Duck

MoMo asked me to write a blog about mean people with gas. I didn’t ask why. I assume she has a good story of her own to tell. Since gas was involved, she probably thought of me. I’m sure Moi is already cringing.

I have a client with IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome for the uninformed. She is not mean. But the twelve year old in me often has to stifle the giggles when ducks join our meetings.

I was looking up shots to consider serving at the New Years Eve party. There is a Duck Fart of an entirely different kind. It is Jack Daniels, Amaretto and Baileys poured in that order to create layers. The only duck fart I’ve had is the kind like in meetings with my IBS afflicted client.

My kids like to play duck duck goose. And they like to fart. My kids; not the duck and goose. And sometimes they are mean to each other. Again, my kids, not the duck and goose. Sometimes when my kids fart, I’ll exaggerate the affects of the stink and pretend like they made me pass out. At which point, they like to hover over me and sing “Shake my booty,” while they wiggle their tiny butts over my head.

A lot of girls claim they don’t fart. Of course they do, but I have to admit that gals do a good job of refraining and/or finding privacy to let ‘em rip. My father in-law told me a story about a filling station near his old army base that was owned and operated by all women. Clearly these women had lots of gas. They didn’t sound mean though. In fact, they did quite well being located so close to the base. The FIL apparently pawned his watch at the all gals gas station to get cash to visit his girlfriend. Which is now his wife and my MIL.

The FIL was in the army in the late sixties. He did a turn in Vietnam. I never knew much about his military days because my wife and her mom both have told me he doesn’t like to talk about it. Like many of the men/boys sent to Vietnam, my FIL went through hell both in the jungle and even when he got back to the states after the war. So the FIL doesn’t talk about it and nobody asks.

Over the Xmas holiday, we took the wife’s folks to the Buckhorn Exchange. The Buckhorn has the first Colorado liquor license and mostly serves wild game in the restaurant. There are hundreds of animal heads mounted on the walls. Vegans don’t even drive within five blocks of this place. They also have quite a few stuffed birds of various species. Including ducks!!

The FIL is an avid hunter from Michigan and he got a kick out of the place and was in a great mood. The four of us sat at the table nibbling on Elk and Buffalo tips while we had a few cocktails. Somehow the conversation turned to when the FIL and MIL met. I started asking a ton of questions and soon the FIL was talking about his military days. An hour later, he told us stories that neither the MIL nor my wife had ever heard before. It was wild. I just kept asking questions and he kept telling stories. I think everyone has always been afraid to ask.

The MIL ordered the duck and it smelled kind of funny.

After eating, we went upstairs for an after dinner drink. A 75 year old cowboy was playing the air harp while singing folk songs. There was a stuffed mallard on the shelf above the stage. The FIL was stoked. He bought a CD.

I stopped on the way home at a gas station. I went inside to buy a diet coke. I paid the clerk and wished him happy holidays. He scowled. I thought about asking him if he had ever seen Scrooge, but I didn’t want to get shot. Plus, I kind of had to pass gas (stupid elk and buffalo), so I scurried back outside and finished filling the tank.

There you have it. Mean guy with gas. Well, a grumpy clerk at a gas station anyway.

Don’t step on any ducks.

Not the Sharpest Tool in the Shed

I got my haircut the other day. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take very long anymore. There isn’t a lot up top and I’m not talking about my declining brain cells either. Some day, I’ll have to pull the typical white-boy move which is to shave it all off and grow a goatee. I’ll never be in Brookem's (HOH obsessed) female version of the spank bank*

*spank bank (noun)
1. A memorable collection of mental images that one wishes to retain for self pleasuring purposes.
Sample sentence from Urban Dictionary:
“Damn, that bitch is fine, I'm definitely going to add her to my spank bank.”

My haircuts take about ten minutes now. And that is if the haircutter is taking their time and making small talk.

