The plane I took from Salt Lake must have been a rental--or stolen--because the SouthWest staff hadn't taken very good care of it.
The flight attendants looked like Loretta Lynn roadies and the pilot looked like a blond Shemp.
And waiting for me in my front seat-pocket, was a sock.
At least I'm home until tomorrow.
Emmett barked at me when I walked in, and then he showed me all his toys. It was great.
My first week in Provo: done. And brutal, I can't wait to get back to back to LA (for 36 hours).
I sit in the Salt Lake City Airport connecting to the net via Boingo wireless for the low price of $7.95.
My boss said we might charter a jet for the remaining trips back and forth (probably going back to Provo every week until mid-April)
He may have been joking, I hope not.
Mormons may be a little kooky, but damn if they aren't the nicest, least pretentious people in the country. They use "heck" and "dang" without irony and when I'm sarcastic they gaze in wonderment as if I were a five-year old quoting Chekhov. In Russian.
For example, I passed on a packed elevator not wanting to tempt fate and get stuck on a Friday afternoon; a woman nearby decided similarly, and in her best Pollyanna commented,
"Don't feel like gettin' stuck on the elevator, do ya?? Not this Friday, do ya?"
"Nope, not this Friday, though I have had Fridays where I have; you just never know. Catch me next Friday and I might get myself stuck. I'm very whimsical like that."
She reacted like I had just picked her up and taken her hang-gliding.
"Wow!" she gasped, "I bet you don't!! Hahaha."
Nice lady, though. I'm a douche.
I miss Emmett.
Not that I plan to sleep-late while in Utah (being here for work, and all), but I couldn't even if I wanted to.
At around 8 am, the spirit of Joseph Smith peers through my window (seen above-right in inset photo) and seers my retinas. I can only assume this is punishment for my consumption of hot, caffeinated drinks.
Whatever, Joey Smith, I like my coffee like I like my women--bitter and old.
Alternate joke (from Patton Oswald), I like my coffee like I like my women--slung over the back of a mule and dragged through the Andes.
Liz is under the impression that the Kirk Douglas Theater Marquee looks like a giant alabaster phallus (btw "alabaster phallus" is a fun thing to say). I disagree, positing that while, yes, it does share a resemblance, it doesn't have a ballsack so it's not as pornographic as she maintains.
Here is our discussion that transpired this evening as we walked Emmett:
Liz, "Well, there's the giant cock"
Me, "Did you say cock or cop?"
"Why would I say giant cop?"
"Why would you say either?"
"Because of that .... thing" She points at the marquee with her crooked index finger (Liz has a crooked index finger, it's very cute).
"It doesn't look like a cock"
"Yes it does, it's a long white shaft with a base leading up to a wide head...the only thing that would make it more obvious is if something shot out of the top"
"Like glitter?"
"Exactly"
Then she repeatedly called Emmett a Dinosaur Head because he has a giant cranium.
Anyway...
I am sitting in our LA apartment enjoying the lovely weather and hating this skanky carpet (our carpeting is so skanky, it makes your feet black. I swear.) We're having it shampooed tomorrow.
It's so gross.
Anyway, We're still waiting for our furniture to arrive so I'm hunched here in a lawn-chair with my keyboard on my lap. Not a posture conducive with a long post. In lieu of magical story-telling, I think many readers will find the following pictures entertaining - what follows are four pictures that capture Liz's emotional devolution as her nerves became increasingly frayed with each passing mile of our recent road trip/move.
In the first picture (to the far right) she is happy and excited to be in the car with me and Emmett the Dinosaur Head. I expected this mood to continue. The three subsequent shots reveal just how wrong I was. She shortly thereafter became annoyed with me, then she became hostile right before finally going completely insane.
It was very troubling.
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I also took this picture of Emmett, Marty and Abby's leg.
I've been pretty lax w/r/t posting lately and for that I am sorry - but my excuses are many and they are convincing.
For one thing, for the past 2 days Emmett has had the Hershey squirts. This condition has required many walks that have weighed heavily on me. The walks have also taxed my ability to pretend-to-be-distracted-by-something-as-Emmett-does-an-impression
of-a-salad-shooter-on-someone's-flower-bed.
Emmett's HS's have cleared up so I can post.
But there are other things....
Earlier this week (Monday and Tuesday) I took a whirlwind trip to LA to look for jobs.
"Jobs? Why?"
