The Traveler:
36 hours before ruining that front desk clerks aspirations of becoming a crime scene investigator, I discovered that Ausi women can be aggressively … uh… aggressive. Seriously where was this place when I was a in my 20s?
It was a Friday night, and I should have known better. I even had to shoot the doorman a look that suggested that even the aspiring forensic investigator of a desk clerk might not find his body if he made any noise about letting me in. So, there I was sidling up to the bar, one of three ultra snooty bars associated with my hotel. And all I wanted was a Jack single barrel, and then to find a quiet corner to watch people.
As I waited for my drink, a reasonably pretty giraffe of a girl leaned over and said: “Blur, Dja aaye ur merkan”
Even being the ho whisperer, I musta missed the class in drunken Ausi chick translation. I looked at her harder. she looked to be feathered, like wearing a black Big Bird costume. I had a Hunter Thompson moment, and remembered the talking lizards in the Las Vegas hotel bar, and had to shake it off to stop the flashback trip.
It didn’t work. She really was dressed in what could only be a black Big Bird costume. The Big Bird said again: “Blur, Dja aaye ur merkan”
Not her but really close
I hadn’t really been drinking yet, but it was high time I started. I shot the jack, and nodded for another.
Excuse me, I asked her wide eyed.
“BLUR, Dja aaYE uR MerKan”
“What?” I asked afraid of the answer. Was this Bird gonna eat me? The night before I had weird nightmares about snakes being everywhere in my house… could this be a part of that… some kind of latent living nightmare. Black Big Birds feathers pulsed just like the brown snake in my dream.
Fuck me.
“Uhhhhhh...” This is how it ends. They put this giant black unintelligible bird here to talk to me, while the kidnap van pulls up out front and dudes in black suits and sunglasses step out…
My imagination is too over active for this circumstance. I am waaay too tired, and this is just some dumb chick wearing altogether too many fucking feathers.
That settled my heart rates down a bit more. I shot the backup jack, announced officer down, and called for more backup.
Not unsurprisingly, the second double 100 proof single barrel acted like a babble fish, and suddenly I was fluent in drunk Ausi chick.
“Hmm?” I asked.
“I said, did ya say you were an American?”
“I didn’t say that, but I am…” I said with a clever smile. Single Barrel Jack also has the ability to convince me that talking like a total cock, but adding a sarcastic tone is charming.
“ThAt’S AwESOMe!” she said stamping her foot. Suddenly I’m filled with visions of a strutting rooster at a cockfight, Is she gonna fucking fight me?
“We’re hanging with this total asshole from Santa Barbara, you should hang.”
“Does ‘Total Asshole’ Mean what I think it means”.
“Yeah. He’s absolutely wretched, but he’s rich!”
“Yeah… so turns out I came here to escape from an asshole from Santa Barbara, that I owe money to.” I said – tee hee. I’m so funny, Gods I need more drink. That jack found the bottom of my tummy, and I needed to call the SWAT Team.
“Fuck the good stuff,” I told the bartender, “I need the cheep liquor, stat!” My plan was simple, drink myself into a coma so I didn’t have to finish this conversation, or god forbid go hang out with her and some advertised asshole from Santa Barbara who almost certainly thought of this Bird of his, and wouldn’t enjoy her bringing me back with her.
“You’re so funny.” She said. Hand brushing shoulder, and chest. Jesus, the fricken Brunettutan would have torn off your head for that – Needed to turn this off now. “You really should come join us.” Join us… Join us… Join us…
“I am Not going to join your cult, you are Not going to turn me into a big bird.” I said.
My words simply didn’t register. I could have said anything, it didn’t matter, the blew through her like wind. “Where are you from?”
“Dallas Texas”
“GeT ouT! NO WaY!!” She said so loud I think I dropped my drink. Seriously. She ANNOUNCED that shit. Like spun and shouted it to everyone in the whole bar. “ThAT iS FUCKinG AMAzinG!”
Oh Dear God, It’s Gonna eat me. As hard as I tried, all of the Hunter Thompson inspired hallucinations returned.
“wwwwhhhhhhhyyyy?” I begged.
“The Santa Barbara guy… He’s a HORSE WHISPERER.”
Oh I so seriously doubt that. I thought. That sounds exactly like the kind of thing an asshole from Santa Barbara would think would impress a big dumb black bird dressed Ausi chick. That is so a marriage made in … whatever I don’t want to get involved in that.
“What does that have to do with—“
She cut me off. “BeeeCAUZEE – you know.. Dallas… Horses… “
“Okay sweetie.” I said. Suddenly all the evil flashbacks were over. She was just a big dumb girl. “So you know that Dallas is like four times larger than this little cow town, and nearly twice as big as Sydney, right? I say that meaning, we don’t let horses just fucking walk around,”
“But you have on cowboy boots” she said. Somewhat smaller.
--mouth agape—I start to say something. Stop. Start again. Stop. Then finally, “Yup, you got me there.”
About that time some dude walked up behind her and said something completely unintelligible. She turned to him like the dog in ‘Up’ “Squirrel!”.
Just then an elderly couple stepped between me and her, and I shit you not the husband said to me: “You better make your escape.”
I looked at him for a second. Was this another flashback? I am I really that drunk? But his wife spoke up: “You better hurry, go!”
I went.
The Traveler:
(This actually happened a month or so back, it was written in word and never posted... sorry bout that).
As fortune would have it while I was in town trying to educate a new crop of CIOs on such thrilling topics as IT Branding and Governance, Bob (EMEA CTO for a major software company, and pondonkit co-inventor) was in San Jose doing whatever high end technologists do who have real jobs.
