Yeah, I Left It Here. But They Don't Have To Shove It In My Face Every Time I Come Back.

Aaaarrrrrgggghhhhh! San Francisco and the Silicon Valley area are great. In the abstract. But to be presented with reminders of BOTH of your last two failed relationships just about around every corner is a little much (Joe, you had it down). Let's have a vote. Should I a) move here to desensitize myself to the memories and possibly acquire some positive associations or b) never ever come here again??

I'll tell you, if I do come back, I'm not staying at this dump again. Don't you wish Blogger didn't screw you all out of my post from last night?

A Big Fuck You to Blogger

for erasing my long, ranting (but funny) post about why my hotel room blows here in SF. It can't be recreated. But rest assured, you would have enjoyed it. It mentioned Clamato. 'Nuff said.

Here's One

post with no sex or hot chick links. I have no real comment on this, other than to say that I can't possibly understand what some people are thinking.

2 More Things

1) I don't hate mushrooms anymore. I think I realized this a few weeks ago, but don't think I told anyone. Next time you have pizza with me, remind me that I don't need to veto mushrooms. Unless they're one of those fancy kinds. I'm not there yet.

2) Katie Holmes is hot.

Also) I really want to see the new Exorcist prequel. Nobody tell me anything about it. even if it sucks, I want to find out on my own.

I promise that my next two posts will not mention sex nor link to pictures of hot actresses. Damnit! Just as I was typing that, the commercial for the unrated "Girl Next Door" DVD came on AGAIN!

Yo, What The Hell, Man?

that was just a reminder that I need to call my friend Eugene to let him know I'm gonna be in San Francisco next week.

But seriously, why does it keep raining here? For like 15-30 minutes at a time, but it's still annoying. My book got soaked because I left it outside while I ate breakfast this morning. It's dry now, but all messed up. My aunt, if she were still alive, would kill me for letting a book get that way. As far as she was concerned, people who bend the corners of pages down to mark their place in a book were up there with serial killers and rapists. She was one of my all-time favorite people in the world. I cannot believe it's been about 3 1/2 years since she died. Crazy.

I promise this will not turn into another whiny lonely post. But I just came up from the pool/beach when this last rain shower started. I did get my 10 minutes in the ocean. It was really warm, and I'd like to believe it wasn't just because of all the little Japanese kids who peed there. But anyway, I came back to my room, which is, of course, heavily air-conditioned, still in soaking wet bathingsuit. Got me thinking. Does anyone else agree (and if not, just tell me I'm a freak) that one of the most underrated varieties of sex is the really-tired-from-day-out-in-the-sun-peeling-wet-bathingsuits-off-each-other-kind-of-cold-from-AC-doing-it-then-falling-seamlessly-into-wet-naked-afternoon/evening-nap-to-be-followed-by-really-hot-shower kind?? Just asking. If anyone agrees, I'm in room 706.

Staccato

1) I just got out of the car at my hotel after dinner and proceeded to get shat on by what must have been 73 birds. Head, shirt, pants. Hawaii hates me.

2) Somebody please tell me if the unrated DVD version of that "Girl Next Door" movie means that Elisha Cuthbert gets naked. Damnit. By searching imdb for the link, I think I answered my own question, in the negative. That's such a shame. I never saw the regular version, and imagine the movie pretty much blows, but I really wanted to see naked Elisha if possible.

3) I just sent some stuff to the laundry in my hotel so it'll be clean for SF. It's going to cost about $100. Each pair of underwear and each pair of socks - $2.75. I should have just bought new socks.

4) Last non-working day in HI is tomorrow. I need to go in the ocean. Haven't done that yet.