"Liz and I are moving there?"
"But you never mentioned that, you fart-knocker"
"I know, I know - but it wasn't exactly written in stone and plus I had people that I had to tell directly (like my mom) before she read it on my blog - you understand"
"Yeah - did you find a job?"
"I did"
"Any good?"
"Not bad"
"Cool - Quiet Library is staying together right?"
"Of course, and that deal we have is inching toward completion - we're all really pumped"
"Are the guys in QL annoyed that you're moving?"
"Kind of"
Anyway, so last week I was in LA and I stayed with my friend Heather and her two roommates. Not only did she let me stay with her but she drove me to my job interviews and to check out a couple of apartments.
Heather is pretty bad-ass. She's also moving to Hawaii.
OK, so Here's the Fucking Deal
On Saturday (7/14) Liz and I are having our stuff shipped to LA and then packing Emmett, Jake and Holly into a van and driving to the West Coast. This is important as:
1) It's an idiotic way to travel and
2) I will be posting very infrequently but
3) I will totally be posting to my photo blog located here
So I will be posting this week, albeit intermittently, so take this with you...
I'm leaving New York...
Quiet Library remains intact, nay, successful...
Jake is a bastard...
Emmett's Hershey squirts have been corrected (rectified?)...
Liz and Emmett are getting along...
We are very excited...off to Los Angeles...
Last month, Abby's cats (Zippy and Katie) Liz, Liz's dad (hereafter, The Colonel) and I piled into a van full of our hero, Abby's, furniture, clothes, etc. (read: crap) and drove from New York City to Texas. It was like a road-trip rendering of the baby-boomer political movement. Fresh and idealistic before decaying into Red State, deep-fried, syrupy greed topped with giant hats and giant-er Texas hair.
The Colonel, in order to be thrifty both in time and expense, said we should drive straight through - no stopping. This was fine with me as I don't drive. It also satisfied my sense of irony as the van we piloted slurped up roughly one gallon of petrol per mile. I think shipping the goods on the backs of black market Bengal tigers would have proven thriftier than $3-gallons of gas for 42 hours. But hey, it was on the Colonel's dime.
And so we drove. And drove and drove and drove.
I should point out that I don't like to drive, I'm not good at driving, and I avoid it all all costs. So it was just Liz and The Colonel operating the vehicle. And this vehicle is huge. I sat in the back and listened to Johnny Cash, ate beef jerky and chocolate bars, and nodded in and out of sleep. I did this for about 40 hours.
The. Only. Way. To. Travel.
Remember in Paradisio when Dante ascends to heaven and cannot represent its escalating glory save for describing the increasing light? That's what this was like.
With each passing hour, minute, mile, I did nothing but sit, eat beef jerky in a very comfortable seat, and look out the window, listening to Band of Horses and The Gourds and Sufjan Stevens, and that "Just Breathe" song from Grey's Anatomy (what? I like the song). More chocolate, more sleep, more beauty, more beef jerky, more everything.
Gloria in excelsis Deo
I, being someone who has read my share of Faulkner (rather, as someone who has read that I should read some Faulkner), was expecting to see my share of run-down southern depression. I was also, however, expecting to see some romance. You know, ladies on the front porch with juleps; damp, swaying pines; sycamores moist with dew; amber waves of something that could be ground and rendered into bread etc. Alas, the South is, as Cervantes would say, a total shit-hole.
It's like the entire region is made of molded plastic and tarp and Cracker Barrels and "ironic" black Sambo figurines. And you know what? Southerners aren't friendly. That's a bullshit myth. New Yorkers are way, WAY friendlier than Southerners.
This is how someone from the South says "go fuck yourself": "Ahm sarry buut ah can't halp uuu."
This is how someone from New York says "go fuck yourself": "Go fuck yourself."
Hey South, don't look at me like I have nine heads when I don't want sweet tea.
Ok, anyway... more Southern ire
I waited tables for a long time, and found through experience, that Southerners never tip; or do so, but poorly. I attributed this phenom to their presumed knowledge that I thought them a bunch of toothless rubes who would rather be fishing ants out of a stump, than eating actual human food.
This is not the case. Rather, it's not the whole story...
<--- Wait, before I forget, the Midtown Swap Meet is (FINALLY) under new management. (Those morons that used to run the place couldn't run a spit-swap, much less one for the fine-jewelery set.) We passed this place outside of Waco. You will notice that it's enjoying a "re-grand opening" (not a "grand re-opening").
