So, I am Nearly Devoured by a Big Black Bird

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.

So, Bob and I Devise the Ultimate Weapon

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. 

So, The Front Desk Clerk Thinks I Look Like a Crook.

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”.

So, I Discover a Man Phone Sexing his Colleagues

The Traveler: 


I got up at Four AM this morning to catch a 6am from Boston to SFO, through ORD. Last night when I made a change to my return, it took away my upgraded seats and dropped me back into coach, and I had to spend a precious system wide VIP upgrade to correct the problem. 


All of this serves to explain what I am not in what laypeople call a “good mood”.  And that should explain what happened next.


The bathroom at the ORD H terminal admirals club is basically shit. It’s your standard airport / bus station bathroom with half height pooper stalls—urinals divided by cellophane, and all that. In otherwords lacking the privacy and refinement a club bathroom should have – and what is common even a train terminal public Loo in the UK. Read: Shithole, but with the expectation of better / cleaner clientele. 


Except that’s a false expectation. What you can expect is cleaner narcissistic corporate assholes with a sense of entitlement and self-importance. 


One such asshole parades into the bathroom trailing an aura of grandiosity and cloud of Drakkar Noir – and oh my gawd talking in a booming voice on his phone. He saunters up to the urinal, whips it out and keeps talking about this or that contract or the Monroe deal or some such nonsense.


Going to the toilette is the one place where even the baddest-ass apex predator can be vulnerable – literally caught with his pants down, as such, among men, talking, looking or basically anything other than doing your business is strictly out of bounds. 


Yet this asshole was disturbing the peace and harmony of pee-pee time… it was so over the top that the guy next to me and I broke rule number 1 and exchanged a glance – like “what is this asshole kidding?”


And that was that.


“JESUS DUDE… DO THE PEOPLE YOU’RE TALKING TO KNOW YOU’RE JACKING OFF?” I say to the guy. Pretty god damned loud. 


He doesn’t realize I’m talking to him, he’s so obsessed with his conversation. So I try again. 


“MASTURBATING” I shout now locking eyes with the drakkar douche. “THIS GUY IS TOTALLY JACKING OFF!” 


He stops. “Hold on Janie…” He can’t cover the handset because he’s talking on one of those corded headset things, which is probably picking me up pretty easily. “What’s the problem here?”


“NO PROBLEM” I shout right in the direction of the microphone. “I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF JANIE KNOWS YOU’RE JACKING OFF WHILE TALKING TO HER.”


“I am not… Janie.. I'm no—“


“YOUR DICK IS IN YOUR HANDS IS IT NOT? AND ANYTHING MORE THAN TWO SHAKES CONSITUTUES AN ACT OF PLEASURE.  IT’S OKAY DUDE, I UNDERSTAND HABITUAL MASTURBATION IS A SICKNESS – I GET IT… “


“Janie let me call you back.” 


“AFTER HE’S DONE JACKING OFF!” I say. 


He hangs up the phone, I turn to leave, but amazingly, he still wants to play.  “What the fuck is your problem?” he demands. Apparently drakkar douche is more accustomed to having his ass kissed than his balls busted. 


This is a careful situation. A person in my situation can’t show any outward signs of aggression. This could get way out of hand easily.  So I stand my grand, but say in a non-threatening voice.


“Rude assholes who act like their whims are the only thing that matters.  Like for example, talking too loud on a phone in the bathroom.”


He takes a step towards me, which is difficult in his situation. I step back. Let the record show I yielded ground. 


“What the fuck gives you the ---“ he takes a labored second step.


I hold up a hand. “Dude. Think about where you are and what you’re doing. With your pants around your ankles and your little wee-wee poking out of your boxers, one more step and you’re pretty much gonna get charged with sexual assault.” 

And Thus, I Palm a Drunk Dude's Head (and he doesn't mind)

The Brunettutan:

Trade show evenings are unfailing fraught with alcohol-soaked pseudo-professionals gone wild, and for someone who takes great joy in fucking with people, they provide an indulgence of opportunity for one to do so. 

