* The following is 100% true...
I say an “unlikely” affair because I’ve been doomed to serve a prison sentence of roughly thirty months for some ten months. I’ve filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy, I have a merely dead-end job, and I’m a recovering painkiller addict. Actually the addiction issue may have been to my advantage, for it led me to the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, where I met the other half of this story. Her name is Laine*. (Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent.)
Now I’d been warned, and intrinsically known, that women in AA are a little crazier than your average ladies. In my situation, however, I was in no position to be picky. Besides, I have a personal credo: “Everybody is crazy---the only questions are subject and severity.” Seems reasonable enough for the purposes of rationalizing an ill-advised dalliance for me. And nobody died here anyway, despite blood ending up all over a hotel room and three bottles of potent psychiatric meds, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was in a halfway house for five months after I completed a month in an addiction rehab facility. During this time I was completely sober, and also more or less downtrodden by the prospects of my immediate future, given the prison sentence hanging over my head and my financial situation. As a single man there is always the prospect of a new lover on the horizon, regardless of how delusional the thought may be. It keeps a man going. The AA meetings up the road provided the main hope for me. Laine.
She was a sophisticated-looking girl---like a taller, slightly older version of Kirsten Dunst, I’d say. Great skin, hair, and incredible blue-green eyes. Some might say “crazy eyes”, but again, what did I care? I used to gaze at her during meetings with longing, imagining how great it would be to get with her. She was very intelligent, and while seemingly dismissive of me, I would later learn that this was merely her social anxiety getting the best of her.
After many weeks, I finally got her number and we eventually met for coffee one evening prior to an AA meeting. It was exciting to have this beauty in my midst “in real life”, and it seemed the feeling was mutual. I told her right away that I was an open book, and explained that I’m most likely going to do a prison term in the near future. Much to my surprise, she seemed cool with this---probably because she detailed detrimental issues of her own such as severe depression. For at least the time being, we were a match.
Ominous Beginnings
Besides our initial meet-up being shortened by horrific rain-hampered traffic, the launch of our romance was hampered by a tragedy. (The story of my past year: any good thing will most certainly include a caveat.) Laine had a “sidekick” named Elise who battled a heroin addiction that led her in and out of jails and general torment. My girl took her under her wing; advising her and carting her around to various AA meetings. They were grand pals, and Elise was an absolute delight. I had the privilege of talking to her one time after a meeting, and she was just a bright light. In the brief time we spoke she mentioned that she had seen three friends die from Heroin in the past year. “Well, thank god you’re in the right place now; surrounded by those who can help you.”, I counseled. Not two days later I get a call...
It’s Laine, in tears. “My psychic is dead.”
Laine didn’t always enunciate clearly, in addition to speaking somewhat rapidly.
“What? Your psychic is dead?”
I must admit that my ridiculous sense of humor got the best of me here, not that I spoke it aloud, mind you. It occurred to me to say: “It’s OK, baby---your psychic knew she was going to die today; she was prepared.”
“No, Elise---my sidekick!”, she wept.
I was stunned, not to mention alarmed at how real this addiction disease can be. Fuck. I comforted Laine all I could before she had to go, but no matter what, a somewhat awkward relationship just got weirder.
Oddly, we quickly found ourselves in enviable positions: I had a lady I really liked who needed a lot of comforting, and Laine had a nice guy to hold her hand and help her make sense of the tragedy. Certainly a way to bond very quickly, for sure. And we did. Nine days after Elise’s death I found myself at Laine’s side at a packed memorial service, and then at a gathering at the home of the parents of the deceased. I was happy to be there for her, and frankly the whole relationship was a welcome respite from a year of mostly gloom for me. You could say we propped each other up, which was nice.
Christmas was just eight days away, and our doomed relationship continued on fast-forward right on through that, (despite my allergies to her dog and two cats.) We texted many times a day and reveled in sharing so many intellectual interests. Two fucked-up psyches just careening ahead as if tomorrow was no issue at all. I tried to keep my emotions on an even keel, but those eyes and that mind made this very difficult, to say the least. As did a trip to meet her parents at Christmas dinner.
Next thing we knew it was New Year’s Eve. Sober. I had over six months without a drop by then, and Laine had over five. About this we were restless and discontent for a portion of the evening. Truth be told, we were conniving to break our sobriety at one point, but sober heads eventually prevailed. We ended up spending the night at my place, watching a Webcast of Phish’s concert live from Madison Square Garden, much to my delight, and she liked it too. I expected Laine to make it two nights sleeping over, (she had brought her dog over, after all), but she had other ideas. I later learned that this was the beginning of her inevitable withdrawal from us, which would quickly blast to the forefront.
“And if you happen to see my dignity...”
The next time we shared time was Tuesday, January 3, after I received a fateful text: “Hey. Interested in some hotel sex?” Um...yes. Yes I was.
She filled me in on which hotel, and I assumed she was using a room comp solely for the two of us to hook up near her place with no pet dander as an obstacle. What a sweetheart! I finished the workday with a pep in my step, and settled in for a nap, for it was going to be a long night. When I awoke I was greeted with a text message that made my heart sink...
“I need to be honest and tell you I’ve been drinking all day. I understand if you don’t want to see me this way, but I wanted to warn you.”
Enter that gut feeling. The one that’s telling you to not do something. I’ve learned that this is my higher power communicating with me, but of course I can rationalize it away at will, and this time was no exception.
“I understand if you don’t want to see me this way...” Oh, I want to see you that way. I want to see you bent over the bathroom counter. To see you laid out on the chaise lounge. To see the “happy drunk” that you were proud of being back when you drank. Besides, I have maybe three weeks before I go to prison anyway, whereupon I’ll have over two years to be sober. Fuck yes, I want to see you this way, and I’m going to be a real sport about it and get drunk with you!
It also occurred to me that if my ass wasn’t going to meet her in that fancy hotel bar, some other bastard would be---probably even some random salesman already there. (I said as much on the phone after I got her text, but she halfheartedly said: “I wouldn’t do that.” No, of course you’d simply lay in bed and surf the web to take your mind off the self-loathing that accompanies a relapse, right? But I digress.) So off I went, honestly with a knot in my stomach because I was damned proud of my sobriety, but in greater need of a “last hurrah.” Get my kicks while I still can.
So after stopping for a half-pint of Jack, (hello, low tolerance!), I entered the swank hotel bar. Predictably enough, Laine was next to an attractive middle-aged businessman, happily chatting away. She lit up when she saw me and rose to give me a big hug, much to that poor bastard’s chagrin. He figured it she was too good to be true, and most certainly heard the needle scratch across his evening’s record. Anyway, Laine looked tremendous, and was in fact a very happy drunk. We drank away and studiously avoided discussing the elephant in the room that was our blown sobriety. At least mine, anyway.
She admitted that she’d faltered numerous times lately, but had neglected to tell me. She planned on this being her final bender though, hence the fancy hotel room. (This intention would prove to hasten the end of “us”, but that comes a little later.) Soon enough we found ourselves in her posh room, and I insisted on sharing a shower right away because that’s great foreplay and things were about to get dirty. And did they ever...
Upon exiting the shower, Laine managed to knock over a champagne flute. It broke on the bathroom counter and the stem proceeded to land directly on top of her foot, square on a vein. Right after I said: “buzzkill”, and saw a quick pool of dark blood, I declared “Welp, we need to go to the hospital.” It was then that I met belligerent, stubborn drunk Laine.
She was convinced, or more like hoping against hope, that she had merely a surface would that would stop bleeding soon enough. She wrapped her foot with a towel and a belt from a bathrobe and dragged my out to the bed. After a half-hearted attempt to resume our conjugal visit, she finally rolled over to reveal blood pretty much everywhere. The towel was soaked through, the sheets were riddled, and blood was running up her leg. She then had the wisdom to wander around the room, leaving blood tracks all over the carpet. This gig was up, although it took still a while longer for her to admit it.
Eventually back into the bathroom she went, placing her butt in the bathtub with her foot elevated as I tried to reason with her. She wasn’t hearing logic yet, however, and even launched into some especially pathetic bravado: “I’m a Randall, goddammit! We are tough, and we don’t give up over some pussy shit like this!” As things deteriorated into resembling a Dexter kill scene, she thankfully relented and called for an ambulance. After she made the call, she asked for her bottle of champagne, which I gladly went to fetch. “And if you happen to see my dignity”, she called, “will you bring that in too please?”
“I Love You!”
Before the stretcher left we were still unable to locate her ID. This worked in my favor because I was still a bit peeved about having to put up with her ridiculousness for the past hour. Not to mention the Michigan - Va Tech Sugar Bowl was coming down to the wire. I told her I’d meet her at the emergency room in a few minutes and off she went. I settled in to watch the end of the game and enjoy a drink and cigarette since she’s blown the $200 fine for smoking already anyway.
Security arrived and took photos of the scene while I enjoyed the game and one of them was curious:
“What relationship are you to the guest?”, he asked.
“We’re dating”, I replied.
“You’re dating, but you’re sitting here watching the game while she’s going to the hospital?”, he mused.
“Brother”, I began, “if you had spent the last hour trying to corral this cat and listening to her run her mouth in the face of logic, you’d be doing the exact same thing.”
I think he saw things my way, not that I gave two shits what he thought at that point. All I knew was that my bright idea of coming up here for a night of huge rewards had been cut comically, pathetically short. Deep down I knew I deserved it, but that only made me feel worse.
I scooted over to the nearby emergency room to find my girl in a wheelchair, sporting a silly grin. She really was a happy drunk after all---or a complete lunatic. A minute or two later I was leaning towards the latter, when she looked at me all earnest-like and blurted: “I love you!”, followed by a trailing, “did I just say that?”
Before I could respond, she reiterated: “No---yeah. I love you!”
I paused and allowed: “Honey, I really like hanging out with you too, but that’s not a word I throw around lightly. I’ve only told two girls that in my whole life.”
“Yeah, I don’t tell people that much, either.”, she responded.
“Tell you what: we’ll see if you still say that in the morning, and then we’ll talk about it, OK?’
“OK!”, she said, happily. Then of course we kissed or something. She really was hopelessly cute, even in this condition. Tough for a man to resist. Knowing better at the time, I was sucked just that much further into this doomed relationship. Then things got weird.
We finally ended in a treatment room, where Laine intermittently fought with her IV input, and had other bursts of being a pain in the ass. Happily, however, she was polite to the help and reasonable most of the time. At one point as we were waiting she casually said: “I should’ve just gone ahead and killed myself.”
“Um, what?”, I asked, not entirely surprised.
“I brought a knife and a bunch of psyche meds with me to the room today, and I was really thinking about doing it until I texted you.” (That’s me: saver of lives!)
I tried to be casual. “I don’t think you should do that. You have an a ton going for you, and besides, I’d miss you horribly.”
She showed me a stern look and threatened: “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll kill you! They’ll put me back in the psche ward, and I do not want to go back there!”
I promised her I wouldn’t tell, but at the same time began thinking back to determine how nuts she might be. She had mentioned a bout with depression that included being institutionalized in the past, but she had assured me that was yesterday’s news. She had made passing references to her pain not being worth it recently, but nothing beyond what a normal grieving person might say.
Beyond her ill-advised “GONZO” tattoo, complete with a goth cross she had applied six years back there was nothing to indicate she was suicidal. I knew she wasn’t bluffing about the pills, however, because I saw three bottles worth as I was looking for her ID in the room, but I didn’t think anything of them at the time. Ultimately I decided to pay close attention to what she said from here on out on the matter, but let the current incident slide. (No other warning signs would surface.)
“I won’t tell anyone,” I assured her. “And please, for gods sakes, don’t kill yourself.”
“I won’t. At least until you’re gone, anyway.”
I greeted that with a sideways frown, which drew a grin from her. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.
A frumpy nurse eventually came in, aiming to put a stitch and a pressure pack on Laine’s puncture wound. The three of us waited five minutes for the doctor talking on his cell in the hallway to finally come in to assess and instruct, but it seemed like an hour. The procedure was finally done, and the patient took it like a champ. She even relished watching it happen, which I’ll never quite understand. Soon enough we were heading back to the hotel.
Picking Up The Pieces
Seriously, the room looked like a murder scene. There were piles of bloody tiles, and thick dried blood, now brownish, here and there all over the bathroom. And the hotel staff didn’t exactly have the sheets changed while we gone, either. This didn’t exactly deter us, however, as we made a halfhearted attempt to rekindle our lost romantic evening. The fact was we were drained both mentally physically and mentally at this point, not to mention on the back end of a good alcohol buzz. Somehow Laine never complained about her foot hurting though, much to my amazement.
Sleep didn’t come easily for me, and I wish I had fallen off the wagon for xanax as well as alcohol by the time dawn rolled around. I had come prepared to start my courier job in the morning, but the first order of business was to go get some crutches. I found some at a nearby drug store, but only discovered one can rent them instead later. Good to know for future reference anyway.
As a final insult to our best-laid plans for a fancy hotel night, there was an enormous crane blocking the front driveway, so we had to walk a decent distance to get to our cars, even with the valet service. We went to Laine’s apartment, where I set her up with an ice pack and all that jazz. We sat around having a smoke, (she smokes inside, of course), and had hungover conversation. Then it happened again...
“I still love you.”, she said, grinning.
“Aww, that’s sweeet!”, I replied, invoking a redneck accent.
I then reiterated that I don’t use that term lightly, but if she played her cards right...
The way this our relationship turned out, I would hate to ever learn how she’d act if she merely liked me! In any event, I headed off to start a work day of exhaustion.
Our phone contact continued as normal over the next couple of days, and she managed to get around well enough on her crutches as her foot felt better pretty quickly. I ended up back at her place Friday night, whereupon I informed her that my next court date was going to be as early as two weeks, maybe three. She knew “court date” in fact meant the day when I get taken away for as long as three years. I had been operating on the assumption that I would be taking off sometime in February, but as I put it now “shit’s got real.”
She was obviously taken aback, but showed no real emotion otherwise. I could see things had changed for her right then and there, though, and I certainly couldn’t blame her. The fact that a cool girl fifteen years my junior hung out with me as long as she did under the circumstances was a goddamn miracle, not to mention a blessing. Chick had to be, well...crazy! Anyway, Laine didn’t make any declarations on the spot, and I didn’t ask. She would need to process the info in her own way, and that was fine. For the moment, anyway.
Shattering Different Pieces
We were back on the AA wagon at this point, so we hit up a good speaker meeting and then ended up back at her place again. Now Laine isn’t the most affectionate girl I’ve ever met. This is actually kind of refreshing---she’s a lot like a dude in this respect. She certainly has her moments, but she’s really not needy in that way at all. This time was clearly different though---to the point that I came right out and asked her if she even wanted me to be there. She said that she did, but showed nothing to back this up. There was no real tension though---we hang out quite well together---and a killer Gorillaz show was on Palladia, so I stuck around. She’s the type that would tell me to beat it if that’s what she wanted anyway.
Eventually took my leave, but not before I snagged Season 1 of Arrested Development, a Kevin Smith monologue DVD, and the movie Digby Goes Down. (It honestly didn’t occur to me at the time that these would end up being parting gifts, but that’s how it turned out.) We had a long, sad, affectionate hug as I left, and honestly I could’ve broken down right then and there. Maybe I even should have. Although intellectually I didn’t think this was really the end, my heart knew otherwise.
My drive home found my iPod shuffle bringing up most appropriate songs, most notably Yo La Tengo’s Daphnia, which might as well have been written for my feelings that exact moment. Laine and I exchanged texts regarding appropriate songs during the whole ride, and as she pointed out we could’ve done that forever. After I mention that The Stones’ When The Whip Comes Down came on, she responded with simply: “Fuck.” Fuck, indeed.
The morning found me compelled to write her a long Facebook message making a case why we should hang out until the end. My view was we could either celebrate the time we have left, or we can treat it like a funeral. Turns out Laine, being newly dedicated to her sobriety, was interested in cutting her losses, but couldn’t manage to say as much. I can’t really blame her, but communication would’ve been nice. Maybe she was afraid I’d talk her out of it, who knows? IN any event, chalk up yet another nasty unforeseen consequence of my being busted for dealing drugs.
A suggestion that Laine come spend the night was shot down, and after an attempt to rendezvous for a Buddhist meditation ceremony in the morning didn’t work out for various reasons, responses from her ceased entirely. Mid-afternoon the next day I finally sent her a text: “Are you OK?” After all, a girl who told me she was both suicidal and loved me days earlier had seemingly disappeared. This was met with a cold, dismissive response to which I responded with words I regret, but were probably accurate just the same. Suffice it to say, that was that, and I haven’t heard from her since.
I guess being treated rudely is the quickest way to get over someone, so I’ve got that going for me. On the other hand, I do feel bad for Laine. She had mentioned how foreign actually dealing with her feelings was now that she wasn’t simply medicating with alcohol and whatever else, bless her heart. “Feelings!”, she exclaimed. “What am I supposed to do with these?” A damned good question, dear. A damned good question. Something tells me where I’m spending the next couple of years or so no one gives a rat’s ass.
What I do know is Laine brought me affirmation when I needed it desperately. She gave my mind a respite from a most trying circumstance, if only for a little while. For this I will always be grateful, no matter how it ended up. Not to mention the story fodder. And wait until I write the song---heaven knows I’m going to have the time!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Christmas in a Cloud
I’ve been having a most notable tough time with life lately. In April of 2011 I was arrested on a number of drug charges, the most serious, (and unshakable), being MDMA trafficking. For this offense I will being doing time in the North Carolina penal system, starting in late January and ending as much as three years later. This turn of events has left me completely broke, filing Chapter 7 bankruptcy, and living the absolute definition of paycheck to paycheck. The prospect of doing prison time in the very near future is daunting, but oddly enough, this somehow isn’t even the inspiration for the title of this blog entry.
Nor is the fact that I was unable to afford to take off work and drive ten hours to see relatives who would be happy to have me for the Holidays. I honestly couldn’t afford the gas for my car, not to mention not push it further towards impending repairs. I also have a strained relationship with my Father, whom I might also have visited just over two hours away. No, even these things don’t contribute to this blog title, even though it would obviously fit. The “cloud” to which I refer in this case is of cigarette smoke, of all things, and how I ended up spending my Christmas.