ANYWAY, sorry - the reason Southerners don't tip:
It's because they all eat in cafeterias (or at least the ones that would bother coming to a phlegm-shack like the Hard Rock Cafe).
Cafeterias are fucking everywhere; wet trays and hairnets and those gross marigold-colored tumblers. Cafeterias! Do Southerners pine for high school? Or prison? Do they prefer to select their own Hungry Jack Insta-potatoes, not content to leave such a critical decision in gloved West African-hands? Does every cafeteria need 87 flavors of Jell-O? Raspberry and mixed berry? Why is fried food so delicious?
Mysteries all.
Most of the drive was at night, so aside from Liz and The Colonel driving like a couple of meth addicts, it was uneventful. We got some excitement when Zippy would decide that he wanted to hang-out beneath the brake pedal.
Liz said, "If we had to suddenly stop I wouldn't be able to because I'd hurt Zippy with the brake pedal!"
I'll let you reflect on that one for a sec.
North and South Carolina were blurs - though we did see this thing which I had previously seen on the Colbert Report. I thought South Carolina looked like Haiti with white people. The towns--that we stopped in for gas--all had a goat-explosion look; just a lot of shit lying around with the occasional human who was either stealing garbage or producing it. Not sure the difference really matters.
After South Carolina was Georgia, which looks pretty much like everywhere. With the notable exception of Atlanta, which looks from the outside, like a really nice, cosmopolitan city. Sherman was a jerk; I would have left it alone.
After Georgia, things got interesting. I felt like Shatner in Nightmare at 20,000 Feet. Creepy people just looking at me with their Hooters shirts, their hostile children, their illogical allegiance to the RNC.
Townies Are Scary
I have never seen as many freakish townies as I did in Mississippi and Alabama. Town after town of Kool Aid-stained human debris, chicken stands, fruit stands, t-shirt stands and flag after American Flag. If employment in Mississippi was 50%, I would be surprised, as I have no idea where any of the people worked. No industry, no commercial real-estate. Just stands and outdoor markets. I think there's a limited resevoir of goods that can be traded around the state. Sell a gourd to someone and wait, in time, someone else will surely sell your gourd back to you.
We stopped in a truck stop outside of Jackson to use the restroom. Smoking indoors in Jackson isn't just allowed, it's recommended. The truck stop had a lounge that looked like the inside of a Cadillac Eldorado and smelled like Rick James' hair. We stopped in this place at about 3:30 in the morning to find one gi-NOR-mous woman working behind the counter, and two guys having coffee and sharing a tooth. These fuckers were scary. I think they would have rather been bow-hunting.
Liz thought those toothless motherfuckers were scary.
"Those toothless motherfuckers are scary," she said. And we were off.
After Mississippi, we hit Louisiani, but that's a post for tomorrow. This damn post is Homeric and I can't imagine that many others than those involved will slog through it.
So, sweet dreams, readers. Part Two to follow soon.
I will leave you with some items that may be appearing in the second and final installment:
- We get to Texas.
- Liz, her mom and I get in trouble at a Bennigans.
- We put hats on cats.
- Liz has a premonition.
- I almost get beaten-up by a diner waitress.
Awesome.
Last night Liz went to a Christmas party at our friend Jaime's house. Jaime gave everyone presents (including me, and I wasn't even there cuz I was working. Boo yah). Liz received from Jaim a pair of nifty PJs with cats on them. She tried them on and looked really cute. So cute in fact that when she bent over to feed our actual cats I tried to pour Asian snack mix down her pants. (I was eating Asian Snack Mix at the time.)
That isn't some sexual euphemism; I really considered dumping Asian snack mix down her pants. But, since I'm a gentleman, I asked first.
"What would you do if I poured Asian Snack Mix down your pants?"
Cat-butt in the air, "I'd kick you in the fucking balls is what I'd do."
"Ok"
"And I'd like to have kids with you, eventually, so don't," she continued as if I didn't glean the "so don't" part from the ball-kicking part.
I didn't pour it down her pants.
Virginia Thanksgiving
Yesterday I mentioned that Liz (wife), Jake (cat), Holly (cat) and I (nincompoop) went to Virginia over Thanksgiving to see Abby (the War Shero), Liz's brother (Ike) and Liz's dad (The Colonel, Ret.).