Plane Crashes

are scary. Plane crashes being reported a year in advance are even scarier:

Russian Plane Crashes, Another DisappearsA Tupolev 154 comes in for a landing at Moscow's Vnukovo airport in this August 29, 1996 photo. A similar Tupolev 154 flying from Moscow, Tuesday, Aug.24,2005 with 46 people aboard went missing three minutes later near Rostov-on-Don, about 965 kilometers (600 miles) south of Moscow but authorities had not found any wreckage, There was no word on survivors. (AP Photo/Misha Japaridze, File)

To think of all I'm ignoring while here in paradise. Did I mention that I did something on this trip that I've never done before? I actually unpacked my bags in a hotel. Crazy. Just in case any of you were concerned, the most stressful thing to happen to me today was when the poolside waitress dumped the remains of my Mahi Mahi sandwich on me, perhaps irreparably staining my swim trunks (I typed "bathing suit" first, but had an irrational thought that that necessarily implied female swimwear - weird). Looking forward to another solo dinner at the sushi bar tonight, since room service was horrid last night. When I did the sushi bar Sunday night, I met another nice couple, here on vacation from Santa Barbara. they had just been to NY for the first time last month, and were trying to get me to explain the neighborhoods of Manhattan. Not an easy thing to do when your audience displays a fundamental lack of understanding:

Nancy: Yeah, I couldn't get him [husband Dave] out of Times Square. Now, what do you call Times Square - is that like "upstate New York," or "the Village?"

LiAps: Uh, Times Square is pretty much its own area. You call it Times Square.

There were several similar exchanges, which I'll spare the readers. Nice people. I'll tell you, as little as I want to be away alone for much longer, I'm not all that excited to get back to real work. Hopefully I'll have most of the long Labor Day weekend to recoup, post pictures, and readjust.

Yeah, That's the Ticket.

Aside from the sheer hilarity of a website dedicated to meeting inmates for potential dates (love the "Release Date" part of the questionnaire), come on Melesa! Medical school? Not that I don't believe doctors can (or should) go to jail. But people who have graduated from Med school probably wouldn't be called "Surgical Technologists." Even if technologist were a word.

Thanks to E-Lo

I now know which enemy of the Christian church I am:

I am Nothing!

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If I got this thing to show up right, somebody owes me a beer.

Come On, Shelly!

Kids pee in pools. We all know that, and just accept it, trying not to think about it when we can avoid it. But sitting at the pool a few hours ago, I watched a little Japanese boy, maybe 5 (but I'm notoriously bad at estimating ages, which, thankfully, hasn't gotten me arrested yet), step into the hot tub, tug down the waistband of his bathing suit, grab his [little kamikaze?] and piss into the water. As though it were just a big toilet. I don't know where his parents were; maybe he told them he had to pee, and they just said "do it in the water." But that's just wrong.

On a separate note, it's 2 pm here, and I'd been sitting at the pool since 8:30ish. Way too much sun for me. So I came upstairs. They hadn't yet made up my room. No biggie - I didn't trash it last night. 30 seconds after I closed the door, the doorbell rang and a small Asian woman said to me "Hello! Would you like service now?" My friends will kill me, but I said no thanks, and just asked for some clean towels.

Hawaii Shorts

-- My hotel room is beautiful. The bathroom is almost as big as the rest of the room, and split into 2 wings - the shower wing and the tub wing. However such a setup apparently requires that the toilet be relegated to a closet. Not even what you'd call a walk-in closet. A bit claustrophobic, especially for someone who spends more than a de minimis amount of time in there. On the bright side, it has the most powerful flush I've ever seen or heard. Everyone I know could take consecutive dumps and I'm convinced one flush would take care of everything.

-- People genuinely seem fairly nice here. Would it be wrong for me to start using the word Mahalo in place of thank you, even when I return to the mainland? I really like that word.