I go to a small chain called Floyd’s 99 Barbershop. Yes Barney, I get my hair cut at a place called Floyd’s. I stop by Aunt Bee’s afterwards for pie. Floyd’s is a pretty cool place. They jam great music, decorate the walls with concert posters and the workers are all young and totally hip. I think it is required to have at least one facial piercing and five or more tattoos if you want to work at Floyd’s.

The gal I had this last time was barely over twenty. As was her IQ. She starting snipping and began the requisite haircutting small talk.

She asked, “What are you doing for the holidays?”

“We are sticking around. We have little kids and have some family coming to visit.”

She turned on the electric clipper and was trimming around my ear when she said, “Are you ready for dinner?” The buzzing was really loud in my ear and she spoke really fast with a bit of country twang. It was 10am.

“What?”

She turned off the clipper and said, “Are you from Denver?”

“Ohhh, I thought you were asking about dinner. No, I’m from Chicago.”

Buzzzzzzzzzzz. The clipper hummed away in my other ear when she said, “Are you going bare?”

“Wait, you aren’t shaving off all my hair are you?”

She turned off the clipper and said, “What?”

“What did you say?”

She tilted her head sideways and said, “I said what?”

“No, before that. You asked me a question.”

She had a dull look on her face when suddenly her eyes lit up for a split second and she said, “Oh yeah, I asked if you are going there. To Chicago for the holidays.”

“Ohhh, no. I’ve got family coming in for the holidays.”

She said, “Oh yeah, you said that.”

She grabbed her scissors and carried on her trade. She was quiet for a minute or two when I kid you not, she asked, “Where are you from, Colorado?”

I said, “No, I’m from Chicago.”

“Oh yeah, sorry.”

She did not proceed to ask me what I’m doing for the holidays, but she did tell me she has never been to Chicago.

By 10:15am, I was out of there. As I paid, I said, “Thanks and have fun over the holidays. Be safe.”

She said, “Thanks, you too. Have a great trip.”

San Francisco

San Francisco is a cool city. Parts of it are gayer than bowties, not that there is anything wrong with that. I was in town for work, but managed to explore a little bit, in addition to enjoying some fantastic food. I was with my co-worker Michelle who had never been in the city. So, we played tourists when not working.

What is a visit to SF without getting a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge? Thankfully, I did not see anyone jump off the bridge. The danger was not over troubled waters. The danger was the poison oak I almost stepped in while getting this shot. I can recognize poison ivy, but the only reason I knew poison oak was by the path was because of the little red sign that said, “Keep off. Poison Oak.” Inspector Clouseau has nothing on me.



The little island to the left and behind the white boat is Alcatraz. It is odd to me that a jail on an island is such a major tourist attraction. Frankly, I’d rather tour the Ghiradelli factory and sample free chocolate.



We wanted to park the car by Union Square. I told Michelle to visualize a parking space. She put her little bony fingers to her head, closed her eyes, and said, “Okay, I see a spot on the next block next to a silver pickup truck.” I pulled up to the next block and at the far end; there was one empty spot; next to a silver pickup truck. Michelle was freaked out. I was not. That stuff happens all the time when you believe in it.

We wandered around Chinatown for a little while. I love the atmosphere. More people should decorate with dragons and party lights like these.



I bought a bunch of little buddhas for the peeps back at the office and for the family. I ended up getting thirteen of them. Which made me wonder if I was colliding bad luck with good karma. I ended up buying some bugs in rock rings for my kids and decided not to worry about the thirteen buddhas.



We were hungry and chose NOT to go to this place. All I could think of were appliances and cheap clothing.



Instead, I took Michelle to the House of Nanking for lunch. I have fond memories of going there with my wife when the place was a dive ten years ago. Back then, it had about five tables; a counter with raw chicken, milk and eggs sitting out and a gross looking kitchen up front. We sat down and had the waiter order for us. It was one of the best meals we ever had. And it was less than twenty bucks.



