It is with mixed emotions that I welcome my close personal friend Mr. Eh-Steve to a club that is exclusive to all but motorcycle riders, and exclusive to all but a select subset of that group. It is said that there are two types of riders: those who have gone down, and those who have not gone down yet. Steve is now among the downed. So… Welcome, buddy, and sorry you had to join up!
To make a long story short, Steve ran out of traction and road as he came upon a blind intersection this morning and he laid his beautiful Road King down, leaving it in several scuffed and bent pieces. Fortunately, the bell did its job — Steve walked away from his get-off with only a little road rage (Steve’s Freudian slip) and a sore hip. He’ll probably feel a lot worse tomorrow, but I’m sure he’ll remind himself between Vicodin tabs that he could have been feeling nothing at all, so it’s a good kind of pain. Any crash you can walk away from is a good one, so we’ll give him two thumbs-up on this one.
And the best part is that now he’s golden, statistically speaking. He’s gotten the crash out of the way and can now look forward to many miles of road rage free relaxation. What are the odds he’ll go down again? Slim and slim.
But I’ll still get him another bell. You know, just in case.
We found moose costumes today. And we had a little too much time on our hands. And a digital camera.
“What do you mean, you don’t know how to convert a radio station to new traffic and billing software???”
“…and then you tell the Account Executive, ‘No, you missed the order deadline, your spots aren’t going to air.’ They hate when you do that, but they’re AEs — who cares?”
Bozeman is looking up. We drove past several places on our way to dinner last night that advertised themselves as “casino.” Which perked my ears up. I couldn’t get enough details on the web and wasn’t able to get anyone with a brain on the phone when I called one of the places, so I’m not clear yet on whether all they offer is video poker and bingo (which makes them pretend casinos, in my book) or if they have real table games like craps and blackjack and, my favorite, poker. I’m still reconnoitering the situation. I’ll report my findings.
If they do in fact have real casinos, then the game plan for this week is to win enough to pay to rent a Harley over the weekend. It’s $145 a day with a two day minimum, but I can’t think of a better way to spend the weekend than cruising on a Road King over to Yellowstone or maybe up to Glacier National Park to ride the Going-to-the-Sun Road or just riding around in the local mountains. And if the casino thing doesn’t pan out, one of the people at the radio station here might be able to swing a deal for me so I can get the bargain basement rate.
Gambling or riding. My weekend just got a lot better.
Still being told I don’t need help.
That’s about all I can say about ol’ Bozeman right now: it’s in Montana. I haven’t seen much of it yet but it looks like I might have missed it while blinking. It reminds me of Loveland, CO, where I lived when I was 13. That’s not a bad thing.
Because I know you’re on the edge of your seat waiting for it, here’s the regular feature The View From My Room:
Like I said, there’s not much to see. But I like the hotel anyway: I was Guest Of The Day, or so the cute 20-ish desk clerk sex kitten told me when I checked in. I’m not sure how I achieved that honor — frankly, I think I did it by walking in the door — but it was a nice way to be checked in. I was hoping being GotD might come with sex kitten privileges, but instead she sent a bellboy to my room with a gift bag — a bottle of water, a package of cheese crackers, package of Chips Ahoy cookies, and three wrapped chocolates. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers. And besides, I like cheese crackers.
In Denver now, at the airport, using a pay-per-view internet kiosk called “Shibby” and I’m posting an entry simply because I can. I like this kiosk better than the ones in DFW except for the keyboard. Everything is a little bit off from where it should be, especially the \ backspace key. Ha.
Time is ticking while I try to hit the right keys and backspace to correct with the wrong one. I’m going to just post this while I still have 1:25 left and call it macaroni.
Next stop: Bozeman. Woo.
I’m back out on the road tomorrow, headed for Bozeman, MT for two weeks. The highlight of the trip will probably be the 3-day weekend spent alone in a hotel room. Woo. But, hey, at least I’ll have a beautiful view out the window. No, wait, I’m staying at a budget hotel. I’ll probably have a view of the parking lot.
I’ve become very laisse faire about packing for these trips. When I first started traveling, packing was a sort of stressful routine for me. I started early in the afternoon, I laid everything out on the bed before putting it in the suitcase, I agonized over what to take and how to pack it and double-checked to make sure I packed this or that… I really got myself wound up about it.
Now, packing is different. I start around 9 or 10 at night. I keep a vague count in my head of how many socks or undershirts have gone in the bag. Instead of folding neatly, I roll everything (it packs better and wrinkles less). And, like I said, I start later. So invariably something I want to pack — socks, usually, or underwear — isn’t clean, so I end up doing laundry at midnight. And there’s usually a shirt or two that need dry-cleaning, so I just stuff them in the bag to give to the hotel laundry when I check in. I usually put the finishing touches on it as the cab is out front honking in the morning.
And when you’re packing that way, well … you tend to forget things. You maybe end up going shopping for underwear on the weekend where ever you’ve traveled to. That’s happened twice. But I’ve got that covered this time around.
What I really need to remember to pack is all my computer stuff. Like the power supply for my laptop. I had to have my office Fed-Ex it to me last time. I’m still living that one down.
It’s 10:55 now. I’m going to go start the washing machine. Underwear beckons.
I’m told we’re going to have a new kid in Zoe’s class this year, whose mom has figured prominently in my (and millions of other guys’) fantasies over the years:
I think I’m going to be a lot more involved in school this year. I wonder if they need another Class Dad?
Oopsie, it’s gone, deleted in a spasm of belated sensitivity.
Don’t dwell on the past, move on!
We went to the beach yesterday. Zoe goes to the beach with her summer camp at least once a week. Beth has been to the beach a few times over the last year with Zoe and/or her sister. Me, I haven’t been to the beach in at least a year, probably two. It just doesn’t occur to me. And my skin reflects it.
This is the result of me A) not going to the beach for more than a year and B) figuring “Nah, I don’t need sunscreen. My legs never burn and we’re not going to be here that long anyway.”
I needed sunscreen. My legs do burn. Two hours was more than long enough. I’m a crispy critter.
Ow.