-- Last night, after the first of our four depositions, I went to get beers and some appetizers with the partner and the associate from the firm that represents the co-respondent in this arbitration. It was perfectly pleasant - we went to a Gordon Biersch right on the water. I had 2 big beers. Hefeweizens, which are bigger than pints. When we were done, we all got into a cab to head back to the hotel. The partner (who, by the way, is a cooler guy than the associate) says to the cab driver, "Take us back through Waikiki, not on the highway." He said to me "It may take a few minutes longer, but it's much more scenic." I had, earlier in the day, drunk a bunch of coffee, coke and water. Those of you who know me see where this is going. Traffic was at a standstill, despite it being a holiday (45th anniversary of HI's admission to the Union). We moved about 4 blocks in 25 minutes or so. Even the partner had given up on the scenic route. He told the cab driver to screw it and head for the highway. However, the driver's idea of changing routes was a bit more gradual than I would have liked. I had to pee. From the moment I got into the cab basically. You see, I have a bladder like an infant. Even once we decided to head for the highway, there was no way I was making it. I had the cab stop to find someplace for me to pee. Specifically a Taco Bell. Here is the conversation:

L: Hi. Do you guys have a mens' room I could use?

TBG: Yeah. It's across the parking lot upstairs in the mall. You'll need a key.

L: OK, great. Can I grab that key?

TBG: Do you have a key or something you could leave me as collateral?

L: Uh, how's this [holding up hotel key]?

TBG: Yeah, that'll work.

Long story slightly longer, it was pretty embarassing.

-- People here REALLY do laugh at you when you're wearing a suit. "You guys must be from the mainland!" 150 times. Beatdown. You think I'm wearing a suit because I want to? We're toying with the idea of having Hawaiian Shirt Day a la Office Space for one of the depositions.

-- Not to regress, or go back to one of my least proud posts ever, but I've only been here 2 days and I am lonely again. This solo business travel is not for me. I've been not eating to avoid eating alone; dinner last night (after beers and appetizers) was a Snickers and Green Tea from the minibar. I rented a car to drive around the island today, and took some pictures, but also didn't stop at a bunch of places I should have, because I was sad that I was alone. I only started talking to Kelly (the imaginary girlfriend) briefly once. I went to Pearl Harbor and took the tour of the USS Arizona memorial, and there was no one there to be my audience when I saw an elderly Japanese guy on the tour bend and whisper to a woman he was with, and I faux lip read and translated (with Japanese accent) "We really got those bastards good, haha!" I keep thinking someone's gonna surprise me by showing up to hang out with me here in Hawaii. The room's already paid for, and I ended up having one with 2 beds. Anyone??

OK, I'm hungry, and I'm not having another Snickers. I'm going to eat dinner and drink a lot.

UPDATE - I, because I am a BFP (that used to stand for Big Funny Pussy, and was a term of endearment coined by one of my exes; now, it's just Big Fat Pussy), decided I couldn't handle eating in a restaurant by myself, so I would just go to the little bar/lounge off the lobby. I got there, and it looked like a hugely bad idea. Because there's not really a bar, just some tables. All full. There was an old guy who was moving some stools over to the little servers' area to sit. He asked me if I wanted a stool, and I took him up on his offer. We made 30 seconds worth of small talk. While he waited for his wife to come over, I ordered a glass of wine and a sushi/sashimi platter. His wife came over and sat with him. I listened to the band. A table opened up. It had three chairs. The man invited me to join he and his wife. I was 1/3 of a second from declining. But then I thought - WWSWWLD (What would Someone Who Wasn't LiAps Do)? So I said, "Sure, thanks very much." The old man and his wife are Joe and Betty. Originally from Buffalo, they've lived here for 37 years. They come to the hotel bar every Saturday night; Betty said if they didn't show up, BettyLou, the piano player, would probably call the cops. Joe and Betty have an old rusty snow shovel hanging in their living room. Their friends, locals, are amazed to know there is such a thing as a shovel made specifically for snow. When the waitress brought my sushi, she brought 3 plates and sets of chopsticks. I told Joe and Betty to help themselves (and meant it). They had just eaten dinner (or so Betty told me). We talked a bit more, not quite constant conversation, but enough for me to learn that BettyLou had been accepted to Juilliard, but ended up going to Stevens College (never heard of it) because WW II ended and all the GIs who had deferred (how many soldiers had been set to go to Juilliard I wonder) came back and took her spot. I asked for my check. When it came, it had Betty and Joe's drinks on it too. I paid the check, and told them their drinks were on me. Betty told me that was backwards, because I was the guest, and they should have been trying to make me feel at home. I insisted, and told them not to thakn me, but to thank my client, since I'd expense the whole thing anyway. We had talked a bit about local restaurants, and I wanted to run a recommendation I had gotten by them. They endorsed it. And then, Betty said, "You know, if you want to try some of the local flavor, maybe you'd like to join us tomorrow night at a small family style Italian place for a birthday party." Joe's birthday party. Joe's 70th birthday party. I declined that one, but wished Joe a happy birthday. And I hope he really has one.

