate to automotive tier 1 design and manufacture. I don't want to say who it is, but it rhymes with Cohnson Jontrols. I have now seen 9 of their sites in the last week and have 14 or so more to go between this week and the next. The Willow Run site is their corporate hanger. For their planes. Their jet planes. Their big, shiny, beautiful, sleek, powerful, jet planes - Parked on an epoxy floor so white and reflective it was like a whole upside down universe existed beneath your feet. I had a hard time concentrating, as those of you who know me, know I love airplanes.
The rest of the sites weren't so exciting. Except for the Highland Park facility. Highland Park is the city in which the great Henry Ford built his moving assembly line. For decades, the facility pumped out Model T after Model T making the Ford family rich, thereby sealing the doom of the Detroit Lions for many, many, many, agonizing seasons to come.
Nothing good has happened in Highland Park since. Much ink is spilt about places like Highland Park. Literally most of the houses are burnt out and in a state of collapse. Most of the people who live there do so out of stubbornness and habit or drug induced confusion. It's a scary place; the embodiment of blight and a failed social system that relies on promises no one can keep made to people unwilling or unable to comport themselves as productive members of society. You do not stop in Highland Park. You do not leave the main drag of Highland Park. If you do, that hard to define feeling you are having is more than likely blood rolling down your side as you lay in the street watching a kindergartener drive away in your car. It's kind of like the carnival.
Once ensconced in the facility, there is an eerie sense of calm provided, no doubt by the towers replete with armed guns and the razor wire. It's like a reverse prison where the people inside are trying desperately to remove themselves from society. It was the end of the first shift when we were there and it seemed like even though they were free to go, people just sort of lingered and chatted. Ostensibly, this is because they are a tight-knit group, but in real life, it's because they are afraid to leave. One guy in a rusted hulk of a Chevy van left all this behind and quickly drove out of the gates, which seemed to break up the gathered mass and cause them to race to their cars.
I thought this odd until I remembered the movie "The Road Warrior" where Mad Max's plan to escape from the petrol refinery was to send out a decoy to lure the bad guys away. I slowly began to understand what was happening. The other gazelles had identified the weakest of the herd and they were going to exploit that advantage to the utmost.
And now I am back at friends Dave's and Greg's house, leaving behind the terror of the city. I suppose I had better get some spreadsheets done to avoid sleepless nights next week. Or maybe I should take a nap, or better yet, have an early drink to calm my frazzled nerves. Either way, I am glad to be in familiar territory and look forward to going home tomorrow where the only noises that keep me awake are my loved ones snoring, which at the end of the day just serves to remind me that we are all home, safe, together. And that ain't so bad.
I really didn't sleep too badly at all, despite my negative attitude and the incumbent flaws of the Holiday Inn Express on the shoulder of I94 at Jake Brake Lane. 5:30 came around right when I expected it to and, as per usual, I was already stirring in anticipation of the morning. My shower was hot, there was a free USA Today under my door and I was up and out in plenty of time.
Of course, it wasn't all perfect. Whatever that brown meat was that I put on my English muffin was not sausage. I understand sausage in and of itself is a pretty liberal term, not meant to denote any specific ingredients or processes, but calling this stuff sausage was taking it all too far.
It is easy to see from looking at me that I don't often skip a meal. I am nearly as indiscriminate as a shark. One day, when the coroner is performing a post mortem on my beautiful body, he may find a license plate, a tin can, or $1.36 in coins I ate on a dare as a kid. Ok, a college kid.
When you eat like I do, (sort of more of a constant high-velocity vacuum process rather than actual eating as humans define it), some chaff is bound to find its way in. This is why I don't chew and just keep my throat open.
This so-called sausage tasted like nothing I have ever had before and never want to have again. Counter to history's teachings, the young lady attending to the breakfast bar area was not festooned with tattoos and piercings and did not smell like she rolled in her car's ashtray to minimize the smell of the methamphetamine she smoked on the way to work. She was an attractive, if not a little bookish looking college coed. I assumed from her demeanor she was working through school. We made pleasant chit chat as I tried to hide my sausage with the USA Today so she wouldn't be offended. For all I know, it was her mother's secret recipe.
Yes, I did just say "hide my sausage". Grow up, I meant it literally.
The first meeting by Willow Run Airport was a whirling dervish. See, I am putting a package together, (along with every other building service contractor in the western hemisphere), for a large, multinational conglomerate that services many industries from real-estate to automotive tier 1 design and manufacture. I don't want to say who it is, but it rhymes with Cohnson Jontrols. I have now seen 9 of their sites in the last week and have 14 or so more to go between this week and the next. The Willow Run site is their corporate hanger. For their planes. Their jet planes. Their big, shiny, beautiful, sleek, powerful, jet planes - Parked on an epoxy floor so white and reflective it was like a whole upside down universe existed beneath your feet. I had a hard time concentrating, as those of you who know me, know I love airplanes.