I was nervous it wouldn’t be like I remembered. It has indeed changed. They took over the space next door and now have about 15 tables. The kitchen moved to the back and there didn’t appear to be any spoiling food lying around. But it was still pretty dumpy. I had the waiter order for us again. The food was awesome!! As good as before. Except the prices went way up. There is no way my Tsingtao doubled the cost of our lunch. It was still worth every Yuan though.

The House of Nanking is close to this building.



I have no story behind it, other than I thought it was cool.

We took care of more work stuff and still had some time to kill. Michelle wanted to shop so I wandered around. I only got about two blocks away before I saw this place and had to go.



It is called the Irish Bank and is only accessible through the alley. I wonder how well they do at night. I had a couple of Smithwicks and texted Michelle directions to meet me. She made it there and complained only a little about my picking a place that required a right turn at the alley, plug nose, walk past about ten dumpsters, jump over the rats, circumvent the puke by the sewer, and take a left at the end of the alley to find the door to the bar.

After going back to do some work, we went out for a great dinner that night. Mostly sushi, despite Mandy berating me for it and subsequently writing a blog about the best sushi in Detroit. And doesn’t that sound oxymoronic? Sushi in Detroit? When I think of food in Detroit, I think of, well, nothing. I just felt like pushing Mandy’s buttons. Anyway, the yellowtail was my favorite ever!



I had a meeting the next day, but had time in the morning to take a walk. I had breakfast at this place.



The Java House is by one of the piers, close to the ballpark. The owner looked like a sailor, the eggs were greasy and the tables were dirty. It was perfect.

I walked all the way around AT&T Park, home of the Giants. This is McCovey Cove; the spot where kayakers waited to fish homeruns out of the water hit by Barry Bonds.



This sign cracked me up. I’d like to hang it in my office at work. I like how 'watchout' is just one word in San Francisco.



Willie Mays was kind enough to pose for me so I could snap his picture in front of the stadium.



Juan Marichal did the same. I have a dance move exactly like Juan’s pose.



We did our respective meetings and had one more night out on the town. We checked out Union Square at night. Note the ice skating rink in the foreground of the Macy’s shot. It was wild to see palm trees in that setting.



The Xmas tree sparkled.



I hope your holidays sparkle as well.

Living and Loving

My whole body was tense. I was grinding my teeth at night. There was a terrible feeling of anxiety streaming throughout my very being. I wanted to curl up in a dark room and sleep for days. But I couldn’t sleep.

A few days later, I was watching my kids play on the family room floor. It was one of those rare moments when they were getting along like best friends forever. My wife was in the kitchen making dinner. She loves to cook. It was so peaceful. I watched Will show Drew how to play a game that he just made up. Drew was asking clarifying questions and Will patiently elaborated the ‘rules.’ My wife and I made eye contact and she gave me a knowing smile.

My family gave me an early Xmas present. It is a book called The Traveler by Daren Simkin. His brother Daniel helped with the pictures. It takes about five minutes to read. Read it. I bought eight of them at Starbucks and gave a copy to everyone at work.

The book jacket says it all. Living and loving is time well spent.

My life journey has been good. Some mountains have been harder to climb than others. And sometimes I feel lost. I have also made some wrong turns. Balancing the adventures with what is most important is not as easy as it should be.

I still have stresses and anxiety. But that slice of life moment in my family was a real-time interpretation of The Traveler. Or maybe The Traveler was just reminding me of the moment at home.

I have always feared the unknown. Maybe that is why I have always hiked just a little further, to see what is around the next bend. In reality, I need to cherish the path I’m on; in the moment. And then the unknown isn’t so scary.

Today, I am a little less tense and much more hopeful. Times are tough. But happiness doesn’t have to be so complicated.

The holidays are both the best and worst of days. I am going home to my wife and kids now. I will hug them all a little tighter and just a beat longer. I’m sure the moment will pass quickly, especially for them.

But I will cherish it forever.