Not sure what any of this means. And I definitely still would rather have been having dinner with my friends (or Kelly). But I felt I had to share the story. Now I think I'll go eat the Snickers out of my minibar.

No I Di'int

Uh, I knew I had a few drinks in Vegas. What I didn't know was that I was the No. 1 funniest thing from the entire weekend according to Kimberly of furdell.com fame. Now, Kimberly (vich ve love) is one of my all-time favorite people. To know that I made her laugh more than anything else she experienced over the weekend warms my heart. To know that I did so by pretending to be a moose (see Kimberly's post of today) frightens me. Not because there's anything wrong with pretending to be a moose, per se. But because I have absolutely no recollection of having done so. It doesn't even ring a bell. No recall. It has been quite some time since I've forgotten significant parts of an evening. If I did anything else funny, somebody tell me. And if I did anything bad, I'm sorry. I swear I was sober by the time I shot the guns. Not that they checked, or even asked. Safety first!

Bo-Bo-Bo!!

Hello all. I'm back. From Bermuda and Vegas. And I shot guns. Really. I, LiAps, shot guns. 4 different kinds. Including two machine guns. You know, the ones that fire a lot of bullets all over the place really quickly. Specifically, I shot the following: a Beretta 9mm; a .44 Magnum (yes, the Dirty Harry monster gun); an M-16 (wait, it gets better); and, last but certainly not least, an AK-47, the gun Samuel L. Jackson recommends for "When you absolutely positively have to kill every last muthafucka in the room."

So, LiAps, who do you know that could get you access to these dangerous killing machines? Did you have to meet up with some shady characters in the middle of the desert? Was it scary? Were you afraid you were going to get shot? Well, the answer to the last two is a little bit yes. But this was not a covert hush-hush [insert more spy movie lingo] operation. I simply went to The Gun Store. How did we convince them to let us (that's me and Andrew of furdell.com, by the by), two non-military, non-police, very non gun-looking people to pick these up and blast away? Like this, verbatim:

Guy Behind Counter: "How can we help you fellas today?"

Andrew: "We'd like to shoot some guns."

GBC: "OK."

We then picked out our handguns of choice, to return later for our machine guns. I don't have time to describe the experience in as great detail as I'd like. Luckily, somebody who writes for Slate already did that. Suffice it to say, it was somewhat surreal and a little bit fun. But it also confirmed my suspicion that I am just not a gun guy (good thing I gave up my onetime dream to be an FBI agent). I could never touch another gun again as long as I live, and that'd be just fine with me. I was frighteningly accurate with the AK-47 though. The other 3, not so much. OK, but I'm definitely not the man Col. Jessup would want on that wall.

Andrew definitely wins for shot of the day, however. While he was dead on with the 44 Magnum, he managed to somehow shoot the M-16 straight up into the air, severing the wires where you hang the targets for at least 3 of the booths. It was hi-larious. To us. But not so much to the guys who work there. Each of whom was, not surprisingly, carrying a gun on his belt. We left shortly thereafter. I don't think they shot at us as we drove away, but if they did, it's Hertz's problem, not mine.