Despite my current woes and station in life, I somehow managed to recently land a girlfriend. Her name is Laine. While she is certifiably nuts and a relapsing alcoholic, she was also extremely intelligent, pretty, and has a lot going for her, but I digress. The death of a dear friend of hers merely days after our first date served as an instant bonding mechanism for the two of us, as I gladly provided a shoulder on which Laine could cry. This certainly fast-tracked our relationship, and when it became clear that I planned to pretend Christmas was just another day, she reciprocated my caring ways and offered me to join her family on Jesus’ birthday.
We cleared up the whole: “wow, you must be some desperate freak to latch onto me like this three weeks into dating” thing quickly. We agreed that it was merely odd timing and convenience that would lead us to share this “sacred” day, not that we were careening towards a wedding engagement or anything anyway. (When you are recovering substance abusers, things like this stop seeming odd anyway.) In other words, I wasn’t interested to meet her parents to learn where my soul mate came from or anything, I was more down with spending time with her and eating prime rib instead of sitting around in the halfway house. Not to mention I’m pretty social and enjoy trying to charm people in somewhat bizarre situations. She was just happy to have me as a buffer between her alcoholic mother, in addition to an excuse to leave when she wished. And she enjoyed being with me as well.
So off we went on a rainy Christmas day to a nearby Atlanta suburb. I had a cheesy seasonal floral arrangement I’d picked up because it’s just bad form for an interloper to arrive for an occasion as this empty-handed. Now Laine is a sophisticated girl---just has that air about her. She has a masters degree from a top-notch university and a great job in the computer world. In addition, she attended high school in one of the wealthier areas of Atlanta. This place I once considered to be an example of the “refining of the gene pool”, but that’s another story. Laine also mentioned her father was extremely intelligent and flew helicopters, and these are not normally poor-man’s attributes. Suffice it to say, I expected to encounter an upper-middle class environment for this dinner, but it didn’t quite end up that way.
Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying these people were living in a trailer park. They were actually on par with my Dad’s side of the family as far as social status, but that’s not even the point. I guess I’m just spoiled with where I’ve been Christmas-ing for most of my life, and as I’ve explained, all signed pointed to something other than a 1,700 sq. ft. house in serious need of interior renovations. I was exceedingly grateful to be there and will always be thankful to Laine for taking me, but it just threw me for a loop---almost as much as Laine’s Mother’s rose-colored glasses. Literally. I still can’t figure out that fashion choice, and neither could her daughter, for that matter. But that wasn’t even the weird part---I had entered a time warp, Mad Men style.
So there were five of us on hand: the nuclear family including Laine’s older brother, and me. I was greeted warmly, but it was just awkward because, a) I couldn’t drink, and b) this gathering was in desperate need of social lubrication. I can usually light up any social engagement, as I’m basically a talk-show host when I put my mind to it. This time, however, I was a bit gun-shy, as my current story is not exactly a springboard from which I’d like to launch. “Me? Oh, I’m recovering from substance abuse issues, working a dead-end service job, living in a halfway house, waiting for my prison sentence to be handed down. Thanks for asking!” So I’m hanging back, keeping answers brief, and looking for a better place to steer things. Laine’s parents were friendly enough, and I got good vibes from them, but they deferred mostly to the bane of my existence: the poor conversationalist. In this case, their son Brad...
At least Brad offered a firm handshake and managed at least a tinge of eye contact when we met before almost entirely disregarding me. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to be venter of attention, but I do need to be in a conversation that might tend to general interests instead of inane stories about the behavior of a dog, etc. Brad was a classic case of a guy with nothing notable to say, but who dominates the conversation anyway. I would try to indulge him when he got near something interesting, but inevitably we would get back to tedium. Did I mention that I couldn’t drink? It was brutal---especially because I could tell Laine’s parents would be a fun chat, but that was impossible with this guy in the room. Thankfully other things were interesting though, in a physical way.
Smoking. Indoors! Unbeknownst to me, Mom had a butt going elsewhere in the kitchen around the time we got there, which is, well...whatever. The crazy thing was soon enough not one of them, but everyone had a butt going, right there at the kitchen table. I hadn’t seen this sort of behavior since---hell, since 1975 at my Grandma’s house. I too wanted a cigarette, but I honestly didn’t want to add to the cloud in the room, so I went outside. It all reminded me of taking a train trip in Europe, when oddly I needed my own cig lit to make the second-hand smoke more bearable. I had no idea people still smoked indoors to this extent, hence the impetus for this blog title.
The real kicker was after our delicious meal, (at which the homemade rolls were downright delectable, I might add), out came an ashtray, and butts were lit by everyone, right there at the table. It was then that I noticed a small faux dogwood try nearby, complete with white blooms---except they were yellow from who knows how many years of nicotine floating through the air. Nothing short of a trip through a time warp, I tell ya.
After the meal was gift exchange time, and the family repaired to the living room for gift exchange while I grabbed a nap on the recliner in the family room. Everyone re-convened in the kitchen for more cigarettes and conversation in the kitchen. I felt guilty about not rejoining the gathering, but a poor conversationalist produces a force-field that I am unable to penetrate, even if it makes things awkward. Eventually, thankfully, Brad took his leave, and I was back in the mix, if only briefly. I have a feeling the damage was done, however, and Laine’s parents saw me as some sort of anti-social weirdo, or worse, the judgmental fuck that I am.
I guess things ended on a cordial enough note, though, and apparently I was a damn sight better than the last guy Laine brought through there, who failed to make eye contact with anyone and literally nodded off at the table. Dad wouldn’t even address him, so I may have been off the hook for being a snob. I would enjoy going back there sometime because frankly, if those folks produced someone as cool as Laine, I am intrigued at the thought of getting to know them a lot better. Alas, if that day ever comes, it’s probably going to be at least two Christmases from now, because my ass is going up the river for a while. In the meantime Im just glad to have spent a Christmas in a Cloud.
Nor is the fact that I was unable to afford to take off work and drive ten hours to see relatives who would be happy to have me for the Holidays. I honestly couldn’t afford the gas for my car, not to mention not push it further towards impending repairs. I also have a strained relationship with my Father, whom I might also have visited just over two hours away. No, even these things don’t contribute to this blog title, even though it would obviously fit. The “cloud” to which I refer in this case is of cigarette smoke, of all things, and how I ended up spending my Christmas.
Despite my current woes and station in life, I somehow managed to recently land a girlfriend. Her name is Laine. While she is certifiably nuts and a relapsing alcoholic, she was also extremely intelligent, pretty, and has a lot going for her, but I digress. The death of a dear friend of hers merely days after our first date served as an instant bonding mechanism for the two of us, as I gladly provided a shoulder on which Laine could cry. This certainly fast-tracked our relationship, and when it became clear that I planned to pretend Christmas was just another day, she reciprocated my caring ways and offered me to join her family on Jesus’ birthday.
We cleared up the whole: “wow, you must be some desperate freak to latch onto me like this three weeks into dating” thing quickly. We agreed that it was merely odd timing and convenience that would lead us to share this “sacred” day, not that we were careening towards a wedding engagement or anything anyway. (When you are recovering substance abusers, things like this stop seeming odd anyway.) In other words, I wasn’t interested to meet her parents to learn where my soul mate came from or anything, I was more down with spending time with her and eating prime rib instead of sitting around in the halfway house. Not to mention I’m pretty social and enjoy trying to charm people in somewhat bizarre situations. She was just happy to have me as a buffer between her alcoholic mother, in addition to an excuse to leave when she wished. And she enjoyed being with me as well.
So off we went on a rainy Christmas day to a nearby Atlanta suburb. I had a cheesy seasonal floral arrangement I’d picked up because it’s just bad form for an interloper to arrive for an occasion as this empty-handed. Now Laine is a sophisticated girl---just has that air about her. She has a masters degree from a top-notch university and a great job in the computer world. In addition, she attended high school in one of the wealthier areas of Atlanta. This place I once considered to be an example of the “refining of the gene pool”, but that’s another story. Laine also mentioned her father was extremely intelligent and flew helicopters, and these are not normally poor-man’s attributes. Suffice it to say, I expected to encounter an upper-middle class environment for this dinner, but it didn’t quite end up that way.
Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying these people were living in a trailer park. They were actually on par with my Dad’s side of the family as far as social status, but that’s not even the point. I guess I’m just spoiled with where I’ve been Christmas-ing for most of my life, and as I’ve explained, all signed pointed to something other than a 1,700 sq. ft. house in serious need of interior renovations. I was exceedingly grateful to be there and will always be thankful to Laine for taking me, but it just threw me for a loop---almost as much as Laine’s Mother’s rose-colored glasses. Literally. I still can’t figure out that fashion choice, and neither could her daughter, for that matter. But that wasn’t even the weird part---I had entered a time warp, Mad Men style.
So there were five of us on hand: the nuclear family including Laine’s older brother, and me. I was greeted warmly, but it was just awkward because, a) I couldn’t drink, and b) this gathering was in desperate need of social lubrication. I can usually light up any social engagement, as I’m basically a talk-show host when I put my mind to it. This time, however, I was a bit gun-shy, as my current story is not exactly a springboard from which I’d like to launch. “Me? Oh, I’m recovering from substance abuse issues, working a dead-end service job, living in a halfway house, waiting for my prison sentence to be handed down. Thanks for asking!” So I’m hanging back, keeping answers brief, and looking for a better place to steer things. Laine’s parents were friendly enough, and I got good vibes from them, but they deferred mostly to the bane of my existence: the poor conversationalist. In this case, their son Brad...
At least Brad offered a firm handshake and managed at least a tinge of eye contact when we met before almost entirely disregarding me. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to be venter of attention, but I do need to be in a conversation that might tend to general interests instead of inane stories about the behavior of a dog, etc. Brad was a classic case of a guy with nothing notable to say, but who dominates the conversation anyway. I would try to indulge him when he got near something interesting, but inevitably we would get back to tedium. Did I mention that I couldn’t drink? It was brutal---especially because I could tell Laine’s parents would be a fun chat, but that was impossible with this guy in the room. Thankfully other things were interesting though, in a physical way.
Smoking. Indoors! Unbeknownst to me, Mom had a butt going elsewhere in the kitchen around the time we got there, which is, well...whatever. The crazy thing was soon enough not one of them, but everyone had a butt going, right there at the kitchen table. I hadn’t seen this sort of behavior since---hell, since 1975 at my Grandma’s house. I too wanted a cigarette, but I honestly didn’t want to add to the cloud in the room, so I went outside. It all reminded me of taking a train trip in Europe, when oddly I needed my own cig lit to make the second-hand smoke more bearable. I had no idea people still smoked indoors to this extent, hence the impetus for this blog title.
The real kicker was after our delicious meal, (at which the homemade rolls were downright delectable, I might add), out came an ashtray, and butts were lit by everyone, right there at the table. It was then that I noticed a small faux dogwood try nearby, complete with white blooms---except they were yellow from who knows how many years of nicotine floating through the air. Nothing short of a trip through a time warp, I tell ya.
After the meal was gift exchange time, and the family repaired to the living room for gift exchange while I grabbed a nap on the recliner in the family room. Everyone re-convened in the kitchen for more cigarettes and conversation in the kitchen. I felt guilty about not rejoining the gathering, but a poor conversationalist produces a force-field that I am unable to penetrate, even if it makes things awkward. Eventually, thankfully, Brad took his leave, and I was back in the mix, if only briefly. I have a feeling the damage was done, however, and Laine’s parents saw me as some sort of anti-social weirdo, or worse, the judgmental fuck that I am.
I guess things ended on a cordial enough note, though, and apparently I was a damn sight better than the last guy Laine brought through there, who failed to make eye contact with anyone and literally nodded off at the table. Dad wouldn’t even address him, so I may have been off the hook for being a snob. I would enjoy going back there sometime because frankly, if those folks produced someone as cool as Laine, I am intrigued at the thought of getting to know them a lot better. Alas, if that day ever comes, it’s probably going to be at least two Christmases from now, because my ass is going up the river for a while. In the meantime Im just glad to have spent a Christmas in a Cloud.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Nonsensical Phiction
As some of you know, I was in Alabama for Christmas---Montgomery, (a/k/a “The Gump”), to be exact. You also prolly know that the heart of the South is also a hockey hotbed. Anyway, turns out my Dad used to play hockey back in the day when he lived up in New Jersey. College, club teams, the whole nine.
Little did I know that during his Jersey days, my Dad was playing side-by-side with Ernest Anastasio Jr., who is of course, Phish guitarist Trey's Dad. My Pops often told tales about how he used to throw back beers after sweaty, fight-filled games on the ice with this Ernie guy, who likewise had a redheaded son. Turns out they both were never quite sure if Ernest III (Trey), and me were in fact their children because we both had red hair, unlike anyone else in our families. But I digress, this is really neither here nor there for the purposes of this story.
As most of you know, Montgomery is host to the nation's largest Holiday hockey tournament. In fact, it's more like a homecoming for those who know the joy of simultaneously skating and knocking the shit out of people. The place is overrun with Canadians and other pale-skinned folk who think fifty-five degrees in late December is balmy. Obviously, at this gathering everyone is looking for ice time, which is somewhat scarce even though Montgomery has dozens of rinks. To skate in this situation, you must either be a really good player, be extremely well-connected, or be relatively famous. This partially explains how I very literally "ran into" the redheaded fuckface, (Trey's nickname of affection), himself on Christmas!
So anyway, the day prior to the start of the "Great American Skate-out", as the gathering is affectionately known, I was listening to a TAB show from Asheville in '99. "Will it go 'round in circles" was playing, and this of course made my Dad think about the compulsory figures portion of a figure skating competition. Pops causally looked at the CD case while going off about Scott Hamilton's perfect execution of the figure 8 at the '88 Calgary Olympics. He asked if "TAB" stood for "The Allman Brothers", (he doesn't know from jam bands), and I said no, it stood for the Trey Anastasio Band". Needless to say, my Dad immediately recognized the name and recalled his buddy Ernie telling him that he had a ne'er-do-well son who somehow found fame and fortune playing hippie music. "I'll be damned!", he exclaimed, "this must be the same guy, because this music sucks!" I was startled, yet excited. Kind of like when I caught two dogs fucking in the back yard when I was nine years old. "Wait a minute", I stammered, "this Ernie guy you always talk about has a kid named Trey and he has a band?" I couldn't believe it! I absent-mindedly grabbed a fruit cup from the fridge as the possibilities of this discovery raced in my mind.
Fast-forward to the hockey weekend's opening banquet, held at the Civic Center, which also happens to be the site of the "final" game of the tournament. I of course was the emcee, and I was happy to do about thirty minutes of stand-up to get the festivities started. I gotta admit, I was a little nervous at the beginning because I'd never played to a crowd of several thousand, but as the yuks kept coming I got more and more comfortable. But enough about me.
The night's function went off without a hitch and I must say that we all re-defined the meaning of "fanfare". I was sort of surprised that I was cheered so intensely and I certainly didn't expect to be literally carried off the floor on the shoulders of the Board of Directors. All I was thinking at the time was that I hoped Trey was somewhere in the crowd witnessing this form of hero worship. I figured if he was, when we finally met, he might see me as a peer as opposed to just another obsessive fan who posts on Phish message boards or something. But enough about me.
The evening closed with me absorbed in the sweet scent of Cristal and some fine Canadian poon, as my act apparently translates well to ladies from the Great White North. (Someone said the girl I ended up banging that night was dating NHL star Chris Chelios, but this went unconfirmed.) In any event, it was a notable conquest, although it felt oddly empty for me because I knew I that one Trey Anastasio was somewhere in my midst and I had yet to meet him. He was in the same town! Hell, for all I knew, he might've been in the next suite over!
Unfortunately, Montgomery doesn't have the best cell coverage, and my Dad was unable to reach Ernie Jr. on his phone so that we might meet up that night. Alas, I would have to wait to come in contact with Trey until the following day at the tournament team selection meeting, because his Dad and mine were both on the committee. Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that night, but enough about me.
So the next day comes, obviously not a moment too soon, and my Paw and me get to the selection room of the tournament a little early. After signing a few, (OK about twenty), autographs, I made it over to where Pops was chatting with a guy I hoped was Enrie Anastasio. As luck would have it, that turned out to be the case! Dad made the introduction and the senior Anastasio immediately started going on and on about my act. I was mindlessly answering questions I've fielded a thousand times about the origin of bits, etc., all the while casting glances about, wondering how I could tactfully just ask this guy where the fuck his son was. It was funny how it eventually happened, really, because right after the photographers from the newspapers got the shots they needed, they moved to leave. Right behind them, (he almost tripped one of them by accident), there he stood, Trey Anastasio himself! I wasn't sure it was him at first, what with the spots you get from excessive camera flashes and all, but there was no denying it. Especially when he sniffled and moved the back of his hand across his nose...
I think I mouthed the word "Fluffhead" at first, just out of habit. Trey spoke first, however, and I'll never forget what he said: "PlusSizeModel, you're a tool!" I gave him a blank look because I couldn't believe he'd asked around enough to know that I was the infamous PSM from Phantasy Tour. (editor’s note: “Phantasy Tour is home to an internet message board for fans of the band Phish. The board is affectionately known as “PT” for short.) We then both burst into laughter and started talking PT. He immediately mentioned that he was distraught that his PT alias never made it onto the A-list. (He posts there frequently, but he made me swear to never tell anyone who he is). Right after that he shook his head ruefully and intimated that PT will never be the same for him now that Phishywishy is permanently banned. "Sometimes it seems like it's all negative douchebags like dagroove420. You know, people who have never had a creative notion in their entire lives. I mean, just look at the '420' in the username..." His words tailed off and I knew it would be a good idea to change the subject. "Have you ever met Chris Chelios' girlfriend?" I asked, knowing that Trey had befriended many an NHL star...
