The Travel Job

The only drawback to my travel-related job is that I only get to travel in Texas. Tuscany? Not so much.

So I think it's super thoughtful of them to go to such pains to simulate massive jet lag.

Ike is now a Category 3 hurricane, did you know? Of course, he's still several days away. And his path looks like he might just wobble (meteorologists just love the word "wobble;" and who can blame them?) far enough north to hit the southern tip of Florida - not that the southern tip of Florida ever stopped anybody; besides which, it's unclear whether the northern turn at the end of the current 5-day forecast will continue to carry him north, or if he's just trying to be a little shit and hit Every Single Island in the Bahamas. Bastard.

In any case I should get this coming weekend off. It might come in handy for trying to rebuild a sleep schedule that never was that strong to begin with.

I should think Russia would be lovely in late summer, too, wouldn't you? Just imagine sitting at a quaint little sidewalk cafe near the Red Square, sipping a mojito* and admiring the luxuriant moustaches of the passerby. Of course, where I've always wanted to go is Ireland. Or Cornwall, where I would join the task of reviving the Cornish language. I might also raise sheep.

They have sheep in Texas, too.


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*I'm trying, Robbie, but I'm feeling kind of tapped out lately.

Wichita Falls

Why is it, do you think, that people are always in such a gigantic hurry to get on the plane? It's not like sitting around in an airplane seat, contemplating battery-powered dirigibles from Skymall, is such great shakes.

Yet everybody always crowds around the departure gate, jockeying for position before the boarding call even starts. People sneak on before their row number is called, or try to pass themselves off as minors traveling alone despite the fact they clearly aren't a day under 53.

I'd assume it was just that airports are so soulless and horrible that no one can possibly wait to get out of them, but everybody's in just as much of a hurry to get off the plane once it lands. The new airport isn't going to be any better than the one you left behind, people. Especially if you're flying into Dallas.

This, on the other hand, is a fairly cool way to travel:

I won't shout "PT Cruiser bruiser!" and punch you in the arm, partly because that's, like, SO 2003, but mostly because I'm not there. But I will tell you that, on the drive from Dallas to Wichita Falls today, I blew the doors off of not one, but two (count 'em! Two!) Corvettes. You heard me.

For some odd reason, their drivers appeared to be observing the speed limit.

The countryside around here is very pretty, though, not flat like Amarillo, and not rocky and scrubby like San Angelo. They've had lots of rain lately, and it's green; the pink dirt is red with moisture, and the gentle, rolling, white-fenced, tree-dotted hills of the horse country between Dallas and here remind me a bit of rural northern Virginia.

The Wichita - about a mile north of those magnificent falls here - is pretty, too.


I tried to get my boss to go to dinner at Fat Bastard Steakhouse ("Fat" McBride's, whatever) but she felt she'd had just about enough steak, and we ended up going to Red Lobster. Nothing else evokes the unique, regional flavor of the Oklahoma border quite like seafood, you know?

No complaints, though. I was up at 5 this morning. This is the most appealing sight I've seen all day.

Getting all Eastered Up

When you get right down to it, isn't every Friday good?

I mean, assuming you like your home life better than your job, which (I realize) is hardly a given. But sleeping until you are not tired anymore is generally better than the alternative, isn't it? Whoever came up with the 8-5 workday, anyhow? If I ever meet that bastard, I'll kick him right in the 'nads.

The French don't have to work from 8 am-5 pm every day. They have full-time 35-hour workweeks AND get to drink wine at lunchtime, right there in their corporate cafeterias. Can we do that? No! Not that we'd want to. If they served wine at lunch in our office cafeteria, it would probably have winemakers' toenails in it. Certainly the scrambled eggs contain a high concentration of eggshells. I'm pretty sure this is in compliance with applicable state law.

Of course, the French have to say things like "Sacrebleu!" and "Ooh la la!" which is why people tend not to take them seriously. Look at Pepe LePew, for example - though, to be fair, he really is quite a great romantic figure; passionate, expressive, and devoted, if you don't mind the fact he smells like overripe Roquefort. Then again, most of the women he meets probably don't shave their pits. So why not?

But I digress. It's Good Friday! Many of us don't have to go to work. The kids get off from school. Traffic is light. The spectre of cholesterol poisoning adds a rakish note of peril to our otherwise staid lives, and chocolate may put in a welcome appearance. But stay away from the licorice jellybeans! They are the creation of Satan!

Sleep an extra hour for me tomorrow, if you can.

Good vs. Evil: Sleep Edition

Ever notice how there are good naps and evil naps? Good naps, you drift off quickly and wake up about an hour or so later feeling refreshed. Evil naps, you kind of lie there feeling woozy and not quite asleep and restless. Occasionally you wake yourself up by drooling. Then you feel like a zombie until bedtime.

I like the good kind better.

It was a good one today, thanks principally to my dear friend Tony who took me to IKEA and fed me Swedish meatballs and macaroni and cheese. Ambien can bite my ass: Swedish meatballs are the shit! And I needed it, because tonight is the opening night for our version of "The Bucket List" at the Alamo South. They've broken up the contest entrants into groups, and our group airs this evening. My brother-in-law, Baby Jeffy (aka Jack Nicholson) is up from San Antonio for the occasion. Man, it's so loud in here!

Naptime is certainly over, at any rate.

So anyway: After checking out some of the competition, I don't think we're very likely to win the contest, but I do think we ought to make it to the finals, which is plenty good enough for me. I'm really looking forward to seeing how a theater audience reacts to our movie, which was finally submitted on a DVD, and looks and sounds a lot better than the one online.

"Looking back," says Baby Jeffy at the moderate shout which passes for an inside voice in my in-laws' family, "I didn't do all that good a Jack Nicholson."

Looking back, I think the worst mistake we made was picking "The Bucket List" to remake, because it's not even advertising anymore, and hardly any theaters are now playing it, and I'm wondering who will even know what the hell our remake is about? So maybe newly-opening, star-studded crapfests are not the best picks for this kind of contest.

I have to work in the morning. I hope I'll have slept off tonight's effects by then.