Read the Slate article I linked to. It's good. I will blog atcha from Hawaii if not before. Aloha.

On A Lighter Note

Anyone who doesn't read Dan Savage's weekly sex advice column, Savage Love, deserves a beatdown. Savage is hilarious. I'm taking the 5th on whether or not I've ever put anything I read in his column into practice, but it's always worth the read. You can find it on The Onion (from their "AV Club" link), The Village Voice, and probably a hundred other places. I've also read his book, Skipping Towards Gomorrah, which was entertaining, if a bit formulaic. Anyway, Dan (we're now on a first name basis - see below) wrote in his column a few weeks ago that his assistant was leaving to go work at a law firm. Now, I love paralegals and other staff members as much as, if not more than, the next guy [pause for comments]. But the idea of ever leaving a job working for Dan Savage to work at a law firm horrified me. So I thought maybe I could go the other way (no, I don't mean that; I like Dan, but, uh, not in that way, NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT). I would leave my firm and go work for Dan. I sent him an email with my offer. He actually wrote back. How cool? This guy gets grillions of emails a day, most of which are truly interesting and/or freakish and disgusting, and, on top of writing back to people who want to know the safest way to insert their partners' entire heads in their own asses, he took the time to answer my not very creative email seeking employment. Props to Dan - Big Up Yo'Self. Reproduced below are my email and Dan's response. FYI - everyone signs questions to Dan with clever (or, in my case, not) acronyms. While it doesn't appear I'll be joining the Savage Love team, I will continue to be an avid fan.

LiAps's EMail:

Sorry to hear your assistant is leaving. Especially that she's leaving for the cold, cruel world of law firmdom. As a lawyer in a big firm (but one who treats the staff with the utmost respect), I can tell her she's in for some abuse far worse than having to look at fetish sites and filter emails from people who hate Dan Savage (amazing that anyone could). So, here's my proposal: if you can pay me 75% of my current salary, I will quit my job, relocate, and vow to tirelessly research any kind of crazy shit you ask, no matter how revolting I might find it personally. And, Dan, I will do it day in/day out clad only in a Speedo should that be your preference (though I have to tell you, I'm no Ashton Kutcher).

Acronyms Elusive Right Now.

Dan's Response:

dear AERN,
i'm afraid i've changed my mind. i'm not planning on hiring anyone to replace mahrya at the moment. thanks for writing in... xo dan

Andy Griggs Is A Lying Asshole

I was all set to write a long, rambling post about how lonely I am. It was going to be (is) called "Andy Griggs Is A Lying Asshole," because he has a song called "You Won't Ever Be Lonely." Granted, I know he wasn't singing to me, but still.

Thankfully, I came back to my room and checked out the comments to my last post, and Sloth's page and Pup's page, and I wasn't so depressed anymore (let's save for another day the issues presented by the fact that blog comments are sufficient to cheer me up when I'm mired in the depths of feeling sorry for myself).

So I'll give y'all (I can write that word, but can't say it despite my 4 yrs in ATL and my dream of being a Southern boy) the short version. I had dinner alone in the hotel bar. For me, eating alone in public feels like what I imagine a bikini wax does to those of you who get those (Pup?). I am so self-conscious and anxious about being alone in public (sometimes) that even when I'm doing things that it's totally normal to do alone - like shopping, running various errands, etc - I get antsy and feel like I have to get out. I actually sometimes imagine people looking at me and wondering "Why is that guy alone? Doesn't he have a girlfriend/wife?" Totally ridiculous, because shopping alone doesn't mean you ARE alone; for all they know, I'm going home to one or both of the Olsen twins (though I guess that would be hard to believe if I were in the supermarket).