"No, I've never even met Chris Chelios", Trey answered, "Why do you ask?" "Because I banged her last night", I replied, in a bored tone. Trey then started in about he doesn't miss "strange" at all, and that he really loves his wife and kids. At this point his words became like those coming from the adults in "Peanuts". There's nothing more tedious than a rock star talking about love and devotion to his wife. I chuckled to myself about the irony of meeting an all-time idol and then subsequently becoming bored by his babbling. Anyway, we finally talked about how George Thorogood was definitely the best guitarist ever, not to mention the top songwriter. Trey said he always wanted to cover "Bad to the Bone", but was too worried he'd be unable to do it justice. No kidding, I thought. You're great, but not that great! That turned out to be the end of the music talk---from there it was all hockey and PT. So anyway, back to the hockey tournament.
Anxious to lace up the skates were a couple hundred people in the draw to play in the tournament. Like I said, if you have some "juice", you can get one of the precious spots. Trey said it was interesting that no one around here knew who he was, yet refreshing. It was a good thing he was able to buy off the selection committee, because his celebrity was faint currency in these parts. Luckily for me, my emcee performance from the night before got me in the draw---obviously I play Right Wing. (As an aside, I couldn't pay for anything the rest of the weekend---no one would let me. Hell, the guy at the bowling alley even drilled my balls for free!)
Now, there are sixteen teams in the A-list draw, (funny, I know), and you guessed it: the redheaded fuckface and I ended up on the same team! Predictably enough, Trey likes to play Left Wing, so we shared a line, so to speak! Now Trey isn't a very big guy. Hell, I'll just say it: he looks pretty much like a girl on skates, so he was in the market for a personal "goon", which means someone to protect him from getting his ass kicked on the ice. This tournament may have been for "fun", but let's face it: hard checks happen, and sometimes teeth fly.
Now I'm 6'6", but I'm not too beefy. No one would mistake me for an "enforcer", if only because my deft maneuverability has me putting too many "biscuits in the basket" to be left doing grunt work. Trey looked at me though and would have none of it. "PlusSize", he began with a serious look, "I want you to be my goon." I tried to stay cool. I mean it's Trey-fucking-Anastasio asking me to be his, well, anything! I'm pretty greedy with the puck, so it took a lot for me to agree. "Dude, I'll do it, but only if you play Fluffhead at the awards banquet." "Done", my hero replied. Then we got baked. It was funny how the ashes got in his hair. He just laughed. I nearly spit up into my fruit cup.
So game time rolls around, and we're wearing our personal uniforms. I'm sporting my throwback Guy LaFleur jersey, (luckily the other team had to wear the vests.) Trey cracked me up when he showed up in a sweater with the likeness of Wook #17 in the place of the old Indian dude in the Blackhawks logo. His uni number was 62294, I'm not kidding.
Anyway, we start skating and I put two in the net in short order because no one is molesting Trey and I can concentrate on scoring. We soon go ahead by five goals and things turn ugly. (Most of the players on the opposing team were from Philly, so needless to say they were assholes and poor sports.) I fed Trey for a breakaway that was thisclose to being off-sides, and he bears in for the kill. The goalie comes out to lessen his angles and just keeps coming. Holy shit! He came all the way out and just chops Trey at the knees with his stick! Now both benches empty and there's a full-scale melee---gloves flying. I go make sure Trey is OK and he mutters something through bloodied lips about the goalie not being "very heady". Thanks Trey, master of the obvious!
I'm trying to help Trey up, but he's got something seriously wrong with a knee. I'll never forget what he said before he lost consciousness from the pain: "Stay gold, PlusSizeModel, stay gold!" I might've started weeping, but I got sucker-punched just below my right ear. I'm not lying, I was seeing stars after that one. And people say hockey is a non-contact sport! Wait, that's basketball. Anyway, order was restored eventually, but not before I knocked more than a few heads together to avenge my fallen hero.
It soon occurred to me that it would really suck if we were all headed for Miami again for the New Years shows, and Trey had to cancel. After all, if I hadn't had two goals and an assist on Trey's stick when he got chopped, maybe the other team wouldn't have resorted to violence to get even in a blowout. That would've been tough to live with! As things stood, I was merely spending my Christmas bedside with Trey in a VIP hospital room, (I told them he was with me), gravy-training off his painkillers. It was then that the real discussion of what he really thought of PTers began in earnest, (no pun intended). It turns out that the morphine drip became something of a truth serum for Trey, and he didn't hold back...
He started off with a smile on his face, saying how much he appreciated Paul Glace helping to spread the word of his band. I was touched when he broke it down into monetary terms: "PGlace has prolly been responsible for at least the Maybach, and possibly the Cigarette Top Gun as well, he beamed. "I remember when I didn't care about material things", he wistfully continued, "but I'll tell ya, once you get a taste of the good life..." His words tailed off, and his faced looked like he'd just had the best "happy ending" from the hottest Asian massage therapist on earth. I was a bit surprised at his attitude, but it's not like I hadn't seen this outlook from many others. After all, that's what us evil Republicans do for fun---speak highly of our conspicuous consumption!
After discussing our Country Club memberships, I filled Trey in about Residensea. It was then that Trey started talking about getting the band back together. I don't remember what he said about it, but I know that I cut him short because I didn't really care if Phish reunited or not, I wanted to talk about PT. He started off on a positive note, listing the usual favorites like Big Hungry Joe, ("Can't figure out what he sees in moe. though!"), and Swimmy, ("I don't agree with her politics, but she's a real pistol.") He also recalled passing on a chance to nail Tabooty, but I think he recognized that I have an unrequited love for her, so he quickly moved on. "That PhishJeff knows his shit, but we all thought 12.30.03 was the worst show of the run...guess he can't win 'em all!" he offered. Needless to say, I was really digging this dish. If only an asswipe like Pickles could see me now! Here I was high on liquid morphine with the reason for my favorite message board himself! Who did I blow to deserve this? But I digress. Trey continued with his thoughts on the PT crew, and it's safe to say his mood darkened considerably...
"I hate Kungserve!" he nearly yelled, "I mean, the guy is an idiot." I nodded my head in agreement as he continued: "I think it's funny how you call him 'DUNGserve', PlusSize. But then again, if I listed all the brilliant shit you put up on that board, we'd be here all day!" I then pointed out that seeing that we're looped on a potent painkiller, and he's hospitalized, we wern't exactly going anywhere anyway! Goddamn did we laugh! I mean, we laughed to the point where we're wetting our pants and massaging our cheeks because they're in pain. Kind of like when we read Treyphan420 tries to sound intelligent on a PT thread. We laughed for what seemed like an eternity. Or at least until the twin nurses who looked liked the Olsen's came into the room...
Yes, Trey may be faithful to his wife and all, but he isn't blind. Stunningly beautiful women have a way of making you forget about whatever was happening moments earlier, and that was certainly the case right then. We "sobered up" in short order and beheld the beauty in our midst. These girls were toit! Mid-twenties at the oldest and like I said, dead-ringers for the Olsen twins. They had straight blond hair up in buns, nurse-style. Now, I'm no expert on standard-issue nurse attire, but something tells me these girls had some "alterations" made to their uniforms. Let's just say the skirts ran a little higher and the necklines on their blouses ran a bit lower. I never knew nurses wore pumps either, but apparently they do this deep in the bible belt. Praise the Lord!
Billie and Bunnie were there names, and helping people mend were their games. More specifically, Bunnie took Trey's vital signs and administered the rectal thermometer, (Trey is a true redhead), and Billie prepared the sponge bath. She was so cute when I nudged her, forcing her to spill some water over her ample bosom. "Oh, you boys!" she chuckled, baby blues glistening, "that happens to me all the time!"
Right about then one of the "get well soon" balloons lost it's juice and dropped down to the floor, sort of bouncing in the process. Bunnie started laughing as she peeled off her latex gloves. "Look!" she exclaimed through full, pouty lips, "That balloon is done bouncin' around the room!" Billie started laughing hysterically and bent over in the process, affording me a clear view the bottom of her butt cheeks. The woman was a dream I had indeed! I swear to God, the left bun had a tattoo saying said "roll", and the other said "tide". My, do they take their football seriously down here!
But back to the point: I couldn't believe my ears right about now---these knockouts were Phish phans! Trey and I looked at each other, and he was able to form liquid morphine-fueled words first: "I wrote that song!" he slurred, "It's closer to my heart than The Curtain With!" Billie muttered something about "The Curtain Whaaat?", but Bunnie just got this stunned look on her face: "You're Trey from Phish?" After a few beats she was able to continue: "Well, Lord have mercy!
With Trey being the family man he is, was clearly rusty. When a guy is granted some dizzy Alabaman nurses who are star-struck, well, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do! I made a quick assessment of my surroundings and realized that there was a second bed, complete with one of those big curtains that wraps all the way around for optimum privacy. I chuckled a little, thinking about the Seinfeld episode when George saw the silhouettes of a sponge bath being administered.
Now I'm as loyal to friends as the next guy, and I really wanted to keep an intoxicated Trey in on the festivities, but in this case his role would have to be as a spectator. The extent of kicks would have to be via sounds and silhouettes. There was no doubt about it, these girls were “goers”, and clearly Trey was too looped for them to "star fuck" at this point. I, however, was a different story. Luckily I had a video copy of the previous night's banquet performance in my luxury Prada travel bag.
Now I'll say it right now: I'm no Brad Pitt, but a certain hottie making a hasty exit from Phish's final Hampton show will attest that I'm not chopped liver. I figured if I were to get this triumphant document of the previous night's comedy set, I'd be in like Flynn...Into the video player, that is. Yes, there was an entertainment center in this hospital suite. Plasma TV, high-end audio, the whole nine. Hell, there was even a hot tub, adorned with drink holders cut into imported Italian marble. But never mind the plush surroundings, there was high-end poon in pumps to be dealt with!
Now, I'm not going to sit here and pretend I'm a stud with major league connections and extreme physical prowess or anything. The morphine had made a mere mortal of me by this point. Luckily, (don't ask me why), the hospital pharmacy on site carried all manner of erection-enhancing medication. Obviously I didn't need a 72-hour hard-on at this point---Viagra would do just fine, thanks. Seeing that I didn't exactly have a Dr. Nick on hand, the next best solution to obtain the pill would have to do: good old-fashioned bribery!
I pulled Bunnie, (or was it Billie? I have no idea, nor does it matter), aside and duly greased her palm with a C-note. "Can you send an orderly downstairs to fetch a good time?" She seemed a bit startled at my inquiry. Apparently the gun-toting, dip-spitting boys around these parts didn't need erectile assistance. I tried to explain that they weren't exactly wallowing in liquid morphine either, so hook a brotha up! But I digress. Another Benjamin made Bunnie see things my way. She whispered something to Billie, who was then pulling the rectal thermometer out of Trey before skipping out of the room. Next thing I knew, Billie, (or was it Bunnie??), was at my side, asking me to tell stories about famous comics I may have met...
I said: "Bunnie, even though you are slammin', I'm really not going to sit here and drop names, that's not how I roll." After she loosened yet another button on her uniform, I reconsidered. "I've met Steve Martin, Brian Regan, Dave Attel, Chris Rock, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Sam Kinnison, Bill Hicks… Um, is that good enough?" "I've never heard of any of them." Bunny confessed. Seeing that we were indeed in Alabama, I decided to take a different tack..."I got drunk with Carrot Top once, and I once got Pauly Shore high!", I offered. Bingo! "You've met Pauly Shore?!?" Bunnie squealed, breasts nearly bursting out of her top while she jumped up and down. "Darn tootin'!" I said, "and not only that, Lenny Kravitz once boned my step sister." Now I was speaking this girl's language, and let's just say she showed her ample appreciation.
I quickly swabbed off on the pull-around curtain and peeked over at Trey. He had that look on his face. The one when he's deep into a jam, gazing at a dancing figure in a faraway portal. You know, that expression that makes Dikembe Mutombo's face look like Denzel Washington's by comparison. I couldn't figure out what he could be so into on the TV at the moment, but seeing as I had just gotten my pipes cleaned, I had an excuse for being temporarily forgetful.
Turns out he was watching the DVD of my comedy act from the night before, in a daze. I knew right then that I needed to leave, because if he was immune to my comedy, he must've been straight-up zonked! It turns out this would be the one and only time I met my hero, much to my chagrin. I tried calling his representation a few times, but apparently the hockey injury trauma wiped out his entire memory of our meeting. That's OK though---because Bunnie remembers me vividly. Or was it Bobbie?
Little did I know that during his Jersey days, my Dad was playing side-by-side with Ernest Anastasio Jr., who is of course, Phish guitarist Trey's Dad. My Pops often told tales about how he used to throw back beers after sweaty, fight-filled games on the ice with this Ernie guy, who likewise had a redheaded son. Turns out they both were never quite sure if Ernest III (Trey), and me were in fact their children because we both had red hair, unlike anyone else in our families. But I digress, this is really neither here nor there for the purposes of this story.
As most of you know, Montgomery is host to the nation's largest Holiday hockey tournament. In fact, it's more like a homecoming for those who know the joy of simultaneously skating and knocking the shit out of people. The place is overrun with Canadians and other pale-skinned folk who think fifty-five degrees in late December is balmy. Obviously, at this gathering everyone is looking for ice time, which is somewhat scarce even though Montgomery has dozens of rinks. To skate in this situation, you must either be a really good player, be extremely well-connected, or be relatively famous. This partially explains how I very literally "ran into" the redheaded fuckface, (Trey's nickname of affection), himself on Christmas!
So anyway, the day prior to the start of the "Great American Skate-out", as the gathering is affectionately known, I was listening to a TAB show from Asheville in '99. "Will it go 'round in circles" was playing, and this of course made my Dad think about the compulsory figures portion of a figure skating competition. Pops causally looked at the CD case while going off about Scott Hamilton's perfect execution of the figure 8 at the '88 Calgary Olympics. He asked if "TAB" stood for "The Allman Brothers", (he doesn't know from jam bands), and I said no, it stood for the Trey Anastasio Band". Needless to say, my Dad immediately recognized the name and recalled his buddy Ernie telling him that he had a ne'er-do-well son who somehow found fame and fortune playing hippie music. "I'll be damned!", he exclaimed, "this must be the same guy, because this music sucks!" I was startled, yet excited. Kind of like when I caught two dogs fucking in the back yard when I was nine years old. "Wait a minute", I stammered, "this Ernie guy you always talk about has a kid named Trey and he has a band?" I couldn't believe it! I absent-mindedly grabbed a fruit cup from the fridge as the possibilities of this discovery raced in my mind.
Fast-forward to the hockey weekend's opening banquet, held at the Civic Center, which also happens to be the site of the "final" game of the tournament. I of course was the emcee, and I was happy to do about thirty minutes of stand-up to get the festivities started. I gotta admit, I was a little nervous at the beginning because I'd never played to a crowd of several thousand, but as the yuks kept coming I got more and more comfortable. But enough about me.
The night's function went off without a hitch and I must say that we all re-defined the meaning of "fanfare". I was sort of surprised that I was cheered so intensely and I certainly didn't expect to be literally carried off the floor on the shoulders of the Board of Directors. All I was thinking at the time was that I hoped Trey was somewhere in the crowd witnessing this form of hero worship. I figured if he was, when we finally met, he might see me as a peer as opposed to just another obsessive fan who posts on Phish message boards or something. But enough about me.
The evening closed with me absorbed in the sweet scent of Cristal and some fine Canadian poon, as my act apparently translates well to ladies from the Great White North. (Someone said the girl I ended up banging that night was dating NHL star Chris Chelios, but this went unconfirmed.) In any event, it was a notable conquest, although it felt oddly empty for me because I knew I that one Trey Anastasio was somewhere in my midst and I had yet to meet him. He was in the same town! Hell, for all I knew, he might've been in the next suite over!
Unfortunately, Montgomery doesn't have the best cell coverage, and my Dad was unable to reach Ernie Jr. on his phone so that we might meet up that night. Alas, I would have to wait to come in contact with Trey until the following day at the tournament team selection meeting, because his Dad and mine were both on the committee. Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that night, but enough about me.
So the next day comes, obviously not a moment too soon, and my Paw and me get to the selection room of the tournament a little early. After signing a few, (OK about twenty), autographs, I made it over to where Pops was chatting with a guy I hoped was Enrie Anastasio. As luck would have it, that turned out to be the case! Dad made the introduction and the senior Anastasio immediately started going on and on about my act. I was mindlessly answering questions I've fielded a thousand times about the origin of bits, etc., all the while casting glances about, wondering how I could tactfully just ask this guy where the fuck his son was. It was funny how it eventually happened, really, because right after the photographers from the newspapers got the shots they needed, they moved to leave. Right behind them, (he almost tripped one of them by accident), there he stood, Trey Anastasio himself! I wasn't sure it was him at first, what with the spots you get from excessive camera flashes and all, but there was no denying it. Especially when he sniffled and moved the back of his hand across his nose...
I think I mouthed the word "Fluffhead" at first, just out of habit. Trey spoke first, however, and I'll never forget what he said: "PlusSizeModel, you're a tool!" I gave him a blank look because I couldn't believe he'd asked around enough to know that I was the infamous PSM from Phantasy Tour. (editor’s note: “Phantasy Tour is home to an internet message board for fans of the band Phish. The board is affectionately known as “PT” for short.) We then both burst into laughter and started talking PT. He immediately mentioned that he was distraught that his PT alias never made it onto the A-list. (He posts there frequently, but he made me swear to never tell anyone who he is). Right after that he shook his head ruefully and intimated that PT will never be the same for him now that Phishywishy is permanently banned. "Sometimes it seems like it's all negative douchebags like dagroove420. You know, people who have never had a creative notion in their entire lives. I mean, just look at the '420' in the username..." His words tailed off and I knew it would be a good idea to change the subject. "Have you ever met Chris Chelios' girlfriend?" I asked, knowing that Trey had befriended many an NHL star...
"No, I've never even met Chris Chelios", Trey answered, "Why do you ask?" "Because I banged her last night", I replied, in a bored tone. Trey then started in about he doesn't miss "strange" at all, and that he really loves his wife and kids. At this point his words became like those coming from the adults in "Peanuts". There's nothing more tedious than a rock star talking about love and devotion to his wife. I chuckled to myself about the irony of meeting an all-time idol and then subsequently becoming bored by his babbling. Anyway, we finally talked about how George Thorogood was definitely the best guitarist ever, not to mention the top songwriter. Trey said he always wanted to cover "Bad to the Bone", but was too worried he'd be unable to do it justice. No kidding, I thought. You're great, but not that great! That turned out to be the end of the music talk---from there it was all hockey and PT. So anyway, back to the hockey tournament.