The rest of the sites weren't so exciting. Except for the Highland Park facility. Highland Park is the city in which the great Henry Ford built his moving assembly line. For decades, the facility pumped out Model T after Model T making the Ford family rich, thereby sealing the doom of the Detroit Lions for many, many, many, agonizing seasons to come.
Nothing good has happened in Highland Park since. Much ink is spilt about places like Highland Park. Literally most of the houses are burnt out and in a state of collapse. Most of the people who live there do so out of stubbornness and habit or drug induced confusion. It's a scary place; the embodiment of blight and a failed social system that relies on promises no one can keep made to people unwilling or unable to comport themselves as productive members of society. You do not stop in Highland Park. You do not leave the main drag of Highland Park. If you do, that hard to define feeling you are having is more than likely blood rolling down your side as you lay in the street watching a kindergartener drive away in your car. It's kind of like the carnival.
Once ensconced in the facility, there is an eerie sense of calm provided, no doubt by the towers replete with armed guns and the razor wire. It's like a reverse prison where the people inside are trying desperately to remove themselves from society. It was the end of the first shift when we were there and it seemed like even though they were free to go, people just sort of lingered and chatted. Ostensibly, this is because they are a tight-knit group, but in real life, it's because they are afraid to leave. One guy in a rusted hulk of a Chevy van left all this behind and quickly drove out of the gates, which seemed to break up the gathered mass and cause them to race to their cars.
I thought this odd until I remembered the movie "The Road Warrior" where Mad Max's plan to escape from the petrol refinery was to send out a decoy to lure the bad guys away. I slowly began to understand what was happening. The other gazelles had identified the weakest of the herd and they were going to exploit that advantage to the utmost.
And now I am back at friends Dave's and Greg's house, leaving behind the terror of the city. I suppose I had better get some spreadsheets done to avoid sleepless nights next week. Or maybe I should take a nap, or better yet, have an early drink to calm my frazzled nerves. Either way, I am glad to be in familiar territory and look forward to going home tomorrow where the only noises that keep me awake are my loved ones snoring, which at the end of the day just serves to remind me that we are all home, safe, together. And that ain't so bad.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Dear Blog
Dear Blog,
This evening finds me lounging comfortably in my room at the fabulous Holiday Inn Express on I94 near historic Belleville, Michigan, "where luxury smells like rotten feet." I have come here, to Belleville, to accommodate a 7 am meeting at which I will be treated with respect and dignity. No, wait, that's not it... what are the words I am seeking? Oh, yes, derision and ignominy. I always get those mixed up.
Anyhow, I mentioned Belleville is historic. Apparently on this site for the last 50 years, exactly nothing has happened. Can you believe it? I went to go take in the site - a Cracker Barrel restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. But you don't walk to Cracker Barrel. You drive your pickup truck or other suitably annoyingly large vehicle. And while there is no sign that says "Black People Welcome, But Not Recommended", the name of the place says it all. I mean, "Cracker Barrel" is not exactly the enigma code.
Resisting the innate temptation to sample their 32 new gravies, I skipped white-people mecca and went instead to The Twisted Rooster. Now, this was surreal because this restaurant concept actually started in Grand Rapids. My home. Where I am not now. I was not greeted with the pomp and circumstance I had expected. There was no scepter, or mayoral hat, or anything given to me that would properly denote my status as a Grand Rapidian. Instead, I was seated at a high-top table in the middle of the bar to underscore the fact that I was alone. This is where I always get seated. And I learned a long time ago that in restuarant-ees, "may I please be seated in a booth" really means, "please add all your bodily fluids to my food before serving it to me."
"Hey everybody!" shouted the host as he lead me on a 2 person conga line the long way around the crowded dining room. "This guy's alone! Wow, what a loser!" My waitress apologetically brought me a beer. I told her I wasn't drinking and she said that was OK, the manager wanted me to have it at the table so people would think I was having fun. At least they only charged me half price. Wee.
I ordered chicken strips because lobster mac 'n' cheese seemed decadent. I am on the company dime after all. To my surprise they did have Grey Goose, so a couple, (few, several, half-dozen) vodka martinis were in order. I'm just kidding. I didn't drink any martinis, either. I mixed the Grey Goose with Cristal to have champagne cocktails... martinis are so douche. I ordered my chicken strips with a side of ranch, since I didn't like the sound of all their "signature", (read combinations so odd that no one would want to serve them, let alone steal them from you), sauces.