On the day before Thanksgiving we went to Best Buy to buy an external hard drive for Abby. This is what Liz said the entire time we were in Best Buy:
Liz, Abby and I walk in the door of the packed Best Buy. Liz:
"Oh my fucking God. This place smells like feet! Doesn't it smell like feet? This place really smells like feet. I can't believe how this place smells! It's like, feet. Isn't this like feet? Seriously!! Seriously!!! This is like feet! I have never smelled a place that smells more like feet than this place!"
(repeat x 1M)
The next day, Abby made Thanksgiving dinner and I assisted (though you'd never fucking know it; it would take a crowbar to get an ounce of credit from her).
Thanksgiving was great until the next morning when we discovered something that can best be described as "unsettling:"
Ike ate all the leftover stuffing. Bastard.
The Drive Home
A drive home with Holly not taking a dump is like a day after Thanksgiving without stuffing. This is to say that it sucks ass and it either involves me calling Ike a "bastard" or a cat-carrier full of shit.
I'll let you draw your own conclusions from that.
We got about 20 minutes outside of DC when, as usual, Holly started screaming bloody murder (as you would too if you had just squoze a chub of turd into your Wranglers). The events that followed have a strobe-light quality.
- The smell hits
::flash::
- me, "Liz, I think Holly took a dump"
::flash::
- Liz "no she didn't"
::flash::
Abby starts to dry-heave
::flash::
me, "yes she did, it smells like burning hair in here"
::flash::
Liz's dad (who's driving and never curses - seriously), "Dag-gum, what is going on back there?"
::flash::
Abby looks green
::flash::
Liz, "oh you're right, she did"
The Colonel drove over an embankment, through a traffic stanchion, onto some pre-schoolers and into a church, finally arriving at a parking lot located about 30 yards behind the now-demolished pulpit. We evacuated. The picture below is Liz (by the van) cleaning out the cat-carrier. 
.
<---Liz is an opera singer and actress (far left). There is another person on the far right.
.
That person is Abby. Abby is a soldier. She carried a gun and, like, shot at motherfuckers in Iraq.
And yet Abby is petrified of cat poop.
The picture is parody enough and anything I come up with will be weak by comparison.
Abby's Blog
Abby, the War Shero, has considered starting a blog. Something I have encouraged in light of the massive wealth that ETD has generated for my estate. Yesterday we had the following text exchange:
me: "new ETD post"
Abb: "It's about time"
Me: "whatever, dude, where's your blog?"
Abb: "haven't had time, I've been busy fighting The War on Terror"
Fucking soldiers. Why do they hate America?
Hey gang - sorry for not posting in so many damn weeks. The good news is that my absence stems from the fact that Liz and I drove to Texas to greet Abbo-liscious upon her return from Iraq.
The hero returns. Go, Abby, Go!
Kurt, our other hero, is still in-the-shit in Iraq, so our elation is currently at 50% - reaching full capacity once he stops fighting people who hate us for our freedom.
I have great pictures of the trip to Texas as well as a hilarious story about Liz and I nearly getting double-teamed by a pair of hillbillies at a truck-stop in Shreveport, LA.
Relevant news items:
This is a picture of Natalie Portman.
The other day I was at work all night and fell asleep on a box. Fuck that!
This is a Hockey Blog to which contribute.
Check back in the next couple days for Texas updates.
Post-Katrina, allegations of cronyism and lobbyist-pandering in the Bush administration should come as no surprise. But in light of the recent liquid-bombing scare (to the extent that a group of "terrorists," some without passports, with no dates set, no actual plans, no explosives and no evidence of competency qualifies as a "scare") you would think that the administration would want to like, prevent something like that.
Not so - as Wonkette has reported, "personal lubricants" are allowed in carry-on luggage for all flights.
No toothpaste and no shampoo (the first column is carry-on, the second is check-in, see for yourself) but all the lube you need (yes, 4 oz is all the lube you need). Score one for the Butt-Sex Lobby and Big Lube - two groups that have been causing this country a kind-of pinching at first, then knife-like pangs of discomfort followed then by confusion, shame and, in some cases, shitting our pants.
Liz is going to Chicago this weekend for some lame-ass conference. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I expect Jake, Holly and I to rent movies and eat cat food and/or bagels depending on our preferences.
Who's going to remind me not to play with matches?
Shit.