Anxious to lace up the skates were a couple hundred people in the draw to play in the tournament. Like I said, if you have some "juice", you can get one of the precious spots. Trey said it was interesting that no one around here knew who he was, yet refreshing. It was a good thing he was able to buy off the selection committee, because his celebrity was faint currency in these parts. Luckily for me, my emcee performance from the night before got me in the draw---obviously I play Right Wing. (As an aside, I couldn't pay for anything the rest of the weekend---no one would let me. Hell, the guy at the bowling alley even drilled my balls for free!)
Now, there are sixteen teams in the A-list draw, (funny, I know), and you guessed it: the redheaded fuckface and I ended up on the same team! Predictably enough, Trey likes to play Left Wing, so we shared a line, so to speak! Now Trey isn't a very big guy. Hell, I'll just say it: he looks pretty much like a girl on skates, so he was in the market for a personal "goon", which means someone to protect him from getting his ass kicked on the ice. This tournament may have been for "fun", but let's face it: hard checks happen, and sometimes teeth fly.
Now I'm 6'6", but I'm not too beefy. No one would mistake me for an "enforcer", if only because my deft maneuverability has me putting too many "biscuits in the basket" to be left doing grunt work. Trey looked at me though and would have none of it. "PlusSize", he began with a serious look, "I want you to be my goon." I tried to stay cool. I mean it's Trey-fucking-Anastasio asking me to be his, well, anything! I'm pretty greedy with the puck, so it took a lot for me to agree. "Dude, I'll do it, but only if you play Fluffhead at the awards banquet." "Done", my hero replied. Then we got baked. It was funny how the ashes got in his hair. He just laughed. I nearly spit up into my fruit cup.
So game time rolls around, and we're wearing our personal uniforms. I'm sporting my throwback Guy LaFleur jersey, (luckily the other team had to wear the vests.) Trey cracked me up when he showed up in a sweater with the likeness of Wook #17 in the place of the old Indian dude in the Blackhawks logo. His uni number was 62294, I'm not kidding.
Anyway, we start skating and I put two in the net in short order because no one is molesting Trey and I can concentrate on scoring. We soon go ahead by five goals and things turn ugly. (Most of the players on the opposing team were from Philly, so needless to say they were assholes and poor sports.) I fed Trey for a breakaway that was thisclose to being off-sides, and he bears in for the kill. The goalie comes out to lessen his angles and just keeps coming. Holy shit! He came all the way out and just chops Trey at the knees with his stick! Now both benches empty and there's a full-scale melee---gloves flying. I go make sure Trey is OK and he mutters something through bloodied lips about the goalie not being "very heady". Thanks Trey, master of the obvious!
I'm trying to help Trey up, but he's got something seriously wrong with a knee. I'll never forget what he said before he lost consciousness from the pain: "Stay gold, PlusSizeModel, stay gold!" I might've started weeping, but I got sucker-punched just below my right ear. I'm not lying, I was seeing stars after that one. And people say hockey is a non-contact sport! Wait, that's basketball. Anyway, order was restored eventually, but not before I knocked more than a few heads together to avenge my fallen hero.
It soon occurred to me that it would really suck if we were all headed for Miami again for the New Years shows, and Trey had to cancel. After all, if I hadn't had two goals and an assist on Trey's stick when he got chopped, maybe the other team wouldn't have resorted to violence to get even in a blowout. That would've been tough to live with! As things stood, I was merely spending my Christmas bedside with Trey in a VIP hospital room, (I told them he was with me), gravy-training off his painkillers. It was then that the real discussion of what he really thought of PTers began in earnest, (no pun intended). It turns out that the morphine drip became something of a truth serum for Trey, and he didn't hold back...
He started off with a smile on his face, saying how much he appreciated Paul Glace helping to spread the word of his band. I was touched when he broke it down into monetary terms: "PGlace has prolly been responsible for at least the Maybach, and possibly the Cigarette Top Gun as well, he beamed. "I remember when I didn't care about material things", he wistfully continued, "but I'll tell ya, once you get a taste of the good life..." His words tailed off, and his faced looked like he'd just had the best "happy ending" from the hottest Asian massage therapist on earth. I was a bit surprised at his attitude, but it's not like I hadn't seen this outlook from many others. After all, that's what us evil Republicans do for fun---speak highly of our conspicuous consumption!
After discussing our Country Club memberships, I filled Trey in about Residensea. It was then that Trey started talking about getting the band back together. I don't remember what he said about it, but I know that I cut him short because I didn't really care if Phish reunited or not, I wanted to talk about PT. He started off on a positive note, listing the usual favorites like Big Hungry Joe, ("Can't figure out what he sees in moe. though!"), and Swimmy, ("I don't agree with her politics, but she's a real pistol.") He also recalled passing on a chance to nail Tabooty, but I think he recognized that I have an unrequited love for her, so he quickly moved on. "That PhishJeff knows his shit, but we all thought 12.30.03 was the worst show of the run...guess he can't win 'em all!" he offered. Needless to say, I was really digging this dish. If only an asswipe like Pickles could see me now! Here I was high on liquid morphine with the reason for my favorite message board himself! Who did I blow to deserve this? But I digress. Trey continued with his thoughts on the PT crew, and it's safe to say his mood darkened considerably...
"I hate Kungserve!" he nearly yelled, "I mean, the guy is an idiot." I nodded my head in agreement as he continued: "I think it's funny how you call him 'DUNGserve', PlusSize. But then again, if I listed all the brilliant shit you put up on that board, we'd be here all day!" I then pointed out that seeing that we're looped on a potent painkiller, and he's hospitalized, we wern't exactly going anywhere anyway! Goddamn did we laugh! I mean, we laughed to the point where we're wetting our pants and massaging our cheeks because they're in pain. Kind of like when we read Treyphan420 tries to sound intelligent on a PT thread. We laughed for what seemed like an eternity. Or at least until the twin nurses who looked liked the Olsen's came into the room...
Yes, Trey may be faithful to his wife and all, but he isn't blind. Stunningly beautiful women have a way of making you forget about whatever was happening moments earlier, and that was certainly the case right then. We "sobered up" in short order and beheld the beauty in our midst. These girls were toit! Mid-twenties at the oldest and like I said, dead-ringers for the Olsen twins. They had straight blond hair up in buns, nurse-style. Now, I'm no expert on standard-issue nurse attire, but something tells me these girls had some "alterations" made to their uniforms. Let's just say the skirts ran a little higher and the necklines on their blouses ran a bit lower. I never knew nurses wore pumps either, but apparently they do this deep in the bible belt. Praise the Lord!
Billie and Bunnie were there names, and helping people mend were their games. More specifically, Bunnie took Trey's vital signs and administered the rectal thermometer, (Trey is a true redhead), and Billie prepared the sponge bath. She was so cute when I nudged her, forcing her to spill some water over her ample bosom. "Oh, you boys!" she chuckled, baby blues glistening, "that happens to me all the time!"
Right about then one of the "get well soon" balloons lost it's juice and dropped down to the floor, sort of bouncing in the process. Bunnie started laughing as she peeled off her latex gloves. "Look!" she exclaimed through full, pouty lips, "That balloon is done bouncin' around the room!" Billie started laughing hysterically and bent over in the process, affording me a clear view the bottom of her butt cheeks. The woman was a dream I had indeed! I swear to God, the left bun had a tattoo saying said "roll", and the other said "tide". My, do they take their football seriously down here!
But back to the point: I couldn't believe my ears right about now---these knockouts were Phish phans! Trey and I looked at each other, and he was able to form liquid morphine-fueled words first: "I wrote that song!" he slurred, "It's closer to my heart than The Curtain With!" Billie muttered something about "The Curtain Whaaat?", but Bunnie just got this stunned look on her face: "You're Trey from Phish?" After a few beats she was able to continue: "Well, Lord have mercy!
With Trey being the family man he is, was clearly rusty. When a guy is granted some dizzy Alabaman nurses who are star-struck, well, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do! I made a quick assessment of my surroundings and realized that there was a second bed, complete with one of those big curtains that wraps all the way around for optimum privacy. I chuckled a little, thinking about the Seinfeld episode when George saw the silhouettes of a sponge bath being administered.
Now I'm as loyal to friends as the next guy, and I really wanted to keep an intoxicated Trey in on the festivities, but in this case his role would have to be as a spectator. The extent of kicks would have to be via sounds and silhouettes. There was no doubt about it, these girls were “goers”, and clearly Trey was too looped for them to "star fuck" at this point. I, however, was a different story. Luckily I had a video copy of the previous night's banquet performance in my luxury Prada travel bag.
Now I'll say it right now: I'm no Brad Pitt, but a certain hottie making a hasty exit from Phish's final Hampton show will attest that I'm not chopped liver. I figured if I were to get this triumphant document of the previous night's comedy set, I'd be in like Flynn...Into the video player, that is. Yes, there was an entertainment center in this hospital suite. Plasma TV, high-end audio, the whole nine. Hell, there was even a hot tub, adorned with drink holders cut into imported Italian marble. But never mind the plush surroundings, there was high-end poon in pumps to be dealt with!
Now, I'm not going to sit here and pretend I'm a stud with major league connections and extreme physical prowess or anything. The morphine had made a mere mortal of me by this point. Luckily, (don't ask me why), the hospital pharmacy on site carried all manner of erection-enhancing medication. Obviously I didn't need a 72-hour hard-on at this point---Viagra would do just fine, thanks. Seeing that I didn't exactly have a Dr. Nick on hand, the next best solution to obtain the pill would have to do: good old-fashioned bribery!
I pulled Bunnie, (or was it Billie? I have no idea, nor does it matter), aside and duly greased her palm with a C-note. "Can you send an orderly downstairs to fetch a good time?" She seemed a bit startled at my inquiry. Apparently the gun-toting, dip-spitting boys around these parts didn't need erectile assistance. I tried to explain that they weren't exactly wallowing in liquid morphine either, so hook a brotha up! But I digress. Another Benjamin made Bunnie see things my way. She whispered something to Billie, who was then pulling the rectal thermometer out of Trey before skipping out of the room. Next thing I knew, Billie, (or was it Bunnie??), was at my side, asking me to tell stories about famous comics I may have met...
I said: "Bunnie, even though you are slammin', I'm really not going to sit here and drop names, that's not how I roll." After she loosened yet another button on her uniform, I reconsidered. "I've met Steve Martin, Brian Regan, Dave Attel, Chris Rock, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Sam Kinnison, Bill Hicks… Um, is that good enough?" "I've never heard of any of them." Bunny confessed. Seeing that we were indeed in Alabama, I decided to take a different tack..."I got drunk with Carrot Top once, and I once got Pauly Shore high!", I offered. Bingo! "You've met Pauly Shore?!?" Bunnie squealed, breasts nearly bursting out of her top while she jumped up and down. "Darn tootin'!" I said, "and not only that, Lenny Kravitz once boned my step sister." Now I was speaking this girl's language, and let's just say she showed her ample appreciation.
I quickly swabbed off on the pull-around curtain and peeked over at Trey. He had that look on his face. The one when he's deep into a jam, gazing at a dancing figure in a faraway portal. You know, that expression that makes Dikembe Mutombo's face look like Denzel Washington's by comparison. I couldn't figure out what he could be so into on the TV at the moment, but seeing as I had just gotten my pipes cleaned, I had an excuse for being temporarily forgetful.
Turns out he was watching the DVD of my comedy act from the night before, in a daze. I knew right then that I needed to leave, because if he was immune to my comedy, he must've been straight-up zonked! It turns out this would be the one and only time I met my hero, much to my chagrin. I tried calling his representation a few times, but apparently the hockey injury trauma wiped out his entire memory of our meeting. That's OK though---because Bunnie remembers me vividly. Or was it Bobbie?
My Version of Hell!
Hell is typically portrayed in art, movies and literature as a fiery pit inhabited by pitchfork wielding fiends and lorded over by a malevolent crimson demon (i.e. "Satan", "Beelzebub", or "Lucifer", if you will). Those damned to hell are subjected to an eternity of hard-labor grunt work--as Hollywood imagines it, miners have a pretty good idea of what they'd have to do in hell. Rubbish and hogwash, if you ask me.
First of all, I like being warm. Certainly, if I was to go to a hot hell, I would find it quite comfortable--after all, I’ve lived in Georgia for twenty-two years. As far as spending an eternity mining coal...well, that's a pretty good workout and low stress. You certainly don't have to worry about making enough money to pay the rent, and you'll stay physically fit. With regards to Satan, Hell's "father figure", I would just like to point out that my own father used to torture us during dinner with his incessant puns, so I just don't think the Dark Lord could be THAT bad.
So what do I envision for hell? Hell would have to be the embodiment of all that is torturous and inhumane in our world, in other words, a living, breathing Bob Seger song. First of all, hell would be really cold. Oh how I hate being cold. We're talking getting-out-of-bed-early-on-a-December-morning cold. Or getting-out-of-the-shower-in-Ohio-during-Winter-without-one-of-those-heat-lamp-thingys cold. As far as the labor to which we would be subjected for all of eternity, there can be only one possibility. Hell is having to pack up all of your earthly belongings and moving them by yourself with only a Yugo to transport them across to another cave in hell (okay, okay...during this particular activity, it would be very hot and the Yugo would have no air conditioning). Then, once you got unpacked and settled, you'd have to do it all over again.
In the midst of the cold and all these moves, you would have sports commentators describing the action. Chris Berman making idiot comments in the most annoying voice on either earth or the underworld. Phil Simms inaccurately analyzing action in a fashion devoid of any semblance of wit. Dick Vitale yelling absurdities in a monotone. Lou Holtz slurring his way through nonsense that may or may not have anything to do with the satanic action at hand. You get the idea, and to keep my blood pressure from rising farther, I'll just leave it at that.
In summary, here is what I envision of hell:
1) Cold
2) Constantly having to move while listening to Bob Seger
3) TV Sports color commentators commenting on everything.
First of all, I like being warm. Certainly, if I was to go to a hot hell, I would find it quite comfortable--after all, I’ve lived in Georgia for twenty-two years. As far as spending an eternity mining coal...well, that's a pretty good workout and low stress. You certainly don't have to worry about making enough money to pay the rent, and you'll stay physically fit. With regards to Satan, Hell's "father figure", I would just like to point out that my own father used to torture us during dinner with his incessant puns, so I just don't think the Dark Lord could be THAT bad.
So what do I envision for hell? Hell would have to be the embodiment of all that is torturous and inhumane in our world, in other words, a living, breathing Bob Seger song. First of all, hell would be really cold. Oh how I hate being cold. We're talking getting-out-of-bed-early-on-a-December-morning cold. Or getting-out-of-the-shower-in-Ohio-during-Winter-without-one-of-those-heat-lamp-thingys cold. As far as the labor to which we would be subjected for all of eternity, there can be only one possibility. Hell is having to pack up all of your earthly belongings and moving them by yourself with only a Yugo to transport them across to another cave in hell (okay, okay...during this particular activity, it would be very hot and the Yugo would have no air conditioning). Then, once you got unpacked and settled, you'd have to do it all over again.
In the midst of the cold and all these moves, you would have sports commentators describing the action. Chris Berman making idiot comments in the most annoying voice on either earth or the underworld. Phil Simms inaccurately analyzing action in a fashion devoid of any semblance of wit. Dick Vitale yelling absurdities in a monotone. Lou Holtz slurring his way through nonsense that may or may not have anything to do with the satanic action at hand. You get the idea, and to keep my blood pressure from rising farther, I'll just leave it at that.
In summary, here is what I envision of hell:
1) Cold
2) Constantly having to move while listening to Bob Seger
3) TV Sports color commentators commenting on everything.
Europe Travelogue, July, 1998 (Phish content)
I just unearthed this from an old hard drive. Hope you like it!
Europe Journal
“This one” made his first trip to Europe in July, 1998. The following is an account of the excitement, boredom, debauchery, and general hijinks that ensued.
Departure Day: Bring On The Gimp
The trip began at 3:30 on Sunday, July 5 after a fine night of ten hours sleep, which was nice to look back on with fondness later in the week. Anyway, seeing that I had tickets in coach, and I stand 6’6”, priority number one before departure was to formulate a ruse that would get my long legs into business class. Luckily, my old friend Marty is in the prosthetics business and was able to produce a pair of nearly new, tricep-gripping crutches that provided both maximum comfort and sympathy. Armed with this prop and a really cumbersome-looking knee brace slit for comfort and then covered with an ace bandage, I was ready to be bumped up, so to speak. My buddy Brad gave me a ride to the airport and then, in the spirit of true overkill, wheeled me up to the check-in counter. (He suggested I that I think about my recently deceased grandfather to keep from laughing). After failing to get satisfaction from my first encounter with SwissAir powers that be, I bravely turned down an offer of a wheel chair ride all the way to the very distant gate and hobbled on my way. In retrospect, I definitely played the cripple far more convincingly than necessary as I was fully sweating by the time I got to the gate. I’m sure the shoeshine guy felt bad for me, though.
Step number two found me selling my misfortune to those at the gate area, who were kind enough to answer my plea with a search for the price to upgrade. In the meantime, an elderly woman rose with a concerned look on her face and suggested that I get the front row in coach, as the request had worked for her recently. I thanked her for the idea while feeling guilty about dragging innocent bystanders into this. I mean, I may beat the system now and then, but I would never wish unnecessary movement on the elderly. Anyway, after bluffing the gate agent about being willing to part with $500 for an upgrade, he offered through a chuckle that “It’s going to be a lot more than that”. Indeed, $1,700 more than that. This left me wondering what the odds were of someone that looked like Jesus walking by so he could touch my knee and let me bail out of this plan with dignity while really freaking some people out. Ultimately, I was moved on board of the plane and basically shuffled to the side until it was known what seats were available. (Note to those interested: the only people that matter in this scheme are the flight attendants on board.) Alas there proved to be several openings in business class and the game was on, so to speak. I was seated next to a middle-aged Nigerian man in the shipping business, (I mean literally building ships), and I must say his smile didn’t quite match mine and as we sipped on the champagne that was served before the plane even taxied away.