One such evening, I was enjoying friendly banter with some colleagues in the courtyard of a lively bar on Bourbon Street. The evening had shifted from late night to early morning, and the nocturnal hunters were becoming desperate for prey.  

Since my late nights are primarily motivated by social interaction as opposed to inducing alcohol poisoning, I was substantially more lucid that the majority of my bar-mates. 

There was a break in conversation within our group, and we all casually shifted focus. Just as I was turning to walk across the courtyard to chat up a friend of mine I had just spotted, I was very abruptly stopped by a tall, company-logo-polo-shirt clad dude. I guess he thought I would be more weak and vulnerable, having been separated from my main group. 

News for you, big boy … you watch WAY too much Nat Geo Wild. 

 He heavily staggers into my path, and the first slur out of his mouth is, “Heyyyy, you here for the trade show?”

Of course, genius, 90% of the people in this bar are all attending the same trade show. The other 10% look like spring breakers or extras from deliverance. 

“Yep.”

“Coooool, yeeeeeah …. Me too.”

“Really? Because the khaki pants and logo on your shirt weren’t nearly obvious enough.”

“Ohhhh, heh, yeah … right.”

I move to step around this goofy dude, and he puts his face about three inches from mine and asks me where I’m from. I instinctively step back, and look at him like he’s slapped my grandmother. I really don’t like close-talkers. 

I sigh, and answer the dude. And it turns out, OMG!, he’s from the same state! He’s so excited by this, he again puts his damned face three inches from mine to express his surprise. 

This time, instead of stepping back, I simply palm his entire face, and push it back about a foot and half, and inform him that he is, indeed, talking way too close to me.

I expect his ego to be bruised enough by this, that he calls me a bitch and decides to pursue an easier meal for the evening. But no … it didn’t even phase him! In fact, he even kept talking while my hand was on his face. 

And this, people, is why drunk dudes can be gratifyingly fun to fuck with … they have very little to lose at this point in the evening. They will tolerate almost anything as long as it keeps the conversation going. 

So, the conversation continues in a sort of predictable cadence:

Dude makes it about 45 seconds before leaning close enough to me that I must alert him that he’s talking too close. I give him about 5 seconds to redirect his lean, before I redirect him myself … using his face. He’s almost like one of those blow-up clown punching bags with sand in the bottom. No matter how many times I push him back, he bounces right back up again. 

This occurs no less than 10 times in the course of our relatively short conversation. it is so absurd to me that he’s put up with it for this long, while I’ve made it very clear he has absolutely no chance for anything beyond this little chat with me … I have to laugh at the guy. He’s been good-natured enough I end our conversation on a friendly note, and turn and walk away. 

I look down at my open palm … I would pay $50 for some hand sanitizer right now

So, this trip is starting off great

The Traveler: 

Driver calls my house like 3 times trying to find out where it is...


"you on Johnson? There ain't no 123 Johnson street in my gps!"


"Johnson trace" I say, "it's a cul de sac off of Johnson"


"Johnson --- right but there ain't no 123 Johnson in the gps"


"no trace not street --- Johnson trace"


This goes on--- he either can't or won't listen.


He calls back twice. Finally I say: take a right on park and a left on Johnson then a right on Johnson trace...


That musta done it because he managed to get here---


On leaving my house we set off --- we haven't gone 2 blocks before I have to interrupt him: " the airport is the other way" ...


Seriously --- this is a local towncar company in my suburb of 30000 people --- and the driver knows neither where I live nor were the airport is...


I'm convinced of it--- the ruination of humanly will be due to the fact that theyre just too fucking annoying to live

And Thus, Two Chatty Dudes are School'd on Seat Back Etiquette

The Brunettutan:

If there is anything worse than traveling with amateurs it's traveling with amateurs who think they're pros... 

“Just a one hour flight, that’s it … awesome” I think to myself as I board the plane to New Orleans.

Things are going well – half of the people boarding are Executive Platinum – a plane full of professional travelers. A wave of relief passes over me. How bad can this be? Everybody keeps to themselves, we faithfully ignore the fact that we’re ALL within each other’s personal space. -- 60 minutes and we're done painless as can be. 

