November 2006 Archives

Home... and all that jazz | NCA photos

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I am home. Once again, I have returned from NCA and woken up quite ill. Part of this may be due to the fact that my roommate and I are apparently holding off on turning the furnace on yet, and it's below 60 around here.

We'll have little vignettes from the past few weeks as they come along. For now, enjoy some photos from San Antonio. Click the jump, suckaz.

Coming home again

I hate to go, but it's my time to leave. And for the wealth of lovelies, it's all in the course of a day's work. And you'll have that in the big city.

I don't want mexican food for at least two weeks. Having had it for four days in a row... keep it the hell away from me.

I look better now than I did after two weeks in Vegas, which, considering what I've put myself through in the last two weeks, is amazing.

See you all back home in Florida.

Sicky & Jen wedding photos

TPA is great!!!!

Despite, or perhaps because of, long lines I was not groped by TSA today.

Thus TPA is off the shitlist.

They're calling my name. See y'all in Tejas.

You'll have that in the big city

There is a girl sitting next to me reading Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs, & Steel. I have the book on my iPod; it's next on the list after I finish The Long Tail. She has on black plastic frame glasses just like I like and she is a brunette. She keeps looking at me.

Anyway.

Here's me, right now.

TSA in Indy is nice and I joked with them about the bands A-Ha and Yes and how those names make for an excellent Abbott and Costello-like duo scene. They were young and spirited, unlike those in the TPA who were old and character-actored.

Sitting in the bar, stuck here a few hours in Indianapolis. Listening to the Browns game over the internet like a complete nerd. Thinking about the girl I hung out with on Friday, a blind date whom, it turns out, actually could see perfectly fine. She didn't even have glasses.

And she was all sorts of cool.

I am loath to return to Florida, yet I'm burning with the feeling that I've figured it out. I don't have to fit in, anymore, because I *don't* fit in. I won't. I'm an Ohioan, and I love Ohio, and my fellow (lowercase) buckeyes, and I want to return to my home state and never return again.

The dude on the other side of me, his name is Chuck. He's on his way back to Spring Hill, FL, where he's a retiree. He's on his way home from Duluth, his home, where he spent eight days hunting. He went to Northern Illinois. He's a cool dude, and we talked about hunting; I pretended to be a hunter, as I am quite the pretender when it comes to dudes you meet at airport bars, and it's only a white lie to play something up in order to build rapport. I learned it from my friend Bill. You might know him by his formal name: Former President Clinton.

I kind of have a crush on my blind date, but she reads this blog, apparently, so I should sort of not say anything more about her anymore, I guess. Though I just wrote that, and when I sober up, aka LAND, I'll probably erase that.

Then again, maybe I won't.

Chinese poker, weddings, and blind dates

The leaves blow along the bricked sidewalk with a warmth entirely malapropos for November. The leaves blow eastward; they blow along with the traffic on Fifth Street that leisures by, unaware of the dramas happening amongst them.

The wedding ended without fanfare; there was no Pottery, nor any Crowing of any sort. Not that it matters. Chinese poker is like any game; you play the hand you're dealt. Sometimes it's a good hand, and sometimes it's a bad hand. Either way, you're looking to hit the heart, mind, and body.

The top is the heart, and you're faced with making that connection that can't be described. Maybe it's a nut flush or a full boat; a straight flush is even more solid. Yet the most volatile, the most important round is the middle: do you take two pair to the mind or hold one over to satisfy the body? You play the hand you're dealt, but you have myriad decisions along the way.

You play the hand you're dealt, as you consider your flight back to Florida on Sunday. The paired Aces could have made the trips on top a boat, but would they hold up? Would it sacrifice the mid and bottom? The mind and body?

She drives away and you'll replay the hand forever. You play the hand you're dealt, until it's played to your satisfaction. It's never to your satisfaction.

!!!111 TPA on the shitlist!

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Previously my #2 airport in the country, TPA has now entered shit-list territory. I loved this airport, but after what happened five minutes ago, I have to lower my opinion of it considerably.

See, I used to love the TSA people. They were happy and made jokes. Tampa has apparently replaced the nice TSA people with TSA thugs. They are not funny. They are not nice. They give you unwilling handjobs.

No, really.

I am not looking particularly terroristy today. Here's a live shot. I look angsty, but not terroristy.

Anyway, I set off the metal detector.

"What's metal on you," the man who resembles Mr. Magoo asks.

"Nothing," I reply.

"What's your deal? Don't argue with me," he answers.

"Seriously, man, no metal on me."

"MALE ON FIVE!" He yells over his shoulder.

A husky man arrives and asks me to come with him. We don't really go anywhere, just away from the opening of the metal detector. We're wide open in public.

I have an issue, of course, with the assumption that a male ought to be searching me. What is the premise behind this? That I am more comfortable with a man searching me than a woman? Is this an assumption that all people are heterosexual? Why can we not get over the idea that BEING SEARCHED IS NOT A SEXUAL ACT. IT IS LIKE GOING TO THE DOCTOR. THUS, MEN AND WOMEN CAN INTERACT IN THE SEARCH PROCESS WITHOUT SEX BEING A FACTOR.

Except in my case, where the dude, whose wand only went off on the button of my jeans, asked me to unbutton them.

So with little kids and their families walking by, I unbutton my jeans. Husky dude who looks like the guy from Alias who's now on Heroes slides his hand down the front of my pants. He reaches junk. HE REACHED JUNK!

A dude handled my junk!

In the Tampa airport!

Anyway, they didn't find anything, and nor would they, as I didn't HAVE anything, just a pair of jeans I've worn through this airport at least four times before without any problems. I go back to collect my stuff near the metal detector. Mr. Magoo calls out to husky Alias guy.

"What's this guy's deal?" he yells, pointing at me.

"Nothing."

Mr. Magoo scowls at me.

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    This page is an archive of entries from November 2006 listed from newest to oldest.

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