The chicken strips came out and they were big. The ranch was comically small. A thimble full of ranch. I have sneezed more ranch. I have farted and made the room smell like ranch for a half hour. This was not a side of ranch. It wasn't even a side of 4th floor efficiency apartment. It was pathetic.
"Look at the big fat guy eating alone with his little ranch cup. I bet he'll lick it out when he's done..." I would normally have asked straight away for another ranch, but decided to make do. I could tell people were judging me. I don't know what they were looking at me for, they're the ones that live in Belleville.
You'd think with a name like Belleville there would be pretty girls here. In my random sampling, statistically speaking there are zero. Zero pretty girls in Belleville. They should call it "Trailertrashceluliteville." Nah, probably wouldn't fit on the sign.
After eating hastily, I have now come back to the room. I admire the man in the room next door to me. It is clear that even though he is profoundly deaf, he will not simply give in to closed captioning. I say, good for you... What's that? GOOD FOR YOU! TURN IT UP! I don't want to miss final Jeopardy! Apparently his buddy is also deaf. I think it is wonderful how people overcome their handicaps. I shall say a prayer for them.
It occurs to me that perhaps it isn't a deaf, gay couple next door. Perhaps they just can't hear over the unending din of traffic. Did I mention the hotel is on I94? Really, it is ON I94. I can hear cops racially profiling without even having my window open.
I had to call my buddy Fuad down at the desk since he didn't provide me with the internet password. It was clear he was happy to hear from me as the code was given to me amidst a deep and labored sigh. I reminded Fuad he could have just given it to me at check in, being I plopped my laptop case on the counter at that time. He declared fatwa on me, but was killed by a truck delivering roast beef to Arby's on the way upstairs. This hotel in the highway thing is dangerous. It really wasn't a big deal, as they just chucked him in the back of the truck with all the other semi-dead vagrants and prositutes that become "Good Mood Food."
By the way, the code was apr2. I wonder what it will be tomorrow. These types of things keep me up at night. I wish I never asked.
So far, for 99 bucks and tax, this room, and yes, the whole night is pretty much exactly what I was expecting. So I am not disappointed. I will roll out of bed tomorrow morning after a sleepless night and I will be fresh as a turd at the bottom of the compost heap. I will drink coffee that tastes like burning which will be pumped directly from a Uranium 238 powered carafe and be so hot that it will denude my gums and burn off my finger prints at the same time. Adding cream will only increase the chance for botulism or BSE. It will not help the coffee.
Surprisingly, though, after blowing on it twice and allowing it to cool for exactly the amount of time it takes to toast a bagel will render it so cold as to be undrinkable. The flavor will morph into an intoxicating blend of burned rubber and peat moss.
My ten minute drive will be 30 because there will be an accident. There is always an accident. How could there not be? There's a frigging hotel in the middle of the expressway! My meeting will suck. My subsequent meetings will suck. I will have to take a crap all day because I don't have "home field advantage" and my internal clock will be all messed up. I will forget to take my pills and so will have to take them tomorrow evening, ensuring I will be up all night again and if by chance I do fall asleep, I will have night terrors involving a bunny fellating a bear in a hotel room. Mental note, invent a time machine, go back in time, stop yourself from ever watching "The Shining". Gouge out your six-year-old eyes if you have to! It will be worth it.
And so, this brings me to the end of my relaxing blog post. An old couple in a Buick just drove into my room. The wife is yelling really loud at the husband who is trying to blame it on Obamacare. This should be fun.
This evening finds me lounging comfortably in my room at the fabulous Holiday Inn Express on I94 near historic Belleville, Michigan, "where luxury smells like rotten feet." I have come here, to Belleville, to accommodate a 7 am meeting at which I will be treated with respect and dignity. No, wait, that's not it... what are the words I am seeking? Oh, yes, derision and ignominy. I always get those mixed up.
Anyhow, I mentioned Belleville is historic. Apparently on this site for the last 50 years, exactly nothing has happened. Can you believe it? I went to go take in the site - a Cracker Barrel restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. But you don't walk to Cracker Barrel. You drive your pickup truck or other suitably annoyingly large vehicle. And while there is no sign that says "Black People Welcome, But Not Recommended", the name of the place says it all. I mean, "Cracker Barrel" is not exactly the enigma code.