A nice quiet woman sits next to me … nothing alarming. Two (rather chatty) dudes occupy the seats in front of us.

I settle in with my book to ignore the whole flight attendant spiel.

We take off, its bumpy … but, whatever.

Right when we get to cruising altitude, and the flight attendants release us from our shackles, ChattyDude #2 decides to recline his seat into the lap of the woman next to me. 

We exchange looks – mine is one of pity. Hers, annoyance. 

I try to catch the eye of this egregiously rude man, so I can convey our collective annoyance at his disregard for other people. But, before I can get his attention, brassy-haired Chatty Dude #1 reclines his chair – hitting the top of my book in the process – effectively putting his seat in my lap.

Ohhhhh no you di’int.

I am so appalled, that all I do is stare straight ahead – alternating between my book and his ratty, brassy hair, 3 inches from my face.  

All kinds of evil ideas go through my head. I’m so engrossed in what I could do or say, I stay on the same page of my book for 10 minutes. 

I try subtle clues, like erratically pressing my knees into the back of his seat, just hoping he gets the idea.

You know, I probably could have just let it go. Chalked it up to ignorance. Some people are 
douches on the golf course, too. Their mama obviously didn’t teach them manners … is that really their fault?

But, no, the dudes are seriously chattering like fucking rhesus monkeys and Chatty Dude #1 keeps shifting in his seat like he’s a humpback whale in breach. I am inches away from grabbing the hair on the top of his head (that I’m staring DOWN at), and telling him to settle the fuck down before I throat punch him.

As I’m delighting myself with this fantasy, CD1 looks back at me and smiles. Possibly interpreting my intense staring as interest of some sort. 

Men. 

I cannot let the opportunity pass.

“Are you smiling at me because you’ve had your head in my lap for the majority of the flight?” I ask this in my sweetest voice with a look of [not-so] genuine curiosity.

Chatty Dude #1 looks shocked … so I quickly continue: “I hope it was enjoyable for you, because I’ve been incredibly uncomfortable this whole time. Thank you SO much.” I think he gets my sarcasm, now.

Both chatty dudes, are no longer chatty.

“Do you travel much?”

CD1 nods … mouth a bit agape.

“I don't think so.  --here’s the deal, there is etiquette on an airplane – much like on the golf course or at church. Part of this airplane etiquette dictates that if you recline your seat on anything less than, say, a three hour flight, you are broadcasting to everybody that you are an amateur and a colossal ASS-HOLE. And there is a special place in Hell for people that recline their seat on a ONE hour flight … and just end up talking the whole time. ”

[there is various snickering around us, since I’m not exactly being quiet]

CD1: “I, uh, didn’t … er … I’m sorry.” He oh-so-thoughtfully puts his seat back up. CD2 obediently follows suit. 

That’s a good monkey.

“Well, now you know … so you can avoid looking like a (and I repeat) colossal ASS-HOLE on your next flight.”

We all settle in for a much more comfortable, and quiet, flight. Well, at least for me.

See,  peer pressure still works on adults.

So, I (and a friend) go a little crazy with our event rider…

The Traveler: 

Hell week.

Every day it’s up at 4am, fly out at 6 to another city, press conferences all morning, switch hotels in the afternoon for client dinners. Present, smooze, and chit-chat till 11.. back at hotel by midnight, 2 drinks and a benzo, out for four hours… wash-rinse-repeat.

It was the kind of trip that made logistical sense only in the mind of MC Escher. And yet there it was, and by the time we hit Munich, co-presenter & traveling partner: CXO-Something for a software company you’d recognize (hereafter “bob” – only because I’m in a Jay and Silent Bob kind of mood) – we decided that it was time to turn the tables and start torturing the wedding planner-like host in whose mind all this perversity was exacerbated.

-MUNICH- START OF NIGHT’S EVENT

Me (to WeddingPlanner): “Hey you… we have some requests…”

WeddingPlanner: “What can I do for you guys?”

Me: “Well for our next event I want white rose pedals trimmed in red laid out on the tables with a single blue skittle laying in them.”

Bob: “No wait dude.. they got those!”