Don't Answer That

I was at the Nuggets game the other day. After a couple nasty Coors Lights, I had to hit the head. Following men’s room etiquette, I approached the urinal with my eyes focused straight ahead on the wall in front of me. I did not speak to anyone. As I stood there taking care of business, I couldn’t help notice the guy next to me was talking on his cell phone. I have always wondered why people talk on their cell phone while using the bathroom. Does the person on the other end of the call know this is the situation?

Usually in the public men’s room, there are toilets flushing all over, not to mention obnoxious releases of gases from both ends (farts and burps) and an occasional throat clearing hack resulting in a nasty spit of goob and whatnot in or near the pisser. I hope you weren’t hungry just now.

Although the guy code is generally no talking while whizzing, some guys will talk if they pulled a woman-like move by going to the john with a friend. So while important guy is holding his pecker in one hand and his cell to his ear in the other, there are often guys talking about the game, making crude remarks about the loser in the row in front of them or discussing who is hotter – the chick with fake tits across the aisle, or the Nuggets Dancer with the six pack of abs and fuck me boots. Is this the kind of background noise somebody sitting at home wants to hear while mister tinkle and talk is splattering on his shoes because he’s not paying attention?

Anyway, just as I was finishing up and tucking away my junk, the cell phone piss man dropped his crackberry. Yep, you guessed correctly. It landed right in the urinal. I have to admit, I haven’t seen hands move that fast, ever. He could be a dealer in Vegas or the next David Copperfield. The celly couldn’t have been in the urinal piss water for more than a second. But it was indeed submerged.

I stalled for a second wondering what his next move would be. He fished it out, shook it a little (I stepped back quickly), and wiped it on his pants. As he began to put the piss phone to his ear, I turned to wash my hands. I heard him say to whoever he was talking to, “Sorry, I dropped my phone.”

The thing still worked and his shake and wipe cleansing was sufficient enough for him to be comfortable putting the piss phone back in his hands and on his face. I didn’t stick around to see if he washed his hands afterwards, but my guess is that he did not.

I have never dropped anything in the bathroom, other than my pants and a dead fish. But I have heard stories of keys, wallets, money, books, and jewelry. Besides those drugs you flushed down when the feds were hot on your tail, what have you fished for (or simply left) in the loo?

I wrote this on the plane to San Francisco on Monday, after seeing this diagram on the toilet lid. Thankfully, I did not drop my phone in there while taking the picture.



What the hell are all those things? I’m thinking about buying one of each and throwing them all in the toilet on the flight back to Denver. But I don’t know what I need. It looks like I need a pair of children’s whitey tighties, origami, a bottle of wine, a sippy cup, a black cup, a wrist watch, a money clip and a credit card. Actually, it looks like those instructions are for people whose hand only has two fingers and a thumb. I think they should have just written a sign on the lid that said, “The only shit that goes in the toilet is literally your shit (and piss).”

Two more days in San Fran and hopefully I can get rice-er-roni out of my head.

New York Recap

I arrived at the Hudson Hotel, a cool boutique style joint near Central Park. It is also home to a hot nightclub that was packed every night with hipsters and hotties. I checked in and got a drink from a total knockout in the bar. I downed the cocktail and hung out in the room for awhile, taking a load off before pounding the streets of New York.

I could go on and on about everything I did in just over two days. I have started and re-started this blog numerous times. I realized that it is difficult to express the euphoria a place like New York can cause, even when doing the mundane. So, instead of writing it in detail, following are the cliffs notes, mostly out of context.

I grabbed a bite to eat at a local pub-restaurant just down the street. The waitress seemed sad. I was not.

I was accosted by the same homeless dudes multiple times. They were camped out on the route I took to and from the hotel. I finally gave in and tossed them all my change. I was ambivalent.

I woke up a lot at night. I was always excited, wanting to get rest, but happy to be awake so that I could maximize my time in New York. I was exhilarated.

I had breakfast at a diner near Times Square. There were celebrity photos on the walls. I had the Western Omelet. The people watching was great. I may have been staring.