We managed to find time to catch a drink, and after several, Bob who had been a recon soldier in something called ‘Her Majesties Green Shirt Regiment’ or some crazy shit like that was trying to convince a friend he’s brought along (Andy) that during survival training recon soldiers lived solely on a diet of squirrel’s milk.
I being a former recon guy in the very clearly named, 82nd Airborne had to back him up, of course.
“How would you even milk a squirrel?”
“You just rub ‘em.” Bob said.
“with gloves on, of course.” I said.
“Oh yeah, they’d completely fuck your hands up”.
“No way you’d spend all your time just trying to catch and milk squirrels.”
“Dude, “ I said incredulously. “You bring your own squirrels…”
Bob: “Seriously, wild squirrel milk is disgusting.”
Me: “Nothing but free range ethically harvested organic peanut fed squirrel’s milk for me.”
Bob: “That’s great for the omega 3 fatty acids”.
“Dude, no way… there is no way you could even carry enough squirrels to get enough milk.” Andy said.
“Squirrel bandolier.” Bob said patiently.
“Well in the American army, we used our grenade vest, but yeah same principle.” I said.
Andy: “Bullshit, I call bullshit on that. Where would you keep your grenades!”
“They don’t let you have grenades in training.” I said.
“Can you imagine a bunch of 18 year old hormone raging boys flinging grenades at each other.”
“It would be like Iraq.” Andy said.
That was good for an ironic laugh… then Bob said, cold dead serious: “Dude. They should let us carry squirrels into combat.”
“Fuck. Me.” I said.
“Can you imagine the terror on some jihadi’s face you hurl a fucking squirrel at his face?”
Andy jumped in. “fucking thing would get all up in his hair and his beard.”
“Gentlemen, I think we have discovered America’s next great terror weapon.” I pronounced.
… and from there, as these things do… it got a little silly.
The Traveler:
Okay, so I’ll tell you right off the bat, I was a colossal asshole to this guy, and he didn’t even really diserve it. I’m not gonna make any excuses – I will offer some backstory, to perhaps slightly mitigate my bad behavior.
The Backstory.
So yesterday, I nearly drove my bike off a mountain. I wasn’t being crazy, or exceeding my limits, or those of the bike or (I thought) road conditions. When the incident happened I was upright, neither accelerating, or breaking, or turning.
You know how asphalt is sometime surfaced with little black rocks held down by tar? Well when less than competent road workers apply these as patches, sometimes all of the black rocks don’t stick.
If enough of them don't stick you get a spot that when you ride over with a car, you don’t notice because nothing bad happens, but if you hit it with a motorcycle, it is like driving on ice coated with ball bearings.
Everyone got caught up in it a little bit, I got caught up a lot. I lost traction in both wheels, went sideways and started to lowside --I had to kick off the ground with a foot, dirt bike style to keep the bike upright and give a chance to straighten out. Which I did, and nearly tore my foot off in the process, because 50 miles an hour doesn’t seem fast in a car, but it far exceeds the velocity tolerances of the human foot.
Anyway, after that I needed to stop riding for the day. But I was three hours at high way speed away from my hotel, AND I had an hour left to go of mountain roads I had no confidence in.
Needless to say, I was tight as a snare drum by the time I got back to the hotel. A snooty arrogant, five star joint where the people who work there act like they’re better and more refined than the guests.
One of my riding buddies --an owner of one of the most exclusive and exotic motorcycles on the planet was afraid they wouldn’t seat us in the bar due to our state of dress – the place was that kind of snooty.
But they let us in, and it was great. We even played Ninja Peekabo with the bartender, had a fantastic time -- and that is totally a different story.
Of course, my stress relief drinking coupled with the fact that I had basically quit drinking several months ago, meant I woke with the kind of hangover that sticks with you all day, and gets WORSE.
So by the time I got down to check out, I was good and miserable. I had also paid fifty bucks for a late check out that anywhere else would be complementary, and had been interrupted four times by housekeeping come to check on me, when I was on the toilette, when I was changing, when I was talking with the Brunettutan Twice. Just pestering the shit out of me to get their room back.
SO EVERYTHING IS FINE UNTIL HE HANDS ME BACK MY CREDIT CARD.
Which I go to put away. But as I do, the smarmy little fucker says to me, “I need you to leave that out sir, so I can check your signature.”
“You can just check my ID if you’re concerned about who I am,” I say.
“No, “ he insists now, like strongly. “I need to check your signature.”
“My fucking signature is different most of the time because I scribble it.” I said.
Now granted, that is not a particularly reasonable response from me to what is a perfectly reasonable request from a hotel clerk, but I has just about enough from these arrogant shit gibbons, and I was nursing a nuclear hangover. Again, not an excuse, but a mitigation.
“We do not tolerate, being cursed at, sir.” He snorted.
“Oh, -- is that the royal we, or you got a mouse in your pocket. I’m just trying to fucking pay you. And I don’t appreciate your insinuating that I’m a thief.”
“I said no such a thing!” he spat.
“Then why do you want to verify my signature?”
“To prevent fraud.” He said.
“QED, you’re suggesting I might be a thief – but not an ordinary thief. OH NO. Because the name on my passport, room reservation, and credit card all match, I much be a master criminal but you were able to see through all that and trip me up with your clever 'signature test' which even an accomplished passport forger like me is unable to overcome. You got me dude. You should be a fucking detective.”
I hand over the card, he flips it over to check the signature and goes white.
On the back of the card there is no signature, instead in large block letters written in sharpie marker are the words ”Check ID”.
