The DOA management apologizes for the excessive length of today’s entry. A hint for anyone in the market for an Electro Convulsive Therapy machine… make sure it has a “stun” setting, and don’t mix it with someone taking Alka-Seltzer or Pepto Bismol. Still, it’s fairly funny, and we hope you will enjoy it.
Okay, so yesterday I was in a less than spectacular mood despite the efforts of Dizzy to make sure I had a happy birthday. Today, while I’m still not at 100 percent, I am at at least 89 or so, so that should be enough to write a much better account of my birthday than I did last night.
To start with, I’ve been sick. Not just your typical, run-of-the-mill, under-the-weather type sickness either… I’m talking the why-is-my-body-making-these-horrible-sounds, don’t-stray-too-far-from-the-bathroom, did-I-do-something-to-offend-God kinda sickness.
In short, for all my maudlin crapola, the “state of the Rob” was sick.
Not to say that there aren’t a few nuggets of truth in there… I am in need of a change. The job has me a little down, (if one more guest compares me having no vacancies in our hotel for them to there being no room at the inn for Mary and Joseph, I swear I’m gonna belt em!). Also, I’m hearing the passionate whisper of the open road in my ear again. It happens from time to time to those of us with the heart of an explorer… I guess you just get used to ignoring it after a while. Still haven’t decided exactly what it is I need to change, but y’all will be the first to know when I do.
Anyway… throughout history many great people have made many great mistakes. Captain Smith sped up in iceberg filled waters… Napoleon had a hankering for borcht… Mama Cass needed that second ham sandwich… And of course, I still went out on Robbie Gras Eve like I had planned to, despite the fact that my stomach was doing a more than fair impression of the rhythm section of a samba band. So I didn’t drink a lot. Did try to. (everyone see mistake number two here?) I was bummed. Nobody but Dizzy showed up.
Now, an aside… I know things happen. Many of my friends are still scattered about the countryside, and those that aren’t probably had very good reasons for not being there. Hurricanes suck, as it has been pointed out, and lives aren’t back to normal and won’t be for a very long time at the rate it’s going.
So there I sat in the bar, my gastrointestinal tract sounding like Custer getting reamed by the Indians at little Big Horn, making small talk with Dizzy about this woman on the end of the bar who looked like she was about to fall off her barstool.
If she had… and I’m sure she eventually did… well, it would have made for a much funnier blog, but I didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to see it through. Dizzy and I went back to my place and watched TV. Dizzy did invite me over to her place for a barbeque and super bowl thing the next day, and so I said yes.
The super bowl, for those of you not from America, is the championship game for American football, which essentially involves large men in polyurethane armor throwing around an inflated pigskin and running into each other like drunk goats with commercials shown every five minutes or so.
Americans take this VERY seriously. We plan parties around it, even if we have no love for the teams involved, the commercials shown, or the poor dead inflated pig. It’s a big deal, right up there with American independence day, and even if you don’t care about the sport, the players, the pig, or even the color scheme of the uniforms you MUST pick a side to root for. To not do so would be grounds for torture, or worse, being forced to read bad poetry.
So I picked a side. Dizzy’s Brother picked the other one, exclaiming “even though they’re flurshuginer YANKEES!” (Now, of course he didn’t actually say ‘flurshuginer’ but what he did say would make a sailor blush… well, a sailor that had been sailing around with a bunch of nuns, at any rate.) Now the funny part of this is that Dizzy’s Mom, standing next to him descreetly points out to the Brother that I am a “flushuginer Yankee”, and by discreetly I mean with broad pointing gestures and bulging eyes while elbowing him. At halftime, Dizzy’s mom also did the most amazing air guitar solo I have ever seen a 75 year old do to the Rolling Stones “satisfaction”. Apparently, the old gal has a thing for Mick Jagger...
I hope I still have women lusting for me after the next 36 trips around the sun.