I looked sure as shit, there were white rose pedals trimmed just slightly in red. Bob tore one off, and arranged it on the table.

Me: “That's a wasabi covered peanut, not a skittle.”

Bob: “It’s still pretty fucking close.”

Me: “Goddamnit.”

Wedding planner looks satisfied, that he’d anticipated this. Bob wasn’t giving up.

Bob: “I want a pony. I want to ride a pony on stage”.

Wedding planner cocked an eye, time to double down.

Me: “Stuffed with a donkey--.”

Bob: “--A miniature donkey.”

Me: “That’s stuffed with a rabbit.”

WeddingPlanner: “What?”

Bob: “A Podonkit, it’s like a Turducken”

WeddingPlanner: “A what!!?”

Me: “A Turducken, is a turkey stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a chicken. They’re very popular in redneck land.” I whip out my phone to prove to him we weren’t making it up.

The notion of a turducken blew WeddingPlanner’s inflexible Swedish mind.

Me: “We want a Podonkit, a pony stuffed with a donkey –

Bob: “-Miniature donkey-“

Me: “-Right -miniature donkey, stuffed with a rabbit.”

Wedding Planner: “A PodonkEN?”

Bob goes mental: “I do not – DO.NOT. – want a fucking PodonKEN you fucking asshole.”

Me: “If there are feathers sticking out the ass of our Po-donk we will fucking end you.”

Bob: “What are you some kind of fucking pervert? A god damned PodonKEN – It’s a PO-DONK-IT – Fuzzy cotton tail”, bob shook his head, “jackass.”

Wedding plannr: “Why?”

Bob: “We’re going to ride it on stage and then cook and eat it”

Me: “it’s a team building exercise.”

MUCH – MUCH – MUCH – LATER – IN PARIS

Narco sleeping pills and 16 hours sleep in 5 days. I am seeing Podonkits everywhere. It’s like an acid trip. It’s all Bob and I can talk about. We have since decided that they’re quasi-stuffed, quasi grafted. Like a medieval culinary creation, the front half is a pony with the back and 2 additional legs of a donkey (to make it more of an all terrain vehicle – 6 foot drive!) with a fluffy white rabbits tail.

I look over at bob, my head swiveling with the world trailing slowly behind it like from a scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. “you know what I want Bob?”

Bob: “What”

Me: “A podonkit with orangutan arms – you know a orangpodonkit – porangudonkit – podon-u-kit?”

Bob: “I think its just ‘Podonkit with Orangutan arms’”

Me: “okay.”

Bob: “*Why* do you want a podonkit with orangutan arms?”

Me: “For hugs.”

This is the first time I’ve seen Bob even slightly shocked. Have I managed to go to far?  I clarify quickly: “Not for like sex, dude, don’t be – just don’t. You know it’s just for --you know intimacy. It gets lonely on the road.”

Bob: “you wouldn't still eat it would you.”

Me: “You’d have to be a right cold bastard to eat a creature that just wants to give you a hug”

Bob: “Dude. Can you imagine the action you could get with the ladies if you have a pony that could hug them back”

Me: “Exactly.”

Bob: “You should be a cartoon super villain.”

So, uh…

The Traveler: 

I’m sorry I’ve been absent, I’ve been dealing with some personal drama that has kept me from writing**. 

That doesn’t mean that things haven’t been happening… just maybe that too much has been happening for me to be able to write about it all. Whatsmore my rabid orangutan says that I should blog about more than travel, that the crazy shit that happens to me right here at home is worth writing about… I couldn’t begin to tell you, or write all of it. Maybe we should just make a list, and let folks tell us what y’all want to hear:

So, I take 2 autistic kids and a future cartoon super villain on Christmas vacation.  

So, it turns out I’m exactly like Anne Frank: persecuted and strangely sexually aroused by it. 

So, according to the TSA, there is one circumstance where a heart-felt “I’m real sorry” doesn’t quite cut it. 

So, I dishonored the Honor Bar at Oxford University 

So, it turns out that a Pit Bull in heat is exactly how it sounds

-- and there’s more god there’s more I’m forgetting most of what’s come up and gotten jotted in my little notebook (which I’ve left home this trip). 