I was thinking about all this, about what the other people in the bar might be thinking about me, the alone eating guy. None of this was helped when the wedding party came and occupied the back of the bar, complete with priest wearing collar, black shirt, shorts and green blazer (perhaps he had just won the Masters, I don't know). I started trying to rationalize eating alone, to explain to the people who were wondering in my head. I'm here on business, even if I had the hottest girlfriend ever at home, who was perfect in every way and loved me like somebody should damnit (is that so wrong?), I'd still be eating alone.

Then, of course, I started thinking about what would be different if I did have that girlfriend. Let's call her Kelly, because that's what I call my imaginary girlfriends. It's a name that I think goes with cute girls and, to the best of my recollection, I've never been involved with someone named that. I imagined going upstairs to my room and calling Kelly. Bullshitting with her about how boring my day was. Talking about how her day was. Telling her how much I missed her and wished she were here with me. Knowing that it made her happy to talk to me. OK, maybe a little phone sex, but that's really really not my point. I miss caring about someone, being cared about, and just having that feeling, you know?

Sloth put in one of her posts last week that she felt like it was a day where it felt good to be single. I haven't had a day like that in a long, long time. Not that I'm sad or depressed every day. Some days I feel good and happy despite being single. But while I know there are negatives and compromises in every relationship with a particular person, I just can't for the life of me think of a reason I wouldn't want to be in a relationship with someone right now.

Goodnight Kelly. Love you and miss you. Feel like meeting me in Vegas on Friday, baby? I'll get us a jacuzzi suite . . . wait, that's how the last one started!

Bore-Muda

This place blows. Seriously, it is so boring here. First, the weather is awful. It's been totally cloudy, threatening rain, since I got here last night. Not what you look for in a tropical paradise. Second, the hotel sucks. I'm in my third room, and I'm not a snob or complainer. I do think I'm entitled to both a working telephone and a working toilet however. My room, which is in the special "Gold" wing, doesn't even have a freakin' balcony. That pisses me off. You know what my client is paying for this piece of shit room? $450/nt. I shit you not. And that's before the tax and extras. Good news (for all of you) - hi speed internet is free. Because I'm Gold, baby.

The deposition ended early today, and the court reporter and videographer invited me to go with them on rented mopeds to explore the island. It's a great system - tourists are not allowed to rent cars. Seriously, you CANNOT rent a car here; illegal. But anybody, with or without a driver's license, can rent a moped to whiz around the streets (on the wrong side, no less) with the impatient locals who do have cars and big vans. Brilliant. Partially because of the horror stories I've heard about injuries, and partially because I wasn't feeling so well after lunch, I declined the offer, and decided I'd just go wander around town on foot and take some pictures. There is absolutely nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to take pictures of (except a Bermuda snowglobe for Kate the Peon). I took like 30 pictures anyway (love digital), and bought one of the FREAKIEST souvenirs ever. Remember the Seinfeld where George gets freaked out because his fiancee has a doll that looks like his mom? Well, I bought this plastic doll that's supposed to be a female Bermudian cop (looks nothing like my Mom) with eyes that open and close. Can't sufficiently describe the freakishness; maybe I'll post a pic of it when I get home.

Anyway, tomorrow, perhaps I'll rent a moped with or without the ct. reporter and video guy, because there's nothing left to see in town. To make matters worse, this hotel is so "fancy," that you can't eat in any of its restaurants in shorts (except of course the kind they wear here with jackets and ties - that's no fuckin' joke kid, they really dress like that). I basically brought suits and shorts (1 pair jeans, but I'm not even sure those would be acceptable). So I, out of indignance (I hate dress codes) and laziness, may order room service. Other option includes walking back to town and trying to find someplace there they'll let me eat. I saw a couple of bar type places. I SO hate eating alone though. Maybe I can make a meal out of the $6 M & Ms from my minibar.

Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! OK. Done whining. Am I in Vegas yet?

Doesn't This Building Just Look British??

It did to me. Hope everybody has a good weekend.

Look - I'm An Artist!

