If you live along the coast of Texas or Louisiana and have money, a car, or feet, now would be an excellent time to get the fuck out. If you choose to stay and you get cholera and/or drown because everything gets blown to hell and filled with water, well…don’t blame FEMA, the mayor, the Governor, me, George Bush, or society. Blame your own stupid ass for watching a category Holy Shit hurricane bear down on you and doing nothing to save yourself.
Just wanted to go on record as saying that before the fecal matter hits the flabellum.
In other news, there is a pretty massive overdramatization of an emergency landing at LAX on television right now. My money is on the plane landing safely (perhaps collapsing the nose gear) and everyone getting off without incident. Within 42 seconds I expect someone to come up with a way to blame the government for it.
Can you tell I’m sick of listening to people bitch?
Just saw the plane land and would also like to go on record saying that the pilot should get a medal for leaving the stump of his landing gear within two inches of the center line of the runway. He even stopped on a white line in case his buddies didn’t believe him.
Seriously. That was some fine flying. I didn’t think for a minute the plane would cartwheel down the runway and spray passengers all over California, but I thought it possible that the gear would collapse and the plane might go into the grass. I don’t think I’ve ever landed a plane that close to the center of the runway.
Of course, I’ve never been under that kind of pressure on landing, either.
I have had a very stressful two weeks. For some reason I am entrusted with some responsibility in the upcoming tradeshows in which our company is participating over the next two weeks. I will be attending the one in San Fran Next week, and skipping the one in London the following week. Instead I am taking a rare vacation and spending a week with The Skirt in Hawaii.
Why does it seem that spinning up for vacation is the most intense thing ever? You have to get a whole pantload of work finished so no one will need you while you are gone, coordinate how and when you are getting there, make extra sure all of the work crap is done, figure out who is going to feed your damn cat, freak out about a tradeshow detail you forgot, finish drawing that portrait, wake up in the middle of the night obsessing about it…
Tuesday at 4 am I came to the conclusion that vacations don’t really exist.
Sometime yesterday I decided to call one of our field sales guys, Bob, to see if I could talk him into going to San Fran for the tradeshow. Bob is a guy in his late fifties (I’m guessing) who to me personifies the essence of salesman. If you don’t like him when you meet him, something is wrong with you. He even gave me an honorary position on his sales team as the mascot since I am not affiliated with sales in any way but he likes me for some reason. And I begged a little. Hey, I got a lot of free beers and great stories out of that deal.
We went to the San Fran tradeshow last year and had a good time, so I figured I’d at least give him some heat about not going this year.
“Hey Bob, when are you getting to California?”
“Who is dis?”
“You don’t recognize the voice of your mascot? You’d be nothing without me.”
“DUSTY! How you doin, young man?”
“Sorta’ going nuts about the upcoming festivities, but okay aside from that. What about you?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just a job. What’s the worst they can do to you?”
“I don’t know, they’ve been talking about corporal punishment…”
“Wow. Pants down?”
“I hope so. Hey, do you need business cards or anything?”
“No, I got four left. That should last a few years. I’ll let you know.”
“Alrighty. Sorry you couldn’t make it to San Fransicko. I’ll drink a port for you.”
“Are you staying in the same hotel? I hope that bartender learned to mix a Manhattan.”
“That’s why I drink beer. Are you selling anything today?”
“Actually feeling kind of low today. Going to relax for a while.”
“Alright, I’ll give you a report on the Manhattans when I get back.”
“Okay Dusty. Don’t do anything I would do.”
“Not a chance.”
“See you later.”
“Alrighty, take it easy.”
*click*
From what I understand, Bob stopped at a grocery store yesterday afternoon, and on the way back to his car he had a heart attack and died.
Yeah. I know. I’m not going to lie and tell you he was my best pal like everyone else does when someone dies, but I did actually like the guy more than I like most people, and that counts. He was a good guy to know. You just feel like you’re supposed to be able to say goodbye to people like that, you know?
I took a few minutes to look around and wonder why I was developing an ulcer over a box of flyers being shipped to the correct booth at the Moscone Center and getting to the airport in time to catch my flight to Honolulu. I have no way to describe the shift in my point of view without using a tired cliché, so I’ll spare you. You know what I’m saying.
Turns out vacations do actually exist, and it is things like this that remind me to appreciate every second. I’ll drink a Manhattan for you, Bob.
Cheers.