But for tonight, tonight we have to go with: 

So, it turns out you might actually be a douche

No, not me… I’m an unapologetic asshole, and maybe a little bit of a narcissist, but you, sir… you are a douche. 

BACKGROUND: People --ordinarily civilized, church going folk, respectable, parents, grand parents, leaders in business – loose their mother-fucking minds when they travel – and not just to Las Vegas, I’m talking everywhere – tonight in Indianapolis – some middle manager in a polo and mom-jeans is talking way too loud and acting a damn fool –count on it.

And apparently that’s okay, because what happens in Indy stays  --what – on your HR record forever or at least until you’re fired or quit because most companies are too pussy to actual say you were fired for cause on reference checks. 

--makes me wonder why I don’t start putting: “Former Emperor of Belize” on my resume, and just mother-fucking double-dog-dare some litigation fearing HR department in my former employer to dispute that. 

Have you ever been to Belize?

No 

Were you ever elected, or granted any plenipotentiary powers in Belize?

No

Is Belize an imperial power, ruler of subject nation-states, or holder of remote protectorates?

No 

And, yet, you were the Emperor of Belize?

Yep. The Suba diving is awesome.

And that’s how it goes. Everyone nods and all is good. Just don’t lie about your past earnings, because HR people will fucking check that because I believe they get to keep 50% of ever dollar they don’t have to pay you. 

Anyway I digress. 

Douche, in the bar… here are some rules for living gently and not getting sued, from those of us who travel for a living, for whom this bar is sort of like a second home – that you seem to feel entitled to shit all over.  

1. After your Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) reaches a point where it would be illegal for you to drive – you need to go back to your room
2. You are neither clever, insightful, charismatic, or sexually attractive pretending that you are only increases your general Douchy-Quotient (DQ)
3. Your female co-workers are not sexual artifacts for your amusement.  It is totally not okay to walk up to them stand one inch from their face and encourage them to “c’mon have another drink”. 
4. Do not, absolutely not, under any circumstances attempt to touch, or engage, me or one of my “fellow travelers” in conversation.  I will make it my mission to make you cry. Promise. 
5. Rule number three (women <> sexual artifacts) applies also to bartenders, waitresses, actresses, models, musicians, booth-babes, and redheads. 
6. Should you heed rule #1, and just go to your room, playing porn at full volume is not considered a thoughtful gift for your neighbors. 

**(not you thinly veiled blackmailing romantically inclined valentines homosexual stalker)

So, I’m not dead, just been in Columbia

The Traveler: 

There is a ‘Field of Dreams’ joke there, I’m sure. Is this Hell? No, It’s Columbia.  And there’s not corn fields, but traffic and coca, and all sorts of sights to see. 


But basically, you can assume that I’ve been on what you might want to call my best behavior on account of not wanting to be found (or not found) dead.


Some random thoughts:


•if you’re a US Traveler, even with your super awesome get into the country free card like I got, leaving Columbia is something you should be prepared to take a while. Several hours.  My bags were opened no less than five times trying to leave the country. 


•Bogota has bad traffic & terrible smog, but really, really cool people. Everyone was so happy that I didn’t assume they were narco traffickers, that the typical Latin hospitality and warmth shone through, even through that TERRIBLE SMOG. 


•All Libertarians should have to visit Columbia to see what life is really like without all those pesky laws and government regulations. Theory in practice. Go for it, and report back.


•Medellin is one of the most beautiful places on earth. Good good, hot women, beautiful scenery. Next time I’m renting a motorcycle. 


•Spirit Airlines is like riding in a used car dealership with a lower class of passenger. I describe their passengers as falling squarely into 1 of 3 groups:

• People wanting a super economical ticket to someplace exotic and thankful that the plane didn’t crash
• people wanting a super economical ticket to someplace exotic and who enjoy bitching about how everything on the airline is an extra charge
• me. 

I had the misfortune to be around a large group of people in group 2. their exchange about how there’s add on seat fees, they charge for coffee, they charge for carry ons, and etc went on forever.  To the point that a little me had to slip out:


“why did you pick Spirit?” I asked. 