I wandered around Times Square, the Meatpacking District, Greenwich Village, and SoHo. I stopped for a beer at a corner pub on Jones Street. I was happy.

I walked all over the city checking out subways, phone kiosks, bus shelters, urban panels, wallscapes, billboards, dioramas, wild postings, and yer mama. This was on behalf of a client, but it also enabled me to soak in New York and all its’ splendor. I was walking with excitement.

I walked by an old building with ‘rectory’ painted above the door. I wanted to spray paint a big E at the beginning and take a picture, preferably when a nun or priest was walking out. I was amused.

I rode subway trains. I thought about the movie Risky Business and wondered if anyone has had train sex in the New York subways. I was daydreaming.

I strolled through Central Park, marveling at mother nature’s trespass in the city. Or is it the other way around? I felt devious.

I crashed in my room. But again, it was hard to rest. I was antsy for more.

I had a drink at a crowded Italian restaurant. The women next to me were tipsy. One was in love. I wondered if she was going to get laid later that night. I was envious.

I had dinner at a nice restaurant. The banter was splendid. I wanted dessert.

I rode all over the city in a billboard sales guy’s car. He got a ticket for reckless driving. I laughed at him. I was ready for my next ride.

I had lunch at a place called El Centro. The sun was in my eyes, but it didn’t bother me at all. I was getting my fill.

I checked out Grand Central Station and lost myself in the hustle and bustle. As the trains pulled away, I felt like I was saying goodbye to a friend. I was nostalgic.

I had beers with my co-worker at a brewery. The beer was good. My associate was talking. A lot. Mentally, I was somewhere else.

We saw Wicked. It was great. I laughed my ass off. My body was surprisingly sore. I felt good.

We hit a post show bar. My co-worker was drunk. I decided to leave her. I was alone.

I stopped at a small pub with just a few people in it. Some guy was playing acoustic guitar and another was passed out in his barstool. Perfect. I had a beer and reminisced about my three days in New York. I was smiling.

My last stop was the corner deli and pizza slice place. I got pepperoni. It was delicious. I devoured it and had another. I was spoiling myself.

I was tired. My flight was at 6am. It was midnight. I fell asleep wanting it to never end.

Holy Crap

My three year old took a big poop the other day. On the floor. Two feet from the toilet. It was man sized. My eyes were watering from the stench. He said he couldn’t make it. I pointed out he was just two feet away. He looked at me with his big round blue eyes and said, “I just couldn’t make it, Daddy.” Sometimes the shit hits the floor and you just have to get through it and move on.

I entered a shit storm at work today. The inmates are grumbling. Maybe I should put them back on bread and water. When the going gets tough, the tough are supposed to get going, not whine. I don’t think they realize how lucky they are to be so busy.

I tend to catch up on the news when I have to use the potty. Wall Street Journal is the perfect read. They have their summary capsules on the front page and usually cover media and marketing as well. The more I potty, the smarter I seem. Don’t tell any of my clients my secret.

Our bathrooms at the office have your standard paper towel system for drying hands. But holy shit, wouldn’t it be cool to have one of these babies?



Have you experienced the Xcelerator? I see it more and more in restaurants. I encountered one just last night. You put your hands under the spout and it automatically shoots hot air at hurricane force speeds. It must be powered by jet engines. I keep wondering what would happen if you put other body parts under there. It could be a touch free enema. It could remove your toe polish in 3.7 seconds. It would dry your hair in six seconds if you don’t mind the sexy wind blown look.

What other shit is going on you ask? Well, I’ve been doing a little holiday shopping. Yes I have. I found a great book for Will and Drew to share. It is called Walter the Farting Dog.



It is exactly as it sounds. And I have been advised as to where I can pick up the accompanying stuffed animal version of Walter the Farting Dog. When you squeeze him, that isn’t barking you are going to hear. I can’t wait to go buy him. We got the family a Wii too, but I’m more excited about Walter.

