3rd leg
Show Me the Way Home

Friday, February 13, 2004

As often as Muscle68 drops musical references in his posts, isn't it a travesty that you've got to come here to read: Smack it up, flip it, rub it down?

Speaking of... I've got my flightsuit on, and I am making my climb to the cockpit as we speak. In less than five hours time I'll be in the air speeding towards a target-rich environment, alongside an unlucky fellow fresh off a 6-month relationship that everyone else knew wouldn't last.

Then again, maybe he's not so unlucky. His impeccable timing (see: her timing) has spared him at least one lengthy, unpleasant trip to the greeting card store. And he's certainly not unlucky to have the privilege of flying alongside one of the most capable, loyal and accomplished wingmen in the history of manned flight---at least for one evening.

Maybe the biggest factor in my recently flawless record is my strict criteria related to mission selection and personal rules of engagement. There may have been a day when I was a reckless cowboy in the air, shooting early and often at targets of various sizes, shapes and appearances. There might also have been a day when I was simply too selfish and unable to share my airspace with others. But with age comes experience, and with experience comes ridiculous levels of excellence. At least in my case.

After countless hops, fly-bys and near misses over the years, there is no longer a doubt in my mind of what constitutes ideal flight conditions. I not only know what to look for, but I can see it well before my peers, and possess the moves and ability to maneuver quickly and efficiently in to close range for a better look and a target lock if I'm feeling so inclined.

Tonight on this Valentine's Eve, I will get ballistic, the need for speed will be both embraced and surpassed with spectacular results, there will be no points for second place, my ego will confidently write checks that my body will be able to cash (maybe even twice or thrice), and most importantly I will not leave my wingman. Even should that mean an initially awkward threesome is in my near future---one that is somewhat less than "ideal". Unless of course our target has an unbelievably (an un-pierced) sexy little tummy, like the one above. In that event it's every man for himself for the obvious reasons, and my boy will just have to figure out how to get back to the carrier on his own. Then again our evening is in K.C. and not D.C., so he should be alright.

Hopefully, y'all will be alright too, finding yourselves in good hands during the next 48 hours of romantic and amorous possibilities, whether they be commercially-driven (see: Hallmarks) or heart-felt. And does it really matter which, when you do find yourself in good hands? Didn't think so.

Speaking of good hands, this dude uses his to sponge bath old folks, "or something...." Funniest thing I heard all week, Trevor...

Back in the Saddle

Monday, February 09, 2004

What a crazy week! GM gets a dog, followed by mad hits when JT and JJ have a WM (see: wardrobe malfunction) at the SB, not to mention the all-important launch of Lick.

It's not that I didn't care or wasn't aware, but I was blissfully relaxing in the thin air of Keystone, Colorado, getting my ski (and hot tub) on. Sorry sports fans, no sign of Meesh---though I admittedly never got as far as Aspen. And upon returning from 7 days with no internet/email access, I've finally gotten rid of the shakes. I also returned 7 pounds lighter somehow. Too bad that skiing can't be a normal part of my exercise regimen.

Other things I did during the course of the week, not that you asked:

Had my first delectable taste of chilled liquid, minty perfection (see: mojito).
Had no less than four more delectable tastes.
Consumed tasty sea scallops not once, but twice.
Welcomed 13" of snow, but only because I didn't have to drive in it.
Grew a Timberlake-lookin' beard to be shaved off before Friday.
Watched the Disney Channel with my nephew for no less than 4 hours per day (Kim Possible, you had me at hello, you green-eyed, naval-bearing vixen. Bunny should totally play her in the live action movie).
Real all 736 pages of Eszterhas' Hollywood Animal, where I learned that Elizabeth Berkley wasn't cast as the lead for Showgirls based solely on her acting ability (seriously?) and legendary producer Robert Evans is a legit P-I-M-P. An impotent pimp, but still. Doesn't make him a bad person, and doesn't mean his house isn't the place to party down. Just make sure you're not doing anything regrettable when the Polaroid cameras bust out.
Hot tubbed twice, with snow flakes landing on my clean shaven head both times.
Once only after getting on a treadmill for 15 minutes, with a plastic cup full of Moosehead (see: no glass allowed in pool area) in the drink holder, while I impatiently waited for two middle-aged men to leave the hot tub so I could have it all by my self.

And now that I'm back I'm thinking of the best place to get screwed like 50 (see: Grammys' Best New Artist - Evanescence?) on Friday night. Because the last place I'll be on Valentine's Day is In Da Club. But that's just how I do. So let me know if you're gonna be in town on the 13th, and I'll make ya scream like Jason.

Finally, because I'm feeling especially chatty, and I always feel a little bad when I go 7 days without a post here's a bonus...

I used to go to school with a Christine R. She had long straight hair that nearly reached her butt and was a head taller than all the boys. In the 3rd grade she had the misfortune of coughing in to her hands, with a full on ensuing upchuck that cleared the room and forced the janitors to come in with their special concoction of sawdust and birdseed to soak up the nastiness. That is my last and lone memory of Christine R., and sometimes I wonder if she ever got over the stigma attached to her day of infamy.

I also went to school with an Ann Cooper. Some guys I knew, cool kids of course, nicknamed her Ann Pooper Scooper. I don't think I ever personally called her that, namely because she was bigger and meaner than me, but I won't say I didn't giggle anytime the nickname was used in my presence. I wonder if she ever married a non-Cooper and was happy to welcome a new last name, and if she ever told her new beau about her poop-scoopin' days. I also wonder if I'd even recognize her today, and if the ugly duckling stayed that way, and if she ever finally broke down and washed her nappy hair that we were sure we saw a live cockroach crawl out of one day.

I do not however wonder if I'll bump in to either girl on Friday.