Business class offered up a big, fat seat complete with a “personal media screen” that offered several features including the computer tracking of the plane’s progress from various angles and showed maps of the ground being covered as well. There was legroom aplenty, and the woman from the gate area now sitting across the aisle was happy for me. Proving one can’t have everything, however, I didn’t get laid on the flight. Seriously, though, the system that offered a dozen current movies to choose from was out of order, so I was reduced to playing umpteen backgammon games against the inept computer. (I suspect it’s programmed to lose so that the customer enjoys their flight that much more.) The flight was a smooth one, but I must admit that as the hours wore on I was wondering about the trade-off of having my right leg bound so the left one could have ample space. Anyway, we were served a nice meal and then I hopped to the “air phone” to let Brad know that the scam did indeed work. While trying to get the thing to work, I was informed that my meal was getting cold. Meal? But monsieur, I’ve already dined! Hardly! I returned to my lap of luxury to find a huge serving of beef tenderloin, along with a healthy portion of salmon and various side dishes. Never a fan of fish, I swapped with the ever-helpful lady across the aisle and had more beef than Ron Jeremy. The absurdity of trading food ala a school cafeteria in a several thousand-dollar airline seat was not lost on me.
Foreign Soil, Royal Treatment
The flight ended in the Zurich mid-morning after the sky never became fully dark to the North on the whole journey, which I found to be interesting. After waiting for my connection, I boarded a small van along with a couple of families with young children, thus ducking a cattle-car ride with the able-bodied masses. This plane was smaller and offered little option for the crew but to put me on an aisle in coach that had a bit of extra room for my leg and also for the drink cart to go by. I was finishing up my prematurely served Coke Light when Bebete slipped into the window seat. She happened to be a twenty-two year-old Austrian with blonde hair and stunningly blue eyes. For this, I can fly coach. Anyway, we chatted amicably and I found that I can also make European women laugh, which was nice. This unlikely Deep Purple fan was a bit on the bland side, however, so I wasn’t heartbroken when she turned down my offer to join me for a Phish show in Barcelona. After seeing lots of snow-capped Alps and no baseball fields, I found myself in Barcelona, wondering what the etiquette was for removing a faux knee support amidst fellow passengers.
I kept the prop on as I claimed my bags and struck up a conversation with an Austrian in his twenties and his Spanish friend in an effort to gain assistance with currency exchange and directions. I pointed out the lovely blonde Bebete to my new-found pal, but he was unimpressed because he was tired of bland Austrian women. My goal at this point was to catch a train to Marseilles and forsake a redundant rental car because my party in France would have two of them. After the Austrian patiently waited for me to fumble my way through the currency line it became apparent from the American girl, (hot), in the info booth that we were going different directions. I made an effort to talk him into going to the the Phish shows as well and then bid farewell, heading to the train, fully loaded down with bags, one of which now held my, (thankfully), somewhat collapsible crutches.
I found assistance from a Spaniard just back from London to help with the seemingly complicated train token purchase and then was seated in the knee-brace removal seat. At this point I was frazzled from the newness of all this and well past the good top-shelf alcohol buzz I had garnered from my plane rides. I also hadn’t slept in sixteen hours, so it was bedtime. These factors left me caring little about what the hell the people on the train thought about my miraculously cured leg, so I had that going for me. The Metro through the graffiti-covered tenements was something other than inviting, but it deposited me to the highly confusing main depot that would start my trip north to France.
After visiting the deserted information booth and wandering trying to figure things out myself, I was assisted by two young chaps from N.C. who had a handle on how to get to France. This entailed taking a number, bakery-style and waiting to buy a ticket. In the meantime, a fresh finger wound I suffered at the hands of a pair of scissors back in the States the day before decided to defy its bandage. As luck would have it, I didn’t end up needing to find the stitching kind of doctor on this trip, but things were touch and go for a while. I was also lucky enough to get a good-natured clerk that spoke English and, after a lengthy wait, I was almost on easy street. My destination appeared on the big board, but of course it was the only one without a track number showing. I surmised that it was one of three and was proven correct, but not before much anxiety and hand-wringing. This nervousness had me racing from one platform to the other, conveniently increasing my heart rate to challenge my new makeshift finger bandage. I finally darted onto the proper train, which proved to be unnecessary because the train sat for five more minutes. This elicited yet another laugh at the “Stupid American” from the peanut gallery, which I would learn to find amusing as the trip unfolded.
Riding the Euro-Rail
The train was basically subway-style with a restroom and I was not looking forward to this type of ride for the eight hours to France. Luckily it would prove to be merely one part of a three-legged trip. Anyway, this journey afforded a fine view of the countryside and sometimes of the freeway that I wished I had chosen to travel because this train thing seemed to be more hassle than the savings was worth. I was joined in my seat by a jovial blue-collar Spanish man at one point and this made me really regret forgetting my Spanish-English book. That would’ve been a wonderfully rewarding way to pass the time as he could’ve explained the odd forty-foot high trees planted orchard-style that were so prevalent. It was fun to communicate without words, though, in it’s own way. Towards the end of this leg, I was joined by two young French toughs smoking rolled cigarettes in a no-smoking car, smelling foul, talking loudly, and eyeing my Rolex a bit too closely. Alas, I emerged unscathed, but definitely annoyed.
Before the second train boarding, I had been up around twenty-four hours. This was just the occasion for some responsible drug use for an attitude adjustment. I repaired to a dingy restroom in this ancient depot and ingested a bit of a stimulant that shall remain nameless. It was just the ticket and I thank God for it, even though I’m agnostic. Anyway, we had a brief layover during which I attempted to purchase Marlboros, (because I wanted them), and a Coke, (because the order would be comprehended). As I was low-browing the price requested, my suspicion of gouging was confirmed by a young man at my side from California . He pointed out that I was about to pay nine dollars for the two items. I decided to go without and pissed the Frenchy behind the counter off in the process. C’est la vie! I managed to bum a smoke from a fellow in another shop with Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ By The Dock of the Bay” in the background, which was nice.
The next train was what one would hope for. The old-style locomotive featured individual compartments like a stage coach and had a walkway on one side that ran the length of the car. This allowed for stunning views of the western end of the French Riviera in perfect weather and this now wide-awake tourist was liking the idea. I struck up a convo with a cat in the French Foreign Legion who was really cool but never did fully explain what his job entailed. Part of the problem was he was half deaf, apparently he rode this train a lot because the decibel level in the ample tunnels must match a jet engine. Anyway, we sucked down cigs, (his), and water, (mine), and babbled about a variety of subjects. He was not pleased when I asked him how France could hate America after we saved their asses, but he didn’t hit me. He suggested that perhaps it’s because we are basically Europe’s children and we should show more respect for the horse that brought us, so to speak.
Unfortunately, the time on this leg of the trip whizzed by and I found myself barely making a connection onto the train that went into Marseilles. This meant that I was one of the last passengers to board and it left me in the middle of the packed smoking car with paltry ventilation. Obviously, I was in the mood for something other than cramped conditions at this point, but I put my nose in some magazines and soon found deep concentration and complimentary cigarette smoke. This was a ride that was long and certainly felt like it. I reached Marseilles around eleven and lugged my bags around as I interrogated the police regarding the locale of my friends from Atlanta’s hotel. After being laughed at again, I got taken for a ride in a cab. Literally and figuratively. I probably should’ve insisted on an English-speaking cabby, but the one I got seemed to know where we were going. The hotel ended up being out in the suburbs and the francs on the meter piled up. I was taken to the center of the town in search of, but nobody seemed to know where the joint was. We ended up being escorted to the relatively remote location by a cop, so I don’t think the driver was ripping me off on purpose. I was just glad to utilize some of the limited French I had retained, i.e., “mon dieu” for “my God”, and “mal vous”: “you bad”. Apparently it helped, because I got a discount on the final fare, although it was still quite steep. Luckily I was gravy-training off of the Mike and Mike, crashing on the floor of their room, so the sting of the cab price wasn’t so bad.
The party I was to meet was not in the house, but, remarkably enough, the dude at the desk gave me a key to the room anyway even thought I wasn’t listed as a guest. I soon was happily dozing on the floor after a draining day of travel---around twenty-seven hours, I believe. A pain in the ass, but an adventure and certainly better than sitting around the house in the U.S.A. The two Mike’s rolled in a couple of hours later and were somewhat surprised by my presence, but glad to see me.
When the “Leaders” are Lost…
The first day with no real thinking involved began with our party of seven, (the two Mike B’s, Peter Pak and his girl Angela, and Dr. & Mrs. Mike Sharon), dining not far from where my cab had asked for directions hours early. We got our first taste of indifferent French table service and agreed that the tipping system is the way to go after all. The French are apparently not hung up on having water with their meals, which I have a hard time understanding. Anyway, I took my first dump in a pay toilet---two francs for access to the can right there in the town square. From there we assumed a car-traveling order that would prevail for the duration: Mike Sharon driving the two couples with the three bachelors in the Passat following them. This was fine with us because we didn’t have to think, just turn around second a lot.
We were quite patient with the arrangement, indeed never really losing our temper because the three of us get along well and were laughing too much to get pissed off. I’d be interested to know what the mood was in the other car, but I didn’t see a lot of smiles besides Peter’s grin of embarrassment. He’s a very low-key, nice fellow who seemed to just roll with the punches. Angela was a go-getter, and apparently the navigator without the proper equipment. She also spoke the best French. Mike S. and his wife Amy made a curious pair because they didn’t appear to like each other very much. I thought they might be Muslim because Amy always walked at least two steps behind her husband at all times. I never saw them display any affection at all---not exactly the life of the party, these two. Amy had great legs, though.
Today’s sojourn found us twisting through the countryside looking for a winery tour. We did find a bunch of grape plants, but there wasn’t exactly a tour---merely a “danger” sign that might’ve said something about land mines. It was a nice day, though, as it was the entire trip---sunny with low humidity and a nice breeze. It was decided that we would head to the harbor in Marseilles after we made it back on the freeway thanks to some DOT workers that opened a weird gate for our convenience. We ended up killing a little time drinking “compression”, i.e. draft beer, and then caught a ferry over to an island with some spectacular views of the rocky terrain leading to the Mediterranean. More beers were drunk and money was lost to Mike S., who was bet that he couldn’t swim across a small bay in the chilly water. He did it with ease, thus relieving me of many a franc, but at least he picked up the tab. We made it back to the town before dark and proceeded to drink heavily and smoke Cuban cigars, (courtesy of Peter). It was quite a party for a Monday night because supporters of the two football teams set to play a World Cup ’98 semifinal on Tuesday were on full-blown benders. The Dutch were the coolest, but the Brazilians didn’t suck, either. They partied with each other as well, which was cool to see. The night didn’t go into ridiculous hours for our bunch, though, as we made it back to the hotel around one, with bigger doings on the horizon.
Spectacles Like No Other
This Monday night was not my favorite for sleeping, as I had little bruises on my hips from the night before, and a second stint on the floor proved to be quite uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I had a great time Tuesday and this fact proved to be a recurring theme over the course of the trip: sleep is overrated. I never caught up on sleep the entire time, but had a blast anyway---perhaps it’s all in one’s outlook. Anyway, speaking of mindset, these wacky Europeans have a different one on the beach, thank God. Our party of seven hit a beach somewhere east of Marseilles after still more difficulty with navigation. This directional problem contributed to our barreling through what resembled an asphalt bobsled chute that served numerous residences with gated driveways. No amusement park ride beat the feeling I got out of this little jaunt, I must say. We never did figure out if we were going the correct way on this decidedly one-way street and thankfully we never had to try it in reverse.
After a somewhat challenging walk over and around the rocky shoreline, the two Mike’s and I, (the others took the street), found ourselves on a beach as God intended. Not nice, smooth sand, mind you; the important stuff---topless babes! They were everywhere, and they reminded me of the strip club/steak analogy, actually. It was a lot like not eating for two days and then having a Filet Mignon presented to you, but you can’t touch it. Women looking so fine, and, assuming they would want me anyway, (a broad assumption?), I can’t speak their frickin’ language! I swear if my little French teacher my Junior year in high school had displayed photos of these beaches, I would’ve paid attention to his lessons! But, I digress. We proceeded to try to act normal dining beachside and then I participated in an international juggling clinic. I showed a few French the behind the back catch, etc., and they showed me some shifty hand moves that I never did figure out. After kicking “la balloon”, (a soccer ball), around for a while, we took off for showers before hitting the World Cup semi-final between Holland and Brazil.
The party rolled into a campground that charged 20ff for a shower, but somehow Mike and I ducked this charge without even trying. I was happy to have packed a hand towel to dab away sweat at the Phish shows because it came in handy here as well. With a fresh feeling we headed towards what on any other trip would’ve been the highlight---the second biggest soccer game in the world.
There had been speculation over the past few weeks regarding the fate of the sixth ticket that Peter was holding for the game. At first it was assumed that either I got this coveted ducat , or I was going to be on the outside looking in. As it turned out, there were many tickets to be had off the street and the question became whether I would get to sit with my pals or not. Alas, Amy, who basically hates soccer, used the ticket instead of, God forbid, hanging by herself for three hours. Everything turned out fine, though, as I obtained a billet outside for 1800ff, ($300), and found myself twenty-two rows back, directly behind the goal at which the penalty kicks would ultimately be directed. Sure, I paid a ton for the ticket, but I doubt ten years from now I’m going to have memories about what that $300 could’ve bought me. At this point I ingested a generous amount of a hallucinogenic that shall remain nameless to add a bit more flair to one of the most festive occasions on earth.
I found the game to be most entertaining, to say the least, even though I missed a goal by the celebrated Brazilian Ronaldo coming right at us to start the second half. Luckily Holland scored and made the electricity in the air soar for the rest of the game. I was on the edge of my seat amidst an assortment of fans that resembled the United Nations and high-fiving all of them when it became clear that the game-deciding penalty kicks would be coming right at us. The South Americans won, and the emotion and sheer spectacle as the Brazil team made it’s way to the main cheering section after the game cannot be overstated---truly amazing. The crazy thing was that it would’ve been even better if Holland had won, because I was on their side of the stadium, and they look like me, for whatever that’s worth! My walk out of the stadium and back to the meeting place was quite daunting and long, but I finally found the two Mike’s after their worrisome half-hour wait and we were on our way to St. Tropez.
This leg of the trip went pretty well as we zipped through the bright moonlight on a perfectly cool night in the South of France. We missed the exit, but nobody bitched about it because we were in full adventure mode and more-or-less on the right track, for once. We got a laugh out of the road to the resort because it appeared to be an old-fashioned video game because there was no yellow line in the middle of the road and broken white ones on the side. We found the hotel easily enough, taking for granted the non-existent traffic along the way. After the clerk from the ultra-plush $400 a night hotel did everything but perform fallatio on us, I found myself on a hideaway bed that was a just reward after two nights on the floor. I was a bit bummed that I would have to leave this good life tomorrow for Barcelona to catch the Phish shows, but I still slept well, to be sure.
Playground Of The Rich and Famous
The next day started with me deciding to eat my tickets for that night’s Phish show and stay in the lap of luxury an extra day. I enjoyed hitting the hot tub on the private terrace before downing a very French breakfast poolside with the rest of the party. We then headed into the village of shops and amazingly beautiful, high-profile women. I managed to lose the party in pursuit of a splendid mademoiselle and, ultimately, “tobacs”, the elusive cigarettes that everybody in Europe smokes but only selected stores in France sell. I got a joke for my act out of this smoking thing that goes as follows: “everybody in Europe smokes. I mean, my buddy and I got in an elevator, he pushes the button for the third floor and nothing happens. It turns out he’d pushed the button for the third lighter on the elevator!” But seriously, folks, I wandered around this playground for the rich, checking out the twenty million dollar yachts and such until finding Mike1 and deciding to go play golf.
After overcoming the horrible directions to the golf course, (greens fees included with the room), we made it for our tee time a bit late. Luckily we had allowed time for the fuck-up because we’d learned that this is a good policy for moronic Americans in Europe. We managed a set of rental clubs with bad grips, but this mattered little because the course was nothing short of amazing. In nearly perfect condition, it was in the midst of stunning mountain peaks, trees and vegetation novel to this American. To sum it up, basically every hole was the “T.V. hole”. There were lots of greens in the foreground with a mountain twenty miles away in the background. This, coupled with “yardages” in metres, made distances pretty hard to judge. I didn’t play particularly well, but it mattered little because life was hard to bitch about anything at this point, especially because we were the only people out there due to the soccer game. We raced out of there beating the darkness, but in serious jeopardy of missing the first half of the France-Croatia semi-final game. After narrowly avoiding putting the wrong gas in the rental car, we made tracks back to the hotel listening to the game on French radio, (put la balloon in cage!). We hurried through our grooming processes at the hotel and then donned our finest, albeit severely wrinkled, cosmo clothes.
We found a pizza restaurant that somehow wasn’t as packed as the others and had a seat for the rest of the game and food and drink. France won and we found ourselves in the midst of a bonus “party central”, and this didn’t suck. After failing to hit on a couple of women, (something I may regret until the day I die), we tried to fulfill our obligation to meet the others at another bar. Alas, we had waited too long and they were gone, so the two musketeers pressed on to the avenue by the yachts to celebrate with the natives. It was a party much more creative than when the Braves won the World Series, and the French hadn’t even won the tournament yet! Anyway, we saddled up to the Café Paris on the waterfront and, after much hand-wringing, found ourselves following a bottle of champagne Mike bought to a table of two Dutch babes. Let’s just say wild, swapping sex soon followed and leave it at that. We got back at what would soon be considered a ridiculously early 3:00 a.m. after a mighty fine day. I can’t say I missed out by failing to make the Phish show in Spain, that’s for sure.
Don’t Believe The Florist When He Tells You That The Roses Are Free
This travel day began with a half-hour wait in the parking lot for everyone to get their shit together, which is definitely the down-side of traveling in a group. We were also treated to a traffic jam heading away from the town, which I’m sure is de riguer. Anyway, the group traveled to Marseilles’s airport so Mike and I could get a car to Barcelona while the others went north to Geneva for a wedding. We were lucky to obtain a little diesel Citroen with a multi-colored interior, no a/c but good gas mileage. The trip to Barcelona was just over four hours because we did about 150 km/h most of the way. This put us in town with an hour and a half to find a hotel and get to the show. Unfortunately, we had no map and assumed that we could “wing it” by simply finding any hotel, getting a room and directions to the show.