I really shouldn’t contribute to potty humor, but I can’t help it. I am a boy. Will’s favorite subject lately seems to be poo. The other day, I told him I was going to flip him like a pancake. He fired back that he was going to poo on my face.

Drew, never one to be left out, piped in with, “And me!”

I said, “What Drew? You want Will to poop on your face too?”

Will was laughing hysterically. Drew screamed in a deep three year old voice, “Noo Daddy, I’m gonna poop on your face too!”

I reminded him, “You need to keep it in the potty mister floor pooper.” And then I tackled him and tickled him relentlessly.

Will should have gotten a flag for a late hit, unsportsmanlike conduct and unnecessary roughness for piling on. I pretended like their dual giggling and limb flailing was too much for me to overcome. They jumped on top and attempted to tickle me. Kids don’t know how to tickle. It feels like tiny spoons being painfully jabbed onto your body. They made me say “I’m a monkey’s bottom,” which I did right away so the tickle pain would stop.

Meanwhile, the shit storm at work continues. This was a nice half hour break to ignore the madness. I am telling them to deal with it. Shit happens. Move on. Or I’ll have Will poop on your face.

She

She is quite beautiful. Despite seeing her almost every day, I have never said a word to her. Her beauty changes with the seasons. In the summer, she sparkles in the sun and casts a tempting shadow of lust just when I am sweating in the heat. I imagine standing next to her, our limbs swaying in the breeze to the enchanting sounds of the summer.

In the winter, she makes the air less foreboding and the skies aren’t quite as dark. I think about the fruits she has to offer and I want to meet her. I want her to provide light in my life. I want to openly stare at her in recognition and knowing she is there for me.

I approached her this weekend. I put my hands out and was instantly rebuffed. She made me bleed in anguish. I felt silly for having protection ready in my pocket. I rethought my approach. I didn’t want to string her along to the point of causing agony for either of us. She clearly could wound me without a word and I realized she was vulnerable up close. She was nearly bare to the soul. She appears welcoming from afar, but is a rose with thorns for anyone who tries to really be with her.

I offered her a gift. A symbolic gift of love and gratefulness. I wanted her to see the light I had to offer her so she could in turn give it back to me. And I wanted the world to see. I wanted her to sparkle for everyone, from head to toe.

So I put on my work gloves, climbed up a ladder and blanketed her branches with about seven strands of white Christmas lights. I don’t know what kind of fruit tree she is, but it has fucking thorns all over it. I hate that bitch. But she looks damn good at night.



************EDIT*******************

Per a couple requests...

I'm not one to give up easily and all I could think about was climbing all over her. Boy did I ever get the cold shoulder. Her and her frosty attitude totally froze me out. She was bitter. She was howling with the wind and barking from the roots of her soul. True she tends to light up at night. But that icy stare was enough for me to retreat to the warmth of my loving home.



By the way, it was in the fifties and sunny yesterday in Denver. Freezing and snowing tonight.

However...

I am living a life of contradiction:


I don’t like big crowds, but I love people.

I don’t like coffee, but I love coffee shops.

I don’t like hangovers, but I love vodka.

I don’t like clowns, but I love to laugh.

I don’t like mimes, but I love non-verbal communication.

I don’t like bloody marys, but I love ketchup.

I don’t like phone calls, but I love long conversation.

I don’t like problems, but I love solving them.

I don’t like failing, but I love trying.

I don’t like rude people, but I love hearing “Yer mama.”

I don’t like dishonesty, but I love secrets.

I don’t like being out of shape, but I love eating.

I don’t like lightening (house struck as a kid), but I love watching electrical storms.

I don’t like bullshit, but I love bullshitting.

I don’t like people with no ambition, but I love sitting around and doing nothing.

I don’t like being alone, but I love having time for myself.

I don’t like loud people, but I love to be heard.

I don’t like traffic, but I love road trips.

I don’t like arguing, but I love being devil’s advocate.

I don’t like negativity, but I love saying no to solicitors.

I don’t like ballet, but I love watching hot chicks in tutus.

