I've got a 12:20 PM flight to St. Louis on Monday, kids. This could potentially be the best business trip of all time (the Cardinals are in town and just three hours away, my A's take on the Royals...oh, how I still remember the smug look on Storm Davis' face when he left Oakland for K.C. in 1990). Conversely, it could be the worst business trip of all time (something called "t-storms" are forecasted for the whole week. Of course, we don't get "T's" or "storms" in San Diego, so I'm hoping my rental car comes equipped with "t-storm tires" or something.
Anyways, enjoy some encore business trip Bootleg from November 11, 2005. See y'all on Friday!
Now, as I've mentioned before in these non-music intros that always irritate my eight editors…I don't like to fly. It's not one of those irrational fears, like Andre the Giant's fear of snakes (although I'm told I struck several similar poses at the airport prior to my 6:30 AM flight out of San Diego on November 1).
This time it began at check-in. It seems there's a handling fee for any excessively heavy baggage and the diminutive Indian man in front of me was clogging up the front counter by taking out one or two items at a time, then having the ONE check-in clerk working that morning weigh his bag again until it was light enough.
Once Apu was finally through (oh, come on…doesn't that read better than "diminutive Indian man"?), I checked my bags and made my way to security. I've got about 10 minutes to make my flight and this time, it's a middle-aged manatee in front of me who's bending over to peel off her hot pink high heels.
Think a pregnant Peggy Bundy…in her 12th trimester.
Well, she must've felt hundreds of imaginary eyes admiring her yak-like backside, because she suddenly stood up and turned away from me…while the cup of Starbucks in her hand slipped from her manly grasp and fell to the floor.
And, yes, her French roast found my left foot (with my shoes already off) leaving my once white sock looking like it had been through three rounds of New Orleans hopscotch.
With my five newly bold n' robust toes, I made my flight with, literally, a minute to spare. And, damned if the little Indian man from the check-in counter isn't in front of me again. Jesus Christ, has God just run out of day players in the story of my life?
But, on the plus side, it's not like he's sitting next to…Son of a bitch!
We actually flew into Manchester, New Hampshire and arrived at about 4:45 PM local time. When we landed, the sun was just starting to set and the weather was announced on the plane as "partly sunny and 69 degrees". Quite the November New England surprise, since apart from the "partly", this is pretty much San Diego's five-day forecast forever.
Ah, but not unlike the dark side of the moon, once the sun does go down, temperatures in the high 60s are nowhere to be found. Seriously, by the time I'd been through baggage claim and on the road in my rental car, the airport's outdoor digital display read: 5:15 PM…49 F.
A 20 degree drop in 30 minutes? Hell, Chris O'Donnell stayed hotter longer.
Now, I know that Blair Witch references are as played out as comic bits at Chris O'Donnell's expense, but I can't think of any other way to describe the nighttime New Hampshire scenery. Everything is trees n' swirling leaves, without any man-made blights like an occasional freakin' streetlight to keep me from maiming the random wandering moose.
Of course, I got lost on my way to the hotel in Nashua, NH, as apparently the controversial and divisive "street signs" initiative failed to find 50% of the voter's support. Just a hint, New Hampshire…they help.
After lingering in the hotel bar with m'man Maker's Mark, Tuesday melted away into Wednesday. My co-workers and I spent the next 10 hours getting yelled at in an unintelligible accent by our East Coast customers, then made the 45 minute drive into…Boston.
Actually, it wasn't that bad. The race riots have seemingly quieted down in recent weeks (years?) and due to the success n' popularity of the city's decades-old "busing Blacks in" program, there were actually one or two bars where I wasn't the only African-American on hand. No…wait…upon further review, it appears those two bars were just showing the Celtics game.
Man, those plasma screen pictures are realistic.
On, Thursday, That Bootleg Guy hooked up wif (sic) the King of CT and author of Nick'a Please, then flew outta Hartford early Friday morning.