Let’s put it this way: Barcelona is a big city. A big city with a lot of traffic. A big city with huge areas that can be driven in for a couple hours without seeing one hotel. A big city in which seemingly nobody can speak English or standard Spanish. Suffice it to say, we two idiots almost lost our patience and found ourselves at the airport for directions later rather than sooner. At this point we were more than happy to take the closest hotel and call it a night because we were a tad bit exhausted. After overcoming counting off .3 km as actually a full 3 km, we finally found the nearest hotel, a sold-out sloppy-looking four star. We eventually settled for a bizarre motel a few miles west of the airport and called it a night because the only flight Mike could find out was early the next morning. This was by far the worst day of the trip, but I was optimistic about the next day, so it was all good.
The Most Beautiful Girls In The World
After a few hours of sleep, we were off to the airport around six-thirty. This was fine with me because I was all about getting into town before the traffic cranked up. I made it to the pension the Phish message board group had rented at which I was entitled to stay in for the past two nights with relative ease. I tried to park the car in a bizarre garage that required that I leave my car locked in an elevator contraption that I was not familiar with. This was a problem because nobody around spoke English to put my mind at ease about the method in question, so I reconsidered and got my car back and continued my odyssey. The next garage was very American, so I left it there, despite the fact that it would cost more to lodge the car overnight than my body. It turned out that the high price was due to the fact that the garage was right around the corner from a remarkable thirteenth century cathedral, which drew many a tourist and made for a fine landmark when I needed the Citroen the next day. I was now near enough hotels to find some English and get to las pension spartan with relative ease. I finally met my online Phish-fan friend at the room and he was nice enough to have left me the long double bed all this time. It was now around eight-thirty a.m., which called for a few blasts of a stimulant other than caffeine to get this Barcelona experience off on the right foot.
I found myself to be merely one block away from the famous La Ramblas, a pedestrian boulevard with countless café dining areas, newsstands, and vendor booths. There were also jugglers, magicians, live human statues and jesters. Most peculiar was the number of bird vendors along this stretch. There had to be twenty different places, each with probably one hundred pet birds for sale. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I’m on vacation, I want to share it with a new-found feathered friend!?! Perhaps a city ordinance stated that bird vending was limited to Las Ramblas or something, I don’t know. If any of you go visit this place someday, please ask and get back to me.
Anyway, I wandered over to the aquarium at the harbor a few blocks away, among other places, and then noticed that the attractive women were starting their days. I hung out chatting up fellow Phish fans from the States, getting filled in on what I missed the rest of the tour and so forth. It certainly was nice to have identifiable English-speaking people around, that’s for sure. I toured the previously-mentioned cathedral, and it was nothing short of epic. The architectural feat of those from the 13th century was truly mind-boggling. Later I roused my roommate, who turned out to be a pretty boring dork, but at least he wasn’t stupid. We walked about while I raved about the level of gorgeous members of the opposite sex in this town. At one point I posed the rhetorical question: “How could the girl-watching get any better?” The only good line he uttered the whole time I was around him followed: “Let’s go to the beach.”
We walked about a mile past a huge paved park and a lot of cool-looking apartment buildings before finding a wonderful, large, American-style beach with nice sand, unlike the rocks of the South of France that I’d recently seen. There was a bar right by the beach that had to be the original use for the telephoto lens and we snagged a table closest to the sunbathing Goddesses and proceeded to toast each and every one of them.
This place was, no lie, ten times better than St. Tropez. If there are better-looking women in the world, I’d sure like to know where. Unfortunately, my side-kick was something other than Casanova and, seeing that I need all the help I can get, I was merely a spectator to all this, not a participant. At least I’m now motivated to learn Spanish. The afternoon became early evening and we walked over to ‘92’s Olympic Park and the Ritz-Carlton, (which we’ll visit later), to catch a cab back to Las Ramblas because we had a big night ahead of us and wanted to conserve energy.
Phish, a few thousand miles from home..
A cab took the two of us to the concert venue a bit across town in plenty of time to socialize around the warehouse-type building. It was fun to chat up a bunch of maniacal Phish fans, especially the blue-eyed blonde ones. Anyway, the show started for the assembled 1,000 or so about half an hour late. This kind of sucked because they had a curfew this night so the club could convert into a huge discotheque , so we wanted to get things started. The first set was brief and plagued by sound problems that lingered into the second set, but thankfully things worked out and the boys delivered a stellar 24th shoe that I’ve seen. The crowd was wonderfully attentive except a pair of geeks right behind me who I had to tell to shut up. Seriously, why in the fuck would you come all the way to Spain to see a show if you’re going to talk? Unbelievable! Speaking of unbelievable, this would describe what the little square piece of paper was that enhanced this little scene. After the show I floated social-butterfly style through the drained post-concert crowd and forgot that I might run into my roommate. Sure enough, the dork is floating around, wearing sunglasses, of all things! I chatted this “me!, me!, me!”, type-guy up as long as I could stand and then made my get-away for the center of town on foot.
I wandered and found myself on the beach by the Ritz soon enough. The journey there was pretty fun, as the locals were out partying in the numerous nightspots and I saw a “gang” of guys on mopeds get cited for having no helmets. Everybody in Europe seems to have a two-wheeler, which is logical for sure. Things get shady because they tend to whip in between cars on the broken white lines at break-neck speeds, but, hell, it must work for them. Anyway, I wandered down to the full-moonlit beach and had a smoke or two to go with my profound thoughts. I then headed back by the hotel to take a cab to Las Ramblas, but was sidetracked by a guy I mistook for English, but was actually Russian, from Moscow. He was very cool and we spoke for quite awhile about football, (very emphatic about the Cup needing to stay in Europe), and traffic, because he drove here as well, but never got lost. He stressed that if you can drive in Moscow, anywhere else is child’s play. Luckily I aimlessly followed him down to the most amazing party spot I’ve ever seen.
Picture if you will…a quarter-mile long building with an outdoor corridor running through the middle. On one side is dance floor after dance floor featuring every imaginable style of music, (until you’ve seen a bunch of Spanish dance to “Surfin’ U.S.A., you haven’t lived), and a smattering of ice cream and snack shops in between. On the other side are twenty café-style restaurant/bars, side by side, that are serving to a full house of all ages at three in the morning. Throw in the most beautiful women in the world dressed to the nines everywhere you look and you’re just about with me.
I lost my Russian friend as we passed the first disco and I bid farewell and u-turned into it. Now, I may not be able to speak Spanish, but I certainly was kicking out a communiqué that all these women could understand on this dance floor. This tie-dyed freak was not exactly wanting for dance partners as a result! Unfortunately, it was somewhat humid and the clubs were packed, so my profusely sweating person was soon drenched and, as we all know, this is simply bad form. I was reduced to dancing on the other side of the windows to these places with other passerby, a method that proved acceptable. Given my psychological state I found myself hitting on every girl that looked at me twice, but I was unable to find one that admitted to knowing English. C’est la vie. Around three, I had had enough of seeing these unattainable women, and the party in general, so I decided to get a cab. We edged towards Las Ramblas through others just pulling in to start partying---and it’s three! I also noticed a group of beautiful girls dressed for clubbing, heels and the whole bit, riding their Vespas with helmets on! Not something you see every day.
Got back near my pension and the party was still in full swing there. I finally found some English-speaking Spanish people, along with a bunch of people that were at the Phish show, so, les bons temps rollez! When the sun came up, it occurred to me to head back to the room to bid farewell to my roomie and get my stuff together for my trip to the airport. He tried to sell me a story about meeting Trey, (the guitar player), in an elevator apparently to make me regret ditching him, but his story didn’t hold up even under a half-hearted cross-examination. I was cordial to him, though, as I finally caught the best view of him---walking the other directions with his bags! I still had time to kill before my early afternoon flight, so I headed to pay my last respects to the best beach in the world. Against all odds, there were sugary senioritas out there at nine a.m.! When these people sleep, I have no idea. Finally left for the airport with a vow to return sooner rather than later.
Negatives Turned Into Positives
Made the flight with ease while simply carrying the crutches, the braces and bandage in my backpack, because it was only a short flight to Paris. A problem arose, however, so the plane was delayed fifty minutes, which would prove to be just enough time for me to miss my connection. This appeared to a bad bounce as I waited an hour in the re-ticketing line and then obtained a nearby hotel room for the night, courtesy of Air France. I was looking forward to getting a lot of sleep before my flight the next morning, but I discovered that the World Cup consolation game was being staged that night right up the train tracks in Gay Parie, so what the hell! I got a brief nap in and hit the rails to the ancient stadium that’s name now escapes me in the district that does likewise. I scored a ticket for a relatively paltry 800ff and was in another epic match that another billion people were probably watching on television. It was quite an entertaining show, even though the stakes were essentially nil. At least I got to party with the wonderful Dutch one more time. For some reason I was tired after the match, so I resisted the City of Light’s very obvious temptations and got back to the hotel for some hard-core shut-eye.
The knee-brace made an encore and the crutches were returned to their appropriate length for this day’s eight-hour flight back. I had learned my lesson this time and took it easy with the full-scale crutch walk until I got to the gate. Unfortunately business class was packed to the gills and they weren’t even mentioning first class, so I settled for the front row coach. This proved to be an even better bounce than I could’ve dreamed due to the presence of Isabella, a lovely brunette from Barcelona who was on her way to Atlanta for six weeks to immerse herself in the culture. Tour guide? I can do that! The down side of this was that a nice enough French guy with bad breath was between us, and that made my sales pitch difficult to get over. I did give her my number, however, so I can expect to never hear from her.*
The crutches allowed me to duck a very lengthy line at immigration in the ATL, which was nice. The luggage cart debuted as a new prop and was good to lean on to keep the ruse going after I’d folded up the crutches and put them in the bag. My new roommate Brad met me at the exit to the parking lot, which was nice, and celebrated the miracle of healing with me once I got in his car for the ride home and the France-Brazil final on T.V.
In retrospect, I’d say I needed more time across the pond with less people with me from America. One other person would be sufficient because when there are more than that, I tended to hang with them and not converse with others, which is pretty much kills the whole concept of learning about other cultures. A good trip in so many ways and even the bad parts taught me lessons on how to make it better next time, which will hopefully be sooner rather than later.
* Indeed, Isabella never called.
Europe Journal
“This one” made his first trip to Europe in July, 1998. The following is an account of the excitement, boredom, debauchery, and general hijinks that ensued.
Departure Day: Bring On The Gimp
The trip began at 3:30 on Sunday, July 5 after a fine night of ten hours sleep, which was nice to look back on with fondness later in the week. Anyway, seeing that I had tickets in coach, and I stand 6’6”, priority number one before departure was to formulate a ruse that would get my long legs into business class. Luckily, my old friend Marty is in the prosthetics business and was able to produce a pair of nearly new, tricep-gripping crutches that provided both maximum comfort and sympathy. Armed with this prop and a really cumbersome-looking knee brace slit for comfort and then covered with an ace bandage, I was ready to be bumped up, so to speak. My buddy Brad gave me a ride to the airport and then, in the spirit of true overkill, wheeled me up to the check-in counter. (He suggested I that I think about my recently deceased grandfather to keep from laughing). After failing to get satisfaction from my first encounter with SwissAir powers that be, I bravely turned down an offer of a wheel chair ride all the way to the very distant gate and hobbled on my way. In retrospect, I definitely played the cripple far more convincingly than necessary as I was fully sweating by the time I got to the gate. I’m sure the shoeshine guy felt bad for me, though.
Step number two found me selling my misfortune to those at the gate area, who were kind enough to answer my plea with a search for the price to upgrade. In the meantime, an elderly woman rose with a concerned look on her face and suggested that I get the front row in coach, as the request had worked for her recently. I thanked her for the idea while feeling guilty about dragging innocent bystanders into this. I mean, I may beat the system now and then, but I would never wish unnecessary movement on the elderly. Anyway, after bluffing the gate agent about being willing to part with $500 for an upgrade, he offered through a chuckle that “It’s going to be a lot more than that”. Indeed, $1,700 more than that. This left me wondering what the odds were of someone that looked like Jesus walking by so he could touch my knee and let me bail out of this plan with dignity while really freaking some people out. Ultimately, I was moved on board of the plane and basically shuffled to the side until it was known what seats were available. (Note to those interested: the only people that matter in this scheme are the flight attendants on board.) Alas there proved to be several openings in business class and the game was on, so to speak. I was seated next to a middle-aged Nigerian man in the shipping business, (I mean literally building ships), and I must say his smile didn’t quite match mine and as we sipped on the champagne that was served before the plane even taxied away.
Business class offered up a big, fat seat complete with a “personal media screen” that offered several features including the computer tracking of the plane’s progress from various angles and showed maps of the ground being covered as well. There was legroom aplenty, and the woman from the gate area now sitting across the aisle was happy for me. Proving one can’t have everything, however, I didn’t get laid on the flight. Seriously, though, the system that offered a dozen current movies to choose from was out of order, so I was reduced to playing umpteen backgammon games against the inept computer. (I suspect it’s programmed to lose so that the customer enjoys their flight that much more.) The flight was a smooth one, but I must admit that as the hours wore on I was wondering about the trade-off of having my right leg bound so the left one could have ample space. Anyway, we were served a nice meal and then I hopped to the “air phone” to let Brad know that the scam did indeed work. While trying to get the thing to work, I was informed that my meal was getting cold. Meal? But monsieur, I’ve already dined! Hardly! I returned to my lap of luxury to find a huge serving of beef tenderloin, along with a healthy portion of salmon and various side dishes. Never a fan of fish, I swapped with the ever-helpful lady across the aisle and had more beef than Ron Jeremy. The absurdity of trading food ala a school cafeteria in a several thousand-dollar airline seat was not lost on me.
Foreign Soil, Royal Treatment
The flight ended in the Zurich mid-morning after the sky never became fully dark to the North on the whole journey, which I found to be interesting. After waiting for my connection, I boarded a small van along with a couple of families with young children, thus ducking a cattle-car ride with the able-bodied masses. This plane was smaller and offered little option for the crew but to put me on an aisle in coach that had a bit of extra room for my leg and also for the drink cart to go by. I was finishing up my prematurely served Coke Light when Bebete slipped into the window seat. She happened to be a twenty-two year-old Austrian with blonde hair and stunningly blue eyes. For this, I can fly coach. Anyway, we chatted amicably and I found that I can also make European women laugh, which was nice. This unlikely Deep Purple fan was a bit on the bland side, however, so I wasn’t heartbroken when she turned down my offer to join me for a Phish show in Barcelona. After seeing lots of snow-capped Alps and no baseball fields, I found myself in Barcelona, wondering what the etiquette was for removing a faux knee support amidst fellow passengers.
I kept the prop on as I claimed my bags and struck up a conversation with an Austrian in his twenties and his Spanish friend in an effort to gain assistance with currency exchange and directions. I pointed out the lovely blonde Bebete to my new-found pal, but he was unimpressed because he was tired of bland Austrian women. My goal at this point was to catch a train to Marseilles and forsake a redundant rental car because my party in France would have two of them. After the Austrian patiently waited for me to fumble my way through the currency line it became apparent from the American girl, (hot), in the info booth that we were going different directions. I made an effort to talk him into going to the the Phish shows as well and then bid farewell, heading to the train, fully loaded down with bags, one of which now held my, (thankfully), somewhat collapsible crutches.
I found assistance from a Spaniard just back from London to help with the seemingly complicated train token purchase and then was seated in the knee-brace removal seat. At this point I was frazzled from the newness of all this and well past the good top-shelf alcohol buzz I had garnered from my plane rides. I also hadn’t slept in sixteen hours, so it was bedtime. These factors left me caring little about what the hell the people on the train thought about my miraculously cured leg, so I had that going for me. The Metro through the graffiti-covered tenements was something other than inviting, but it deposited me to the highly confusing main depot that would start my trip north to France.
After visiting the deserted information booth and wandering trying to figure things out myself, I was assisted by two young chaps from N.C. who had a handle on how to get to France. This entailed taking a number, bakery-style and waiting to buy a ticket. In the meantime, a fresh finger wound I suffered at the hands of a pair of scissors back in the States the day before decided to defy its bandage. As luck would have it, I didn’t end up needing to find the stitching kind of doctor on this trip, but things were touch and go for a while. I was also lucky enough to get a good-natured clerk that spoke English and, after a lengthy wait, I was almost on easy street. My destination appeared on the big board, but of course it was the only one without a track number showing. I surmised that it was one of three and was proven correct, but not before much anxiety and hand-wringing. This nervousness had me racing from one platform to the other, conveniently increasing my heart rate to challenge my new makeshift finger bandage. I finally darted onto the proper train, which proved to be unnecessary because the train sat for five more minutes. This elicited yet another laugh at the “Stupid American” from the peanut gallery, which I would learn to find amusing as the trip unfolded.
Riding the Euro-Rail
The train was basically subway-style with a restroom and I was not looking forward to this type of ride for the eight hours to France. Luckily it would prove to be merely one part of a three-legged trip. Anyway, this journey afforded a fine view of the countryside and sometimes of the freeway that I wished I had chosen to travel because this train thing seemed to be more hassle than the savings was worth. I was joined in my seat by a jovial blue-collar Spanish man at one point and this made me really regret forgetting my Spanish-English book. That would’ve been a wonderfully rewarding way to pass the time as he could’ve explained the odd forty-foot high trees planted orchard-style that were so prevalent. It was fun to communicate without words, though, in it’s own way. Towards the end of this leg, I was joined by two young French toughs smoking rolled cigarettes in a no-smoking car, smelling foul, talking loudly, and eyeing my Rolex a bit too closely. Alas, I emerged unscathed, but definitely annoyed.