I don’t like soccer, but I love watching my kids play it.

I don’t like drama, but I love watching an epic movie.

I don’t like my beer belly, but I love beer.

I don’t like yard work, but I love the smell of fresh cut grass.

I don’t like procrastination, but I love coming through under pressure.

I don’t like game playing, but I love playing games.

I don’t like being embarrassed, but I love laughing at myself.


What about you?

Yer Mama

Who needs NASCAR when you have New York cab drivers? If you aren’t a morning person and have trouble waking up, take a cab ride in New York. The conditions for mister cab driver were ideal – traffic was light at 6:15am and it is a flat rate from Manhattan to JFK. No matter how long or short it took to get there, my fare would be fiddy bucks plus tip. Perhaps I look like a guy that tips well after wetting his pants. The faster the cabby could get me there, the faster he could get another fare. Gentlemen, start your engines…

I didn’t catch the name of my outgoing cabby, but it must have been Mario Andretti. I picked up a chai from Starbucks before I took my seat in the death defying thrill ride. The chai was still spilling from wild turns and erratic lane changes with the cup half empty! I had to pound it to a low enough level that wouldn’t splatter throughout the back seat.

Andretti got me there in a half hour. For perspective purposes, my cab ride to Manhattan three days earlier took an hour. And that guy was psycho too. His name was Boutahri. He was jamming to Feliz Navidad on the radio. When Jingle Bells came on, he snapped along to the beat while cutting off trucks and tailgating minivans. This dude must love Christmas.

Boutahri said a grand total of three words to me the whole ride. The first word was when we got close and like a little kid I asked how much longer. He said, “Fifteen.” He changed the radio station to a talk show. The discussion was politics and the on-air guy was talking about Hilary Clinton being named to Obama’s cabinet. One of the guys said, “I wonder who will take her place in the Senate.” My man Boutahri then spoke his last two words of the trip. He immediately replied to the radio, “Yer mama.”

What a great, under utilized thing to say. “Yer mama.” So asinine yet I can’t help but accept it as an effective response in nearly every situation. Like when the bums kept asking for change on the streets of New York. I should have just said, “Yer mama.” Or when I got a late night slice of pizza and the guy asked if it was to stay or go. “Yer mama.” Or when a tourist asked for directions on the subway, not knowing I am a visitor myself. “Yer mama.” Or when the bellhop asked if I needed help with my bag. “Yer mama.”

Boutahri must have felt satisfied with his political outlook because he changed the station back to Christmas music. I have never in my life taken a cab while the Chipmunks were blasting. Boutahri must have had it turned up to eleven. He was tapping along on the steering wheel. Luckily we arrived at the hotel before I had to ask him to turn it off. I’m sure his reply would have been, “Yer mama.”

JetBlue and the Ass-Man

I’m on a plane to New York, New York, a place so great they named it twice. The person sitting in front of me has their seat all the way back. I have one leg splayed out in the aisle and the other is wedged in the crack between the two seats in front of me. My laptop screen is reverse angled so that I have to lower my chin and peek from the top down rather than straight on. My elbows are stuck out like chicken wings, one in the aisle, and one in the empty middle seat next to me. Luckily JetBlue doesn’t have drink carts or this flight would literally cost me an arm and a leg.

My ipod shuffle has resurrected itself from the dead. I had dropped it in my beer while in Vegas a couple weeks ago. At the time I must have thought everything should be as soaked in alcohol as my body. My ipod has sobered up. I am jamming O.A.R., not wearing sunglasses nor do I have a full tank of gas. Although I do have about an hour’s worth of battery life to knock out an airplane blog.

The gentlemen sitting across from me on the other aisle is standing up. He is facing his travel companion. Which means his ass is practically in my face, positioned between my pointy elbow and extendo-leg. He has on blue dockers, a smart red mock turtle neck and a black belt. I keep looking at him because I can’t believe his ass is trying to join my row. He is old and doesn’t smell badly, so I’ll deal with his ass for now by simply writing about it. And then it will be fun to see if when he sits down, he tries to read this. How would you react if some guy folded up like a patio chair was writing about your ass? I set my screen display to 120% to make it easier for him to read. I am giddy with excitement.