“Because American Airlines was going to charge 1200 bucks for my ticket” he said. 


“I paid about three hundred for mine… “ I said.


“Yeah, me too.” He said, not sure where I was going.


“So, you ever hear the phrase: there’s no such thing as a free lunch?”


There isn’t. my add ons probably totaled another 500 bucks. But so there you are 800 bucks to go to Columbia. Not bad. And the people at spirit are nice enough though they come across as a soulless version of Southwest. But they didn’t deserve the constant shit they were taking from a bargain hunter. 

So, I Promise Nobody on This Side of the Airplane is going to Have Sex Tonight.

The Traveler: 

Strangely I don’t really know where I am… I’m so spent from a long Euro tour, something like London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Luxembourg, Helsinki, Paris… and then I forget.  I do know that this boarding pass in my hand says: DFW and that’s a good thing. I’m boarding business class on an AA 777 and that too is a good thing. And I have 10 hours of peace, quiet, and not being on stage, and nobody asking me question… and that is an Amazing thing.

I look forward to long airplane rides for the peace they bring me.

Anyway, talking on the phone with the Orangutan as I board the airplane someone says loud enough for her to hear: “I like your jeans”. I nod and say thanks… I don’t look around. I’m frankly sorta flummoxed by this, even being ‘The Ho Whisperer’, I’m wretchedly inept at picking up when girls are hitting on me.

The Orangutan thinks this is amazingly funny. She gets all breathless, “Oh… I like your Jeans…” and rolls laughing.

“Dude…” I try to explain, but I’m way too tired.

“Those jeans do make your package look amazing”. She said.

“Thanks.” I said, still… I’m totally out of words. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do in this situation. There wasn’t a primer for it in kindergarten.

“So, I know you gotta run… but can you do me a favor?” She asks.

“Sure.” I say.

“If it’s at all possible, can you avoid having sex with anyone on the flight home?”  She asks snarky.

I consider her request for a long moment. “Sure, I guess so, if it means that much to you…”

We say our good byes, hang up.

I get to my seat.

In the seat next to me, is this amazingly hot, 20 something red hair’d girl, who apparently likes my jeans a whole lot. 

I smile. She smiles. She must have designed the jeans or something because, seriously, I’m old enough to be the younger guy her mom is dating.

I sit.

She smiles, again.

Getting myself situated, she looks me dead in the eye and says deadpan: “Do you want to be on top or bottom?”

I am, at this point, totally out of my element.

Now lets be clear. I’m reasonably good looking. I’m reasonably fit for a man my age. I’m in a job that puts me on stage, I am what someone might call charismatic. And those skills have come in useful a few times with the opposite sex… but I am simply not so good looking, fit, or rich enough to get this aggressively hit-on without having said a word yet.

Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking I need to be reaching for the brass ring with both hands here, but seriously guys, I’m going to be sitting next to this girl for the next 10 hours. This situation could easily turn into the worst first date ever, with no possibility of escape.

While I’m busying myself trying to think of something suitably charming to say, she points at the cubbies between out seat. The cubbies hold the vanity kits American is kind enough to supply to business class passengers, they are situated one on top of the other. 

Oh. I smile and nod. I get it. The clever-cute-tease. I got your number baby. I figured out how to deal with that well before you were born, I think.

“Doesn’t really matter to me.” I say flatly. Hoping to shut this down. Now, I could try and see how far I could push this thing, just for it’s entertainment value, see exactly what she’d be willing to do in an 777 forward lav, and pull the plug at the last minute. But guys, I’ve got a perfectly nice Orangutan waiting for me at home who wouldn’t appreciate even a ‘harmless’ tease game, and more than that, I am fucking tired.

“I prefer to be on top”. She says.

Of course you do, I think. I shrug. “Go for it,” I say.

She looks at me like 10 minutes after the lights go down she intends to do just that.

I pull out my hot-girl-canceling-headphones, plug in my iPod, put on my sunglasses, and surrender to the Acid Jazz.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sorta shrug, like: fuck you then. And start to play Teris on the inflight entertainment console.