Took this picture in London Yesterday. Doesn't it look like I tried to do something cool for that blurry motion effect?? Nuh-uh. Pure photographic cluelessness. I do think it looks kind of cool though. Maybe I'll post a couple others, though there's nothing exciting in them. Trip was OK, but I'm exhausted. Hope nobody missed me too much.

Right, Now You Want Me To Believe That My Pillow Got Up And Walked Away By Itself?

No need for that to make any sense to anyone else. What it means is that I'm in London. Flight took off 2 1/2 hours late, and arrived 2 hours late. I didn't get a whole lot of sleep, but not because I couldn't have. The bed was remarkably comfortable. I just didn't want to waste the whole flight (which is why I'm furiously chugging Red Bull right now so I don't fall asleep during dinner with my friend). So, I watched a British movie on the flight. And liked it. Furdells - do some research: "Shaun of the Dead."

Movie was OK, food OK, plane very fancy (though disconcerting to try to look out the windows - because of the positioning of the Upper Class Suites, you're kind of going sideways). But the highlight of the flight was the massage. That's right, the massage. I have never had a professional massage before, of any kind. When the "treatments" flight attendant came around at the beginning to ask if I wanted one, I almost said no. She presented me with my options - two different kinds of hand treatments, something else, and the "neck, back and shoulder" massage. But I couldn't say no to her. Because she was straight hot. Like really, really hot. She would have qualified as beautiful even in a still photo where all that was visible was her face. Add in the body, short white skirt, and British accent, and I wouldn't have said no to her even if she were offering me a beatdown instead of a rubdown.

Now, the way this works is Tracey asks everyone in Upper Class if they're interested in a treatment, but informs you that the order is selected at random, and there's no guarantee she'll get to you. That was wrong, to potentially tease me that way. But let's face it - the order isn't random, Tracey chooses. And as soon as I had finished my duck, she was there to ask if I was ready. And I was. She sat me down in a chair with one of those face cutout holes, seatbelted me in, and asked me if it would be alright if she used some essential oils on my neck. Again, she could have asked the same about crude oil, and I would have said, "Uh huh!" She then said to me, and this is verbatim, "So LiAps, do you like your mAH-sages rather firm?" I said "Yes, please." There was minimal conversation, but she rubbed and kneaded and pressed and it was fantastic. Seriously, it felt really good. When she was done, I swear, my first instinct was to say, "OK, your turn." Oh, the things I could have done with her. After that, Jamie, my (male) flight attendant, turned down my bed for me (I had declined the "sleep suit" and just slept in my jeans), and I caught about 45 minutes of the most relaxed sleep I'd ever had. Having never flown such fancy First Class before (when I told the FAs that at the beginning, one of them said , "Oh, so we've got a Virgin virgin, Ay?" How often you think they use that one?), I was unsure whether it would have been appropriate to tip Tracey. Clearly it would have been inappropriate to give her what I wanted to give her, but I have a nagging feeling I should have done something.

Speaking of money, I got so FUCKED on that Euros to GBPs transaction, you have no idea. Seriously, the exchange rates are so much worse at the airport. I had paid $401 for 300 Euros, so that's the baseline figure. When I traded those 300 Euros for GBPs, I got 160 GBPs. A GBP is approx. $1.80. So, I got $288 worth of GBPs. That means my stupidity cost me (not the client, me - I can't in good conscience charge that to the client; what I should have done was just kept the Euros and returned them all at the end of the trip, then bought some GBPs or just gone to an ATM when I got here. Fuck me.) $113. That can't be right. Somebody PLEASE fix my math, because that's ridonkulous.

Walked around for about 2 hours today taking pictures. Honestly, I doubt a single one will turn out good. I was so tired I didn't even know what I was looking at. But at least I can prove I was here. Though I did not get a picture of the most scandalous moment of my wandering - seeing some dude pull his girlfriend close for a little PDA in the middle of a busy (pedestrian) street and somehow untie her skirt. It went down. I was right there. She wasn't very attractive, but it was the first time I'd seen that part of a woman up close in a while. Tracey, please come back and get me.