Before the second train boarding, I had been up around twenty-four hours. This was just the occasion for some responsible drug use for an attitude adjustment. I repaired to a dingy restroom in this ancient depot and ingested a bit of a stimulant that shall remain nameless. It was just the ticket and I thank God for it, even though I’m agnostic. Anyway, we had a brief layover during which I attempted to purchase Marlboros, (because I wanted them), and a Coke, (because the order would be comprehended). As I was low-browing the price requested, my suspicion of gouging was confirmed by a young man at my side from California . He pointed out that I was about to pay nine dollars for the two items. I decided to go without and pissed the Frenchy behind the counter off in the process. C’est la vie! I managed to bum a smoke from a fellow in another shop with Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ By The Dock of the Bay” in the background, which was nice.
The next train was what one would hope for. The old-style locomotive featured individual compartments like a stage coach and had a walkway on one side that ran the length of the car. This allowed for stunning views of the western end of the French Riviera in perfect weather and this now wide-awake tourist was liking the idea. I struck up a convo with a cat in the French Foreign Legion who was really cool but never did fully explain what his job entailed. Part of the problem was he was half deaf, apparently he rode this train a lot because the decibel level in the ample tunnels must match a jet engine. Anyway, we sucked down cigs, (his), and water, (mine), and babbled about a variety of subjects. He was not pleased when I asked him how France could hate America after we saved their asses, but he didn’t hit me. He suggested that perhaps it’s because we are basically Europe’s children and we should show more respect for the horse that brought us, so to speak.
Unfortunately, the time on this leg of the trip whizzed by and I found myself barely making a connection onto the train that went into Marseilles. This meant that I was one of the last passengers to board and it left me in the middle of the packed smoking car with paltry ventilation. Obviously, I was in the mood for something other than cramped conditions at this point, but I put my nose in some magazines and soon found deep concentration and complimentary cigarette smoke. This was a ride that was long and certainly felt like it. I reached Marseilles around eleven and lugged my bags around as I interrogated the police regarding the locale of my friends from Atlanta’s hotel. After being laughed at again, I got taken for a ride in a cab. Literally and figuratively. I probably should’ve insisted on an English-speaking cabby, but the one I got seemed to know where we were going. The hotel ended up being out in the suburbs and the francs on the meter piled up. I was taken to the center of the town in search of, but nobody seemed to know where the joint was. We ended up being escorted to the relatively remote location by a cop, so I don’t think the driver was ripping me off on purpose. I was just glad to utilize some of the limited French I had retained, i.e., “mon dieu” for “my God”, and “mal vous”: “you bad”. Apparently it helped, because I got a discount on the final fare, although it was still quite steep. Luckily I was gravy-training off of the Mike and Mike, crashing on the floor of their room, so the sting of the cab price wasn’t so bad.
The party I was to meet was not in the house, but, remarkably enough, the dude at the desk gave me a key to the room anyway even thought I wasn’t listed as a guest. I soon was happily dozing on the floor after a draining day of travel---around twenty-seven hours, I believe. A pain in the ass, but an adventure and certainly better than sitting around the house in the U.S.A. The two Mike’s rolled in a couple of hours later and were somewhat surprised by my presence, but glad to see me.
When the “Leaders” are Lost…
The first day with no real thinking involved began with our party of seven, (the two Mike B’s, Peter Pak and his girl Angela, and Dr. & Mrs. Mike Sharon), dining not far from where my cab had asked for directions hours early. We got our first taste of indifferent French table service and agreed that the tipping system is the way to go after all. The French are apparently not hung up on having water with their meals, which I have a hard time understanding. Anyway, I took my first dump in a pay toilet---two francs for access to the can right there in the town square. From there we assumed a car-traveling order that would prevail for the duration: Mike Sharon driving the two couples with the three bachelors in the Passat following them. This was fine with us because we didn’t have to think, just turn around second a lot.
We were quite patient with the arrangement, indeed never really losing our temper because the three of us get along well and were laughing too much to get pissed off. I’d be interested to know what the mood was in the other car, but I didn’t see a lot of smiles besides Peter’s grin of embarrassment. He’s a very low-key, nice fellow who seemed to just roll with the punches. Angela was a go-getter, and apparently the navigator without the proper equipment. She also spoke the best French. Mike S. and his wife Amy made a curious pair because they didn’t appear to like each other very much. I thought they might be Muslim because Amy always walked at least two steps behind her husband at all times. I never saw them display any affection at all---not exactly the life of the party, these two. Amy had great legs, though.
Today’s sojourn found us twisting through the countryside looking for a winery tour. We did find a bunch of grape plants, but there wasn’t exactly a tour---merely a “danger” sign that might’ve said something about land mines. It was a nice day, though, as it was the entire trip---sunny with low humidity and a nice breeze. It was decided that we would head to the harbor in Marseilles after we made it back on the freeway thanks to some DOT workers that opened a weird gate for our convenience. We ended up killing a little time drinking “compression”, i.e. draft beer, and then caught a ferry over to an island with some spectacular views of the rocky terrain leading to the Mediterranean. More beers were drunk and money was lost to Mike S., who was bet that he couldn’t swim across a small bay in the chilly water. He did it with ease, thus relieving me of many a franc, but at least he picked up the tab. We made it back to the town before dark and proceeded to drink heavily and smoke Cuban cigars, (courtesy of Peter). It was quite a party for a Monday night because supporters of the two football teams set to play a World Cup ’98 semifinal on Tuesday were on full-blown benders. The Dutch were the coolest, but the Brazilians didn’t suck, either. They partied with each other as well, which was cool to see. The night didn’t go into ridiculous hours for our bunch, though, as we made it back to the hotel around one, with bigger doings on the horizon.
Spectacles Like No Other
This Monday night was not my favorite for sleeping, as I had little bruises on my hips from the night before, and a second stint on the floor proved to be quite uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I had a great time Tuesday and this fact proved to be a recurring theme over the course of the trip: sleep is overrated. I never caught up on sleep the entire time, but had a blast anyway---perhaps it’s all in one’s outlook. Anyway, speaking of mindset, these wacky Europeans have a different one on the beach, thank God. Our party of seven hit a beach somewhere east of Marseilles after still more difficulty with navigation. This directional problem contributed to our barreling through what resembled an asphalt bobsled chute that served numerous residences with gated driveways. No amusement park ride beat the feeling I got out of this little jaunt, I must say. We never did figure out if we were going the correct way on this decidedly one-way street and thankfully we never had to try it in reverse.
After a somewhat challenging walk over and around the rocky shoreline, the two Mike’s and I, (the others took the street), found ourselves on a beach as God intended. Not nice, smooth sand, mind you; the important stuff---topless babes! They were everywhere, and they reminded me of the strip club/steak analogy, actually. It was a lot like not eating for two days and then having a Filet Mignon presented to you, but you can’t touch it. Women looking so fine, and, assuming they would want me anyway, (a broad assumption?), I can’t speak their frickin’ language! I swear if my little French teacher my Junior year in high school had displayed photos of these beaches, I would’ve paid attention to his lessons! But, I digress. We proceeded to try to act normal dining beachside and then I participated in an international juggling clinic. I showed a few French the behind the back catch, etc., and they showed me some shifty hand moves that I never did figure out. After kicking “la balloon”, (a soccer ball), around for a while, we took off for showers before hitting the World Cup semi-final between Holland and Brazil.
The party rolled into a campground that charged 20ff for a shower, but somehow Mike and I ducked this charge without even trying. I was happy to have packed a hand towel to dab away sweat at the Phish shows because it came in handy here as well. With a fresh feeling we headed towards what on any other trip would’ve been the highlight---the second biggest soccer game in the world.
There had been speculation over the past few weeks regarding the fate of the sixth ticket that Peter was holding for the game. At first it was assumed that either I got this coveted ducat , or I was going to be on the outside looking in. As it turned out, there were many tickets to be had off the street and the question became whether I would get to sit with my pals or not. Alas, Amy, who basically hates soccer, used the ticket instead of, God forbid, hanging by herself for three hours. Everything turned out fine, though, as I obtained a billet outside for 1800ff, ($300), and found myself twenty-two rows back, directly behind the goal at which the penalty kicks would ultimately be directed. Sure, I paid a ton for the ticket, but I doubt ten years from now I’m going to have memories about what that $300 could’ve bought me. At this point I ingested a generous amount of a hallucinogenic that shall remain nameless to add a bit more flair to one of the most festive occasions on earth.
I found the game to be most entertaining, to say the least, even though I missed a goal by the celebrated Brazilian Ronaldo coming right at us to start the second half. Luckily Holland scored and made the electricity in the air soar for the rest of the game. I was on the edge of my seat amidst an assortment of fans that resembled the United Nations and high-fiving all of them when it became clear that the game-deciding penalty kicks would be coming right at us. The South Americans won, and the emotion and sheer spectacle as the Brazil team made it’s way to the main cheering section after the game cannot be overstated---truly amazing. The crazy thing was that it would’ve been even better if Holland had won, because I was on their side of the stadium, and they look like me, for whatever that’s worth! My walk out of the stadium and back to the meeting place was quite daunting and long, but I finally found the two Mike’s after their worrisome half-hour wait and we were on our way to St. Tropez.
This leg of the trip went pretty well as we zipped through the bright moonlight on a perfectly cool night in the South of France. We missed the exit, but nobody bitched about it because we were in full adventure mode and more-or-less on the right track, for once. We got a laugh out of the road to the resort because it appeared to be an old-fashioned video game because there was no yellow line in the middle of the road and broken white ones on the side. We found the hotel easily enough, taking for granted the non-existent traffic along the way. After the clerk from the ultra-plush $400 a night hotel did everything but perform fallatio on us, I found myself on a hideaway bed that was a just reward after two nights on the floor. I was a bit bummed that I would have to leave this good life tomorrow for Barcelona to catch the Phish shows, but I still slept well, to be sure.
Playground Of The Rich and Famous
The next day started with me deciding to eat my tickets for that night’s Phish show and stay in the lap of luxury an extra day. I enjoyed hitting the hot tub on the private terrace before downing a very French breakfast poolside with the rest of the party. We then headed into the village of shops and amazingly beautiful, high-profile women. I managed to lose the party in pursuit of a splendid mademoiselle and, ultimately, “tobacs”, the elusive cigarettes that everybody in Europe smokes but only selected stores in France sell. I got a joke for my act out of this smoking thing that goes as follows: “everybody in Europe smokes. I mean, my buddy and I got in an elevator, he pushes the button for the third floor and nothing happens. It turns out he’d pushed the button for the third lighter on the elevator!” But seriously, folks, I wandered around this playground for the rich, checking out the twenty million dollar yachts and such until finding Mike1 and deciding to go play golf.
After overcoming the horrible directions to the golf course, (greens fees included with the room), we made it for our tee time a bit late. Luckily we had allowed time for the fuck-up because we’d learned that this is a good policy for moronic Americans in Europe. We managed a set of rental clubs with bad grips, but this mattered little because the course was nothing short of amazing. In nearly perfect condition, it was in the midst of stunning mountain peaks, trees and vegetation novel to this American. To sum it up, basically every hole was the “T.V. hole”. There were lots of greens in the foreground with a mountain twenty miles away in the background. This, coupled with “yardages” in metres, made distances pretty hard to judge. I didn’t play particularly well, but it mattered little because life was hard to bitch about anything at this point, especially because we were the only people out there due to the soccer game. We raced out of there beating the darkness, but in serious jeopardy of missing the first half of the France-Croatia semi-final game. After narrowly avoiding putting the wrong gas in the rental car, we made tracks back to the hotel listening to the game on French radio, (put la balloon in cage!). We hurried through our grooming processes at the hotel and then donned our finest, albeit severely wrinkled, cosmo clothes.
We found a pizza restaurant that somehow wasn’t as packed as the others and had a seat for the rest of the game and food and drink. France won and we found ourselves in the midst of a bonus “party central”, and this didn’t suck. After failing to hit on a couple of women, (something I may regret until the day I die), we tried to fulfill our obligation to meet the others at another bar. Alas, we had waited too long and they were gone, so the two musketeers pressed on to the avenue by the yachts to celebrate with the natives. It was a party much more creative than when the Braves won the World Series, and the French hadn’t even won the tournament yet! Anyway, we saddled up to the Café Paris on the waterfront and, after much hand-wringing, found ourselves following a bottle of champagne Mike bought to a table of two Dutch babes. Let’s just say wild, swapping sex soon followed and leave it at that. We got back at what would soon be considered a ridiculously early 3:00 a.m. after a mighty fine day. I can’t say I missed out by failing to make the Phish show in Spain, that’s for sure.
Don’t Believe The Florist When He Tells You That The Roses Are Free
This travel day began with a half-hour wait in the parking lot for everyone to get their shit together, which is definitely the down-side of traveling in a group. We were also treated to a traffic jam heading away from the town, which I’m sure is de riguer. Anyway, the group traveled to Marseilles’s airport so Mike and I could get a car to Barcelona while the others went north to Geneva for a wedding. We were lucky to obtain a little diesel Citroen with a multi-colored interior, no a/c but good gas mileage. The trip to Barcelona was just over four hours because we did about 150 km/h most of the way. This put us in town with an hour and a half to find a hotel and get to the show. Unfortunately, we had no map and assumed that we could “wing it” by simply finding any hotel, getting a room and directions to the show.
Let’s put it this way: Barcelona is a big city. A big city with a lot of traffic. A big city with huge areas that can be driven in for a couple hours without seeing one hotel. A big city in which seemingly nobody can speak English or standard Spanish. Suffice it to say, we two idiots almost lost our patience and found ourselves at the airport for directions later rather than sooner. At this point we were more than happy to take the closest hotel and call it a night because we were a tad bit exhausted. After overcoming counting off .3 km as actually a full 3 km, we finally found the nearest hotel, a sold-out sloppy-looking four star. We eventually settled for a bizarre motel a few miles west of the airport and called it a night because the only flight Mike could find out was early the next morning. This was by far the worst day of the trip, but I was optimistic about the next day, so it was all good.
The Most Beautiful Girls In The World
After a few hours of sleep, we were off to the airport around six-thirty. This was fine with me because I was all about getting into town before the traffic cranked up. I made it to the pension the Phish message board group had rented at which I was entitled to stay in for the past two nights with relative ease. I tried to park the car in a bizarre garage that required that I leave my car locked in an elevator contraption that I was not familiar with. This was a problem because nobody around spoke English to put my mind at ease about the method in question, so I reconsidered and got my car back and continued my odyssey. The next garage was very American, so I left it there, despite the fact that it would cost more to lodge the car overnight than my body. It turned out that the high price was due to the fact that the garage was right around the corner from a remarkable thirteenth century cathedral, which drew many a tourist and made for a fine landmark when I needed the Citroen the next day. I was now near enough hotels to find some English and get to las pension spartan with relative ease. I finally met my online Phish-fan friend at the room and he was nice enough to have left me the long double bed all this time. It was now around eight-thirty a.m., which called for a few blasts of a stimulant other than caffeine to get this Barcelona experience off on the right foot.
I found myself to be merely one block away from the famous La Ramblas, a pedestrian boulevard with countless café dining areas, newsstands, and vendor booths. There were also jugglers, magicians, live human statues and jesters. Most peculiar was the number of bird vendors along this stretch. There had to be twenty different places, each with probably one hundred pet birds for sale. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I’m on vacation, I want to share it with a new-found feathered friend!?! Perhaps a city ordinance stated that bird vending was limited to Las Ramblas or something, I don’t know. If any of you go visit this place someday, please ask and get back to me.
Anyway, I wandered over to the aquarium at the harbor a few blocks away, among other places, and then noticed that the attractive women were starting their days. I hung out chatting up fellow Phish fans from the States, getting filled in on what I missed the rest of the tour and so forth. It certainly was nice to have identifiable English-speaking people around, that’s for sure. I toured the previously-mentioned cathedral, and it was nothing short of epic. The architectural feat of those from the 13th century was truly mind-boggling. Later I roused my roommate, who turned out to be a pretty boring dork, but at least he wasn’t stupid. We walked about while I raved about the level of gorgeous members of the opposite sex in this town. At one point I posed the rhetorical question: “How could the girl-watching get any better?” The only good line he uttered the whole time I was around him followed: “Let’s go to the beach.”
We walked about a mile past a huge paved park and a lot of cool-looking apartment buildings before finding a wonderful, large, American-style beach with nice sand, unlike the rocks of the South of France that I’d recently seen. There was a bar right by the beach that had to be the original use for the telephoto lens and we snagged a table closest to the sunbathing Goddesses and proceeded to toast each and every one of them.
This place was, no lie, ten times better than St. Tropez. If there are better-looking women in the world, I’d sure like to know where. Unfortunately, my side-kick was something other than Casanova and, seeing that I need all the help I can get, I was merely a spectator to all this, not a participant. At least I’m now motivated to learn Spanish. The afternoon became early evening and we walked over to ‘92’s Olympic Park and the Ritz-Carlton, (which we’ll visit later), to catch a cab back to Las Ramblas because we had a big night ahead of us and wanted to conserve energy.
Phish, a few thousand miles from home..
A cab took the two of us to the concert venue a bit across town in plenty of time to socialize around the warehouse-type building. It was fun to chat up a bunch of maniacal Phish fans, especially the blue-eyed blonde ones. Anyway, the show started for the assembled 1,000 or so about half an hour late. This kind of sucked because they had a curfew this night so the club could convert into a huge discotheque , so we wanted to get things started. The first set was brief and plagued by sound problems that lingered into the second set, but thankfully things worked out and the boys delivered a stellar 24th shoe that I’ve seen. The crowd was wonderfully attentive except a pair of geeks right behind me who I had to tell to shut up. Seriously, why in the fuck would you come all the way to Spain to see a show if you’re going to talk? Unbelievable! Speaking of unbelievable, this would describe what the little square piece of paper was that enhanced this little scene. After the show I floated social-butterfly style through the drained post-concert crowd and forgot that I might run into my roommate. Sure enough, the dork is floating around, wearing sunglasses, of all things! I chatted this “me!, me!, me!”, type-guy up as long as I could stand and then made my get-away for the center of town on foot.