That being exactly the response I was looking for. I can almost feel Mother Earth’s “Jesse” start to pull me away into a preflight nap.

“Hey Cole!” I am jostled. A couple of late arrivals are trying to man handle their plethora of trinkets and knickknacks into the overhead.  It is a couple, dad in his fifties, and step mom about my age. Hot red-haired girl is theirs.

Dad is talking three notches too loud, right through me to his daughter. I pull off my shades.

Dad locks eyes with me. He absolutely does not like what he sees. 

I try to smile and put my shades back on.

“Hey Cole,” He shouts as if in an especially loud nightclub. “Do you wanna switch seats with me?”

Please, Cole, for the sake of my tired old bones. I implore quietly. 

“Nope. I’m good.” She says, smiling at dad, and then at me.

My tired head lolls to the side, to see dad’s reaction. That was not the answer he wanted. He looks at me for a long moment.

He considers asking me if I’ll switch with him, but before the words leave his lips, he looks over at reasonably hot step mom, and he realizes that no matter what, this dude in these amazing jeans will be sitting next to at least one of his females.

He hates that fact, and his hatred for me is palpable. 

For a moment, I can tell he’s thinking about asking me to switch with reasonably hot step mom, and move from my isle seat to the only damn middle seat in business class.

Sunglasses off. I look at him coldly, like: Are you motherfucking crazy?

He is caught between a rock and a hard place, and succumbs to his fate.

But he does not go quietly.

Sunglasses back on. Preflight Champaign in each hand, Mother Earth on the iPod, I lean back.

“Hey Cole! Did you see the pictures your mom took.” He shouts past me

“She’s not my mom.” Cole says to me only.

A few moments later, as my body is on the verge of surrender.

“Hey Cole! Did you see the crystal statue your mom got at that shop.”

She doesn’t respond or if she does, I don’t catch it.

Two minutes later, “Hey Cole! They have salmon on the menu tonight.”

They always have salmon on the menu, tourist.

“Hey Cole! Did you see anything you wanted on the inflight duty free?”

This is clearly a chimpanzee territorial display. And I try to suck it up, because Dad is just engaging in a biological response to an obvious predator in the company of one of his females. It's rude, yes, but also a biological imperative, so he treads the line of my finely tuned since of politeness. 

But. It. Keeps. Going On.

The plane takes off, he just gets louder. I get it dude. She is Your female. I’m just trying to sleep here.

He. Will. Not. Stop.  

Every single sentence starts with, “Hey Cole!” If I hear that one more time, I will lose my fucking mind.

“Hey Cole! Did you—“

I sit up so rapidly, it actually interrupts him. Sunglasses off. 

I twist in my seat aggressively.

I look him dead in the eye.

“Hey Cole’s Dad!” I shout. Now everyone is looking, Great. The flight attendant’s ears perk up, on full terrorist incident alert. Maybe I said that a bit too loud.

“Listen, I understand my sitting next to your daughter makes you uncomfortable. But how about we make a deal… What if I PROMISE that no one on this side of the airplane will be having sex tonight. Not just on the airplane, but even after they get home. No Sex, I absolutely promise. I’ll make it my personal mission to enforce that. Okay? So could you please, please, dial it down so I can sleep?”

In a moment of emotional honesty he doesn’t even look apologetic. He looks at me like, ‘That sounds like a fair deal, partner.’ And turns back to his book.

And shuts the fuck up.

Cole, does her damnedest to turn herself invisible under a pile of pillows and covers.

Thank god.

The Alert flight attendant, stops by a few moments later, she presses an unordered Vodka Rocks in my hand, leans down and whispers, "Those are great jeans."

Afterward:

At about 1 hour to landing, Cole and Cole’s dad switch places. She’s sick or sexually frustrated or something. I really don’t care. He feels the need to address our “incident.”  He hems and haws, trying to figure out some way to start the conversation.

“She’s gotten motion sick.” He says.

“Listen, “ I say. “I have a daughter. I get it. But seriously. I kept my end of the deal, Nobody got laid last night, so no talking, okay?”