Resisting the innate temptation to sample their 32 new gravies, I skipped white-people mecca and went instead to The Twisted Rooster. Now, this was surreal because this restaurant concept actually started in Grand Rapids. My home. Where I am not now. I was not greeted with the pomp and circumstance I had expected. There was no scepter, or mayoral hat, or anything given to me that would properly denote my status as a Grand Rapidian. Instead, I was seated at a high-top table in the middle of the bar to underscore the fact that I was alone. This is where I always get seated. And I learned a long time ago that in restuarant-ees, "may I please be seated in a booth" really means, "please add all your bodily fluids to my food before serving it to me."
"Hey everybody!" shouted the host as he lead me on a 2 person conga line the long way around the crowded dining room. "This guy's alone! Wow, what a loser!" My waitress apologetically brought me a beer. I told her I wasn't drinking and she said that was OK, the manager wanted me to have it at the table so people would think I was having fun. At least they only charged me half price. Wee.
I ordered chicken strips because lobster mac 'n' cheese seemed decadent. I am on the company dime after all. To my surprise they did have Grey Goose, so a couple, (few, several, half-dozen) vodka martinis were in order. I'm just kidding. I didn't drink any martinis, either. I mixed the Grey Goose with Cristal to have champagne cocktails... martinis are so douche. I ordered my chicken strips with a side of ranch, since I didn't like the sound of all their "signature", (read combinations so odd that no one would want to serve them, let alone steal them from you), sauces.
The chicken strips came out and they were big. The ranch was comically small. A thimble full of ranch. I have sneezed more ranch. I have farted and made the room smell like ranch for a half hour. This was not a side of ranch. It wasn't even a side of 4th floor efficiency apartment. It was pathetic.
"Look at the big fat guy eating alone with his little ranch cup. I bet he'll lick it out when he's done..." I would normally have asked straight away for another ranch, but decided to make do. I could tell people were judging me. I don't know what they were looking at me for, they're the ones that live in Belleville.
You'd think with a name like Belleville there would be pretty girls here. In my random sampling, statistically speaking there are zero. Zero pretty girls in Belleville. They should call it "Trailertrashceluliteville." Nah, probably wouldn't fit on the sign.
After eating hastily, I have now come back to the room. I admire the man in the room next door to me. It is clear that even though he is profoundly deaf, he will not simply give in to closed captioning. I say, good for you... What's that? GOOD FOR YOU! TURN IT UP! I don't want to miss final Jeopardy! Apparently his buddy is also deaf. I think it is wonderful how people overcome their handicaps. I shall say a prayer for them.
It occurs to me that perhaps it isn't a deaf, gay couple next door. Perhaps they just can't hear over the unending din of traffic. Did I mention the hotel is on I94? Really, it is ON I94. I can hear cops racially profiling without even having my window open.
I had to call my buddy Fuad down at the desk since he didn't provide me with the internet password. It was clear he was happy to hear from me as the code was given to me amidst a deep and labored sigh. I reminded Fuad he could have just given it to me at check in, being I plopped my laptop case on the counter at that time. He declared fatwa on me, but was killed by a truck delivering roast beef to Arby's on the way upstairs. This hotel in the highway thing is dangerous. It really wasn't a big deal, as they just chucked him in the back of the truck with all the other semi-dead vagrants and prositutes that become "Good Mood Food."
By the way, the code was apr2. I wonder what it will be tomorrow. These types of things keep me up at night. I wish I never asked.
So far, for 99 bucks and tax, this room, and yes, the whole night is pretty much exactly what I was expecting. So I am not disappointed. I will roll out of bed tomorrow morning after a sleepless night and I will be fresh as a turd at the bottom of the compost heap. I will drink coffee that tastes like burning which will be pumped directly from a Uranium 238 powered carafe and be so hot that it will denude my gums and burn off my finger prints at the same time. Adding cream will only increase the chance for botulism or BSE. It will not help the coffee.
Surprisingly, though, after blowing on it twice and allowing it to cool for exactly the amount of time it takes to toast a bagel will render it so cold as to be undrinkable. The flavor will morph into an intoxicating blend of burned rubber and peat moss.
My ten minute drive will be 30 because there will be an accident. There is always an accident. How could there not be? There's a frigging hotel in the middle of the expressway! My meeting will suck. My subsequent meetings will suck. I will have to take a crap all day because I don't have "home field advantage" and my internal clock will be all messed up. I will forget to take my pills and so will have to take them tomorrow evening, ensuring I will be up all night again and if by chance I do fall asleep, I will have night terrors involving a bunny fellating a bear in a hotel room. Mental note, invent a time machine, go back in time, stop yourself from ever watching "The Shining". Gouge out your six-year-old eyes if you have to! It will be worth it.
And so, this brings me to the end of my relaxing blog post. An old couple in a Buick just drove into my room. The wife is yelling really loud at the husband who is trying to blame it on Obamacare. This should be fun.
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