I wandered and found myself on the beach by the Ritz soon enough. The journey there was pretty fun, as the locals were out partying in the numerous nightspots and I saw a “gang” of guys on mopeds get cited for having no helmets. Everybody in Europe seems to have a two-wheeler, which is logical for sure. Things get shady because they tend to whip in between cars on the broken white lines at break-neck speeds, but, hell, it must work for them. Anyway, I wandered down to the full-moonlit beach and had a smoke or two to go with my profound thoughts. I then headed back by the hotel to take a cab to Las Ramblas, but was sidetracked by a guy I mistook for English, but was actually Russian, from Moscow. He was very cool and we spoke for quite awhile about football, (very emphatic about the Cup needing to stay in Europe), and traffic, because he drove here as well, but never got lost. He stressed that if you can drive in Moscow, anywhere else is child’s play. Luckily I aimlessly followed him down to the most amazing party spot I’ve ever seen.
Picture if you will…a quarter-mile long building with an outdoor corridor running through the middle. On one side is dance floor after dance floor featuring every imaginable style of music, (until you’ve seen a bunch of Spanish dance to “Surfin’ U.S.A., you haven’t lived), and a smattering of ice cream and snack shops in between. On the other side are twenty café-style restaurant/bars, side by side, that are serving to a full house of all ages at three in the morning. Throw in the most beautiful women in the world dressed to the nines everywhere you look and you’re just about with me.
I lost my Russian friend as we passed the first disco and I bid farewell and u-turned into it. Now, I may not be able to speak Spanish, but I certainly was kicking out a communiqué that all these women could understand on this dance floor. This tie-dyed freak was not exactly wanting for dance partners as a result! Unfortunately, it was somewhat humid and the clubs were packed, so my profusely sweating person was soon drenched and, as we all know, this is simply bad form. I was reduced to dancing on the other side of the windows to these places with other passerby, a method that proved acceptable. Given my psychological state I found myself hitting on every girl that looked at me twice, but I was unable to find one that admitted to knowing English. C’est la vie. Around three, I had had enough of seeing these unattainable women, and the party in general, so I decided to get a cab. We edged towards Las Ramblas through others just pulling in to start partying---and it’s three! I also noticed a group of beautiful girls dressed for clubbing, heels and the whole bit, riding their Vespas with helmets on! Not something you see every day.
Got back near my pension and the party was still in full swing there. I finally found some English-speaking Spanish people, along with a bunch of people that were at the Phish show, so, les bons temps rollez! When the sun came up, it occurred to me to head back to the room to bid farewell to my roomie and get my stuff together for my trip to the airport. He tried to sell me a story about meeting Trey, (the guitar player), in an elevator apparently to make me regret ditching him, but his story didn’t hold up even under a half-hearted cross-examination. I was cordial to him, though, as I finally caught the best view of him---walking the other directions with his bags! I still had time to kill before my early afternoon flight, so I headed to pay my last respects to the best beach in the world. Against all odds, there were sugary senioritas out there at nine a.m.! When these people sleep, I have no idea. Finally left for the airport with a vow to return sooner rather than later.
Negatives Turned Into Positives
Made the flight with ease while simply carrying the crutches, the braces and bandage in my backpack, because it was only a short flight to Paris. A problem arose, however, so the plane was delayed fifty minutes, which would prove to be just enough time for me to miss my connection. This appeared to a bad bounce as I waited an hour in the re-ticketing line and then obtained a nearby hotel room for the night, courtesy of Air France. I was looking forward to getting a lot of sleep before my flight the next morning, but I discovered that the World Cup consolation game was being staged that night right up the train tracks in Gay Parie, so what the hell! I got a brief nap in and hit the rails to the ancient stadium that’s name now escapes me in the district that does likewise. I scored a ticket for a relatively paltry 800ff and was in another epic match that another billion people were probably watching on television. It was quite an entertaining show, even though the stakes were essentially nil. At least I got to party with the wonderful Dutch one more time. For some reason I was tired after the match, so I resisted the City of Light’s very obvious temptations and got back to the hotel for some hard-core shut-eye.
The knee-brace made an encore and the crutches were returned to their appropriate length for this day’s eight-hour flight back. I had learned my lesson this time and took it easy with the full-scale crutch walk until I got to the gate. Unfortunately business class was packed to the gills and they weren’t even mentioning first class, so I settled for the front row coach. This proved to be an even better bounce than I could’ve dreamed due to the presence of Isabella, a lovely brunette from Barcelona who was on her way to Atlanta for six weeks to immerse herself in the culture. Tour guide? I can do that! The down side of this was that a nice enough French guy with bad breath was between us, and that made my sales pitch difficult to get over. I did give her my number, however, so I can expect to never hear from her.*
The crutches allowed me to duck a very lengthy line at immigration in the ATL, which was nice. The luggage cart debuted as a new prop and was good to lean on to keep the ruse going after I’d folded up the crutches and put them in the bag. My new roommate Brad met me at the exit to the parking lot, which was nice, and celebrated the miracle of healing with me once I got in his car for the ride home and the France-Brazil final on T.V.
In retrospect, I’d say I needed more time across the pond with less people with me from America. One other person would be sufficient because when there are more than that, I tended to hang with them and not converse with others, which is pretty much kills the whole concept of learning about other cultures. A good trip in so many ways and even the bad parts taught me lessons on how to make it better next time, which will hopefully be sooner rather than later.
* Indeed, Isabella never called.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Hooking up with my Mistress!
I saw my mistress the other day, and it was divine because it was completely unexpected. The forecast was for rain---90% chance, to be exact, and nearby counties were under flood warnings. Foul weather does not agree with the love of my life, or me either, for that matter. So I was resigned to the thought of sitting around watching football instead of the possibility of a thrilling rendezvous. Thankfully modern technology intervened and made my day.
I kept a close eye on the weather.com on the off-chance I'd be able to get out after all. You're familiar with the screen: the patches of green, yellows, and reds that float along in time-lapse fashion, giving you some idea of the intentions of the wet stuff. Zoom out, note the time of the pictures, and plan accordingly. It's the high-tech version of looking out the window and looking at the dog and other animals for odd, weather-fearing behavior. Suddenly things were looking up! The north part of city seemed to have a mystical force field that kept the rain at bay to the west. The bands were simply moving north and staying away, so it was on!
I threw on the appropriate attire and zipped over to the park not far from my house. Predictably it was nearly empty, which is always a best-case scenario for our meetings. Seeing that the weather was touch and go, the desk clerk just handed my a key and encouraged me to see how much we could get in before the rain came. No, this wasn't a some bizarre outdoor hourly motel for cheaters, I was at my local golf course!
Golf is my lover and mistress. She can be frustrating, spiteful, petulant, and everything else, but I know one thing: she's always there for me. No matter the ups and downs of life and love with the human species, the game is there to take my mind off of all of these troubles. Sometimes I risk wasting time, money, or even jobs to enjoy moments with golf, but when I'm rewarded with the perfect outing, nothing in the world is more glorious! This was one of those occasions.
I grabbed a cart, and off into the free-wheeling round I went. The sky was gray, and the wind was intermittently gusting, but it was seventy degrees, and the course was almost all mine. No sharp angles of late-fall sunlight to annoy me, and enough wind to grant more of a challenge, but nothing too drastic. More importantly, a recent slight grip adjustment had me hitting it as clean as ever. This was one of those times where the game paid me back for five-hour plus rounds,when every shot was a questionable proposition , and I paid five times today's green fee. After launching my first three wood off the tee that Rory would gladly take, I knew it was there for me today. Pure thoughts and conditions meant each time I was over the ball the question wasn't if the shot would be good, but simply how good.
I was a kid again, except with access to a cart (!) that seemed like such a distant dream back in my adolescence, and allowed me to squeeze in a ton of shots in two hours. I was moving up to the ladies tee on short par fours to make them ridiculous par threes instead and shooting at the wrong greens to play with distances. I accepted applause from the random guy nearby who watched me stake one and realized that I was creating my own hole. We were in on the same secret today and loving it! The zone I enjoyed included flop shots off tight lies, because I could do no wrong and allowed very soft hands to simply make the shot they know how to make. It was almost like my Zen -like zone was keeping the rain to the west on its own. These are bonus times a golfer lives for, and they don't come along every day. I'm too broke to belong to a club and I live in a big city, so for me these days are even more rare.
I'm single at the moment, and this can be a lonely feeling at times. On the other hand, I can drop everything and seize moments like I did this day and not have to apologize to anyone. Guilt-free ball striking is almost as thrilling as a new love affair if you ask me, and it's a lot easier to find. I'm not sure if I'll ever marry, but I know that I'll always have a mistress. She's a little white ball that doesn't care who I am, sticks that serve as extensions of my body, and a walk in a park with a point. As long as I can walk so one will ever be able to take her away from me, and she'll never take half of my possessions. Life is good.
I kept a close eye on the weather.com on the off-chance I'd be able to get out after all. You're familiar with the screen: the patches of green, yellows, and reds that float along in time-lapse fashion, giving you some idea of the intentions of the wet stuff. Zoom out, note the time of the pictures, and plan accordingly. It's the high-tech version of looking out the window and looking at the dog and other animals for odd, weather-fearing behavior. Suddenly things were looking up! The north part of city seemed to have a mystical force field that kept the rain at bay to the west. The bands were simply moving north and staying away, so it was on!
I threw on the appropriate attire and zipped over to the park not far from my house. Predictably it was nearly empty, which is always a best-case scenario for our meetings. Seeing that the weather was touch and go, the desk clerk just handed my a key and encouraged me to see how much we could get in before the rain came. No, this wasn't a some bizarre outdoor hourly motel for cheaters, I was at my local golf course!
Golf is my lover and mistress. She can be frustrating, spiteful, petulant, and everything else, but I know one thing: she's always there for me. No matter the ups and downs of life and love with the human species, the game is there to take my mind off of all of these troubles. Sometimes I risk wasting time, money, or even jobs to enjoy moments with golf, but when I'm rewarded with the perfect outing, nothing in the world is more glorious! This was one of those occasions.
I grabbed a cart, and off into the free-wheeling round I went. The sky was gray, and the wind was intermittently gusting, but it was seventy degrees, and the course was almost all mine. No sharp angles of late-fall sunlight to annoy me, and enough wind to grant more of a challenge, but nothing too drastic. More importantly, a recent slight grip adjustment had me hitting it as clean as ever. This was one of those times where the game paid me back for five-hour plus rounds,when every shot was a questionable proposition , and I paid five times today's green fee. After launching my first three wood off the tee that Rory would gladly take, I knew it was there for me today. Pure thoughts and conditions meant each time I was over the ball the question wasn't if the shot would be good, but simply how good.
I was a kid again, except with access to a cart (!) that seemed like such a distant dream back in my adolescence, and allowed me to squeeze in a ton of shots in two hours. I was moving up to the ladies tee on short par fours to make them ridiculous par threes instead and shooting at the wrong greens to play with distances. I accepted applause from the random guy nearby who watched me stake one and realized that I was creating my own hole. We were in on the same secret today and loving it! The zone I enjoyed included flop shots off tight lies, because I could do no wrong and allowed very soft hands to simply make the shot they know how to make. It was almost like my Zen -like zone was keeping the rain to the west on its own. These are bonus times a golfer lives for, and they don't come along every day. I'm too broke to belong to a club and I live in a big city, so for me these days are even more rare.
I'm single at the moment, and this can be a lonely feeling at times. On the other hand, I can drop everything and seize moments like I did this day and not have to apologize to anyone. Guilt-free ball striking is almost as thrilling as a new love affair if you ask me, and it's a lot easier to find. I'm not sure if I'll ever marry, but I know that I'll always have a mistress. She's a little white ball that doesn't care who I am, sticks that serve as extensions of my body, and a walk in a park with a point. As long as I can walk so one will ever be able to take her away from me, and she'll never take half of my possessions. Life is good.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
My Doomed Phone
So the cops have my good phone, and they have possessed it since April 8th. I bought a crappy flip phone in lieu of getting it back, a unit with the old school keypad that makes texting a chore. Sadly, the wheels of justice in Asheville move quite slowly, so eight months later my case is still unsettled, and I was still rocking the shitty phone. Throughout all this time it hadn't occurred to me until few days ago that I could probably find a phone retired by one of my friends that featured a full keyboard. What with technology being so disposable anymore, perfectly functional phones are relegated to backup duty all the time. So I found one---my friend Jim's bulky old Samsung that was missing the back that kept the battery secure, but the price was right: free. All I had to do was take it to the Sprint store to get it cranking with a prepaid plan, because my ass is broke with ghetto credit. This is normally something I would put off a few days, and this was no exception. But a funny thing happened to get me motivated.
My old phone was set on vibrate, and placed on the dresser next to my bed. Normally the ringer would probably be on, but lately a bill collector seems to think he's doubling as my alarm clock. Also, I don't always remember to turn off the vibrate after AA meetings, so I'll miss calls here and there. Never once did I think this would lead to the death of my flip phone, but such was the case. I heard it rattling when half asleep in the early daylight, but ignored it. Bad move. When I rose to face the day a couple hours later I picked up my cup of water off the floor only to find a marinating phone. It had fallen off the dresser directly into the cup.
My first task was to remove the battery and try to dry it out a bit, but of course I pushed a couple of buttons just in case it worked anyway. (give me a break---I had just woken up!). I then went to YouTube to read what to do about a wet phone, and step one was to not push any buttons, lest it short circuit and guarantee the phone is toast. Oops! In any event, this episode obviously drastically increased the urgency to visit the Sprint store---good thing I procured the replacement phone a few days earlier!
The sales guy was polite to not laugh in my face when I showed him the phone, and pointed out that they don't offer broke-ass prepaid deals. He suggested I take my brick, err, phone to Metro PCS, or some other carrier that doesn't offer free roaming, etc. Luckily I was in a shopping complex that also hosts a Best Buy, so I figured I'd drop in there to see if they had a better option. I was happy to find this next store not completely overrun with Black Friday shoppers, and I was able to quickly find more phone options. Turns out had I researched at all I would've learned that a brand new phone costs, quite literally in one case, nothing.
The phone model I drowned was $9.99, and came with a prepaid credit of ten dollars, which made it essentially free. In addition, there was an off-brand, (Pantech), model that had a full keyboard and was only $59.99, with a ten dollar airtime credit of it's own. It was here that I also learned that I could easily top my $1.99 per day deal, (not including texts), I currently used on Verizon with a flat rate of $50, including unlimited texting. Now I had a decision to make: should I simply replace my old phone essentially for free and assume I'm going “up the river” in a month or two anyway? Or do I figure at the rate it's going I'll be out another three months and get the phone with the keyboard because my new calling plan will pay for it in two or three months? Did you plan on reading this sort of minutia when you started this? Sorry about that.
After much deliberation I pried myself out of my mega-saving mode and splurged for the $59.99 phone. No more dismissing incoming texts because I didn't feel like the cumbersome task of typing back, and no more worrying about the cost of photos sent to me that I couldn't see on the tiny screen anyway. So ultimately what began as an ominous sign of a crappy day to come---my phone in a cup of water---ended with a solution to my existing phone keyboard problem with a minimal cash outlay. Sure I lost all my numbers, but those aren't too hard to recover these days anyway.
What's most impressive to me is I didn't lose my shit over it and worry---just sort of took it in stride. I also enjoyed having a wacky story to tell all day, and even the Verizon guy had never heard of this one. The guy in the store tried to sell me a warranty for my phone “in case this happens again”. I told him if my phone ever falls into a cup of water again I'll come in and let him kick me in the nuts. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid. And you can text me whenever you want, and I'll text you back---maybe even with a photo!
My old phone was set on vibrate, and placed on the dresser next to my bed. Normally the ringer would probably be on, but lately a bill collector seems to think he's doubling as my alarm clock. Also, I don't always remember to turn off the vibrate after AA meetings, so I'll miss calls here and there. Never once did I think this would lead to the death of my flip phone, but such was the case. I heard it rattling when half asleep in the early daylight, but ignored it. Bad move. When I rose to face the day a couple hours later I picked up my cup of water off the floor only to find a marinating phone. It had fallen off the dresser directly into the cup.
My first task was to remove the battery and try to dry it out a bit, but of course I pushed a couple of buttons just in case it worked anyway. (give me a break---I had just woken up!). I then went to YouTube to read what to do about a wet phone, and step one was to not push any buttons, lest it short circuit and guarantee the phone is toast. Oops! In any event, this episode obviously drastically increased the urgency to visit the Sprint store---good thing I procured the replacement phone a few days earlier!
The sales guy was polite to not laugh in my face when I showed him the phone, and pointed out that they don't offer broke-ass prepaid deals. He suggested I take my brick, err, phone to Metro PCS, or some other carrier that doesn't offer free roaming, etc. Luckily I was in a shopping complex that also hosts a Best Buy, so I figured I'd drop in there to see if they had a better option. I was happy to find this next store not completely overrun with Black Friday shoppers, and I was able to quickly find more phone options. Turns out had I researched at all I would've learned that a brand new phone costs, quite literally in one case, nothing.
The phone model I drowned was $9.99, and came with a prepaid credit of ten dollars, which made it essentially free. In addition, there was an off-brand, (Pantech), model that had a full keyboard and was only $59.99, with a ten dollar airtime credit of it's own. It was here that I also learned that I could easily top my $1.99 per day deal, (not including texts), I currently used on Verizon with a flat rate of $50, including unlimited texting. Now I had a decision to make: should I simply replace my old phone essentially for free and assume I'm going “up the river” in a month or two anyway? Or do I figure at the rate it's going I'll be out another three months and get the phone with the keyboard because my new calling plan will pay for it in two or three months? Did you plan on reading this sort of minutia when you started this? Sorry about that.
After much deliberation I pried myself out of my mega-saving mode and splurged for the $59.99 phone. No more dismissing incoming texts because I didn't feel like the cumbersome task of typing back, and no more worrying about the cost of photos sent to me that I couldn't see on the tiny screen anyway. So ultimately what began as an ominous sign of a crappy day to come---my phone in a cup of water---ended with a solution to my existing phone keyboard problem with a minimal cash outlay. Sure I lost all my numbers, but those aren't too hard to recover these days anyway.
What's most impressive to me is I didn't lose my shit over it and worry---just sort of took it in stride. I also enjoyed having a wacky story to tell all day, and even the Verizon guy had never heard of this one. The guy in the store tried to sell me a warranty for my phone “in case this happens again”. I told him if my phone ever falls into a cup of water again I'll come in and let him kick me in the nuts. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid. And you can text me whenever you want, and I'll text you back---maybe even with a photo!
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