It is a long flight to New York, New York. I’m thinking the Frito Lay snack pack of everything good (cheetos, doritos and pretzels) doesn’t constitute a healthy nor filling lunch. Good thing I bought peanut M&Ms before I boarded. What’s not to like about candy coated chocolate covered peanuts? What the hell is candy coating? Why is it a term of endearment to call a loved one Peanut?

I dropped my two peanuts off at school this morning. I told Will, the almost six year old, that he is the man of the house while I’m gone. He said he didn’t want to, that Drew, the three year old, can do it. I said fine, are you going to listen to Drew and do whatever he says? He said, “No, I don’t do what you say anyway, so why should I listen to Drew?” I picked him up, flipped him like a pancake and shook him upside down til he said “I’m a monkey’s bottom.”

The ass-man has seated.

I tried 200% on my screen, but that is too big. The flight attendants in back could read this that large and it throws off my plane writing mojo. Is it just me, or are flight attendants all pissy? At some point, they decided they don’t have to smile and cater to passengers anymore and instead they have become comfort nazis. I guess terrorism can do that to a person.

Speaking of pissy, I took a leak in the JetBlue latrine. That is always fun on an airplane. Who doesn’t like relieving themselves in a space the size of a closet in a studio apartment in New York, New York during a San Franciscoian scaled earthquake? I swear turbulence hits 97.6% of the time I have to pee. My pee-dar could be used by Air Traffic Control to predict rough skies. Don’t touch anything in the lavatory, people.

Speaking of relief, do people really have sex in those things? I’m darn proud of myself for being able to use a laptop from my seat. How the hell do two people get in the aero-can for a little whoopdee-doopdee? Do they put those paper toilet seat sheets all over first? Clearly, I am not in the Mile High Club despite living in the Mile High City.

The ass-man is asleep. Maybe he did read this.

Only one more hour to go until we land at JFK. I wonder what all these people are going to do in New York, New York. I wouldn’t mind tailing a few of them. There is a shifty looking woman wearing a blanket with arm holes a couple rows in front of me. I was keeping an eye on her while waiting to board. She was wearing sunglasses. Usually people only wear sunglasses on flights home from Vegas, not flights from Denver to New York, New York. She was on her cell phone a lot and I think I made out some kind of foreign accent. Oh wait, she probably is just from New York, New York.

Speaking of York, I was there once back in ’94. My parents took my sister and me with them on a Globus tour of England, Spain and Morocco. That means my sister and I were the only ones under sixty on the trip. And we got nice little red tote bags to store our medication, crossword puzzles, bifocals, cardigan sweaters, travel guides, disposable cameras, magnifying glasses, library books and smuggled travel booze. Oh wait, that might have been my parents’ stash. York was cool. Seville was my favorite city and Morocco is a place I’ll never forget.

In Marrakech, our guide Mohammad (they are all named Mohammad) took my sister and I to a night club. It was weird dancing to Madonna in ducking (in honor of predictive texting) Morocco. I did pick up a Moroccan princess though. I thought maybe she dug my slick white American dance moves, but later realized she tabbed me as her ticket out of the Kasbah. We cut the magic carpet a bit and had Mohammad do some translating. A couple weeks after getting home to Chicago, I got a letter from her. She expressed her love for me and desire to have me marry her and bring her back to the States. This is why I don’t like dancing at nightclubs, people!

The ass-man waketh.

Oh, I guess he had to pee. I would have been impressed if his wife would have gone with him. I would have nudged him with my chicken elbow and given him a raised eyebrow wink wink and asked him for a high five. Alas, he probably just has a weak bladder.

My battery is about out. Therefore, I shall toast to New York, New York in New York, New York on behalf of all of you. Bretthead, out!