Really, I'm Going, I Swear

Eventually. My flight has apparently been delayed 2 hours because of "Thunderstorms in the London area." Huh? First of all, we're not supposed to be in the London area until 10 hours from now. Second of all, WTF? If flights were delayed every time it rained in London, nobody would ever get there. So I'm struggling with whether to ride out the extra 2 hours in the office or go home and take a nap.

Here's why I'm a dumbass. I knew I was going to London tonight, so last week I asked my secretary to arrange with the accounting department here to get me some Euros for the trip. She arranged, they got, and I received them yesterday. Which is great. Except that they don't use Euros in the UK. So I have exactly 300 Euros, and exactly zero GBPs. Yes, I'm the jackass who is going to have to find the currency exchange place at the airport tonight to trade in one foreign currency for another, and eat the commission. Beatdown.

Recka'nize!

Finally, the courts have taken judicial notice that Pimpin' Ain't Eazy. Thanks to How Appealing, as always. Have a good rest of the week kids.

Parting Gift

Yes, yes. I'm parting, but you all get the gift. What I'm pasting below was inspired by my actual experiences with the various mens' restrooms here at my office. I admit to being a bit of a public restroom-o-phobe. I'm a guy - I can pee anywhere. But when nature calls for a serious discussion, I would rather be at home than anywhere else. Home shitter advantage is, I dare say, more important to me than the home bed advantage that invariably makes a lovin' session go more smoothly at one's own place than on the road.

As some of you might have gathered, however, I'm in my office for such ridiculous percentages of the day that waiting to get home just isn't an option at this point in my life (as it was all through elementary, junior high, and high school - never once, I swear!). Having had to accept that the stalls here are, in a sense, my home, I foolishly expect everyone else who shares them with me to live up to my exacting standards. You know, those of human beings. I mean come on - it's a law firm, not a prison, right? Alas, it is not to be. Below, the result of my shock and awe. I truly wanted to send it as a firmwide email. I thought better of it. But now, I hope I've found a more receptive audience. Enjoy would be the wrong word, but read, and react as you will:

How?

An Open Letter to the Men of [LiAps's Place of Employment]

Having been a fixture in this place myself
for years numbering almost four
Having been based on four different floors
in those four years
Having had to accept the reality that, like it or not
this place is my home away from home
One question burns within me
like so many chicken mole enchiladas

I have seen it, with mine own eyes
time and again, on 16, 17, 18, 20
It does not compute, I cannot make sense
What am I missing? I hunger for the truth
Please, an explanation is all I seek
for I cannot, for the life of me figure it out
Tell me, men: attorneys, staff, visitors if need be
How do you shit on the seat?

Pee on the seat? I understand
I neither condone nor approve, but understand, yes
When peeing is my sole purpose for a bathroom visit
I choose the urinal, invariably
Nevertheless, were I to enter a stall, and fail to lift the seat
Not that I would, but if, a few stray drops would not shock me
But knowing what I do about the human body I cannot fathom
How do you shit on the seat?

Do you hover above, without touching ass to plastic
like many a woman in a public restroom?
If so, why?
Are our seats not clean enough for you?
Not well maintained by the dedicated janitorial staff?
Such that you hesitate to sit, even on a protective layer of tp
If so, I understand the inclination
Perhaps you, too, have seen the shit on the seat

Does your ass point upward
like an anti-aircraft machine gun?
If so, I apologize
I mean no disrespect to the physically challenged
But a request, my upward ass-pointing friends
And I pledge to seek the cooperation of Office Services
Could you hang upside down, from a beam to be installed
so your peculiar excretory trajectory does not result
in shit on the seat

Many thanks.


Have fun everybody. If possible, I'll blog from London. Yeah, I just want to say I blogged internationally. I'm a loser.