I might be mistaken, but I believe the last time I was at McCarran International Airport was following the Insight Bowl (an OSU victory over Notre Dame, no less).
The memories came flooding back as I walked past the bar where Raju and I decided to drink a few cold ones pre-flight. Raju, in all his glory, joined me in a yard-long Budweiser, afterwhich his already pronounced limp, slurred speech and crazy eyes were in full effect. How he got on the flight home, I'll never know.
Ah, the glory days.
You know what? I am mistaken. I think I've been here a few times since then. But I like the way this story goes.
Also:
12.24.2007
12.23.2007
T-Minus
I have a shit-ton of work to do tomorrow.
I should re-phrase: I need to do a shit-ton of work tomorrow in order to alleviate any stress from my four-day PacNW romp.
No problem.
My impending flight should make said work bearable, since I know that the light at the end of the tunnel is the dark, gloomy pseudo-sunlight of Oregon. Yes!
I'll be home the 24th-28th; ample opportunity to be with family, see some old chums, drink some good beer and explain 67 times why I moved to Florida, of all places. I'm really looking forward to all of it, and my mustache is ready for just about anything.
Find me.
Buy me a drink. Sing me a song. Take me as I come, 'cause I can't stay long.
I should re-phrase: I need to do a shit-ton of work tomorrow in order to alleviate any stress from my four-day PacNW romp.
No problem.
My impending flight should make said work bearable, since I know that the light at the end of the tunnel is the dark, gloomy pseudo-sunlight of Oregon. Yes!
I'll be home the 24th-28th; ample opportunity to be with family, see some old chums, drink some good beer and explain 67 times why I moved to Florida, of all places. I'm really looking forward to all of it, and my mustache is ready for just about anything.
Find me.
Buy me a drink. Sing me a song. Take me as I come, 'cause I can't stay long.
12.18.2007
Cold skull
I shaved my head yesterday.
No reason, really, but it felt good to shed a few ounces up top.
Anyway, I walk into the office today, and a couple folks drop the obligatory "nice haircut" or "hey, soldier" on me.
Then, my boss walks by, looks at up me and quips, "You don't have a thing for a young Jodie Foster, do you?"
Solid.
No reason, really, but it felt good to shed a few ounces up top.
Anyway, I walk into the office today, and a couple folks drop the obligatory "nice haircut" or "hey, soldier" on me.
Then, my boss walks by, looks at up me and quips, "You don't have a thing for a young Jodie Foster, do you?"
Solid.
10.06.2007
I was going to title this post "Beaver withdrawls," but on second thought, I'll go with "East Coast Bias."
College football is big here.
On my humble cable package alone, there are eight stations showing six games right now, including a fine, spirited contest between Hampton and Princeton.
Needless to say, I've got my eye on the MLB playoffs, though I'll admit, if I could watch the Oregon State-Arizona game right now (or listen to Mike Parker's sweet tenor inflection describe the ensuing action), I'd certainly be getting my fair share of Beaver.
Football.
On my humble cable package alone, there are eight stations showing six games right now, including a fine, spirited contest between Hampton and Princeton.
Needless to say, I've got my eye on the MLB playoffs, though I'll admit, if I could watch the Oregon State-Arizona game right now (or listen to Mike Parker's sweet tenor inflection describe the ensuing action), I'd certainly be getting my fair share of Beaver.
Football.
10.03.2007
Nation Trekker
Wilsonville, Ore.
Centerville, Utah.
North Platte, Neb.
Webb City, Mo.
Macon, Georgia
... and finally, sunny Sebring, Fla.
Clocking in at 3,400 miles of asphalt and true grit, my harrowing journey across these United States ended Wednesday evening with touchdown in Sebring. I literally crossed city limits as a Queen double-play of "We Will Rock You/We are the Champions" blared from the stock moving-truck radio, while my weary, road-worn eyes scanned my new digs.
Say, I didn't notice that Circuit City when I came out for the interview. Oh, look — a Books-A-Million. Sarah will like that. Man, I'm definitely hitting that Red Lobster tomorrow night.
But back to the trip.
Podcasts helped. Tremendously. The "This American Life" and "Radio Lab" episodes I've purposefully not listened to over the past few months melted the miles away, and the occasional full-album listening (and passionate singing/drumming along with) between shows have made the gradual change in scenery somewhat bearable.
After 14 hours and 831 miles on the first day, I landed in Centerville, Utah (Salt Lake suburb) and met up with my long-lost buddy Jared, who graciously welcomed me into his home for the night, despite the fact that I haven't seen him for seven years. Chinese food and beers with he and his wife, some catching up, then on the road again.
I left Centerville via some of the nicest scenery on the trip, for about an hour at least. Then came the rolllllllling hills of Wyoming, which, for my moving truck's sake at least, gave way to the flatlands of Nebraska. 75 mph and loving it, I rolled into North Platte for an evening, stopping specifically at the hotel nearest food and drink ... and promptly passed out as soon as I got in my room.
After 11 more hours on the road, I stopped in Webb City, Mo. for two days for a visit with the Ogden family. Two hours after my 11 p.m. arrival, the big man rolls in, and we're off for poker, booze and mingling with his co-wokers. We finish second and third in the tournament, roll in, and, seeing as it takes a full day to cook a brisket, decide to wait out the grocery store's opening to buy the meat.
Marination ensued. Followed by sleep. All day.
I woke up to the smell of the smoked meat and more smoked meat. There were garlic cheese potatoes. Bread. A new two-liter of Coca-Cola.
Followed by more sleep.
The next day or so was spent mainly drinking the namesake drink, playing softball with the girls, and shooting cans with a Daisy rifle. It was the intermission of my journey, and really, the best part.
I headed out the next morning with a belly full of home-cooked goodness and a mind full of sports journalism knowledge and rolled through Kansas, Mississippi, Alabama Tennessee and to Georgia, where I rolled through Atlanta and called it a night at the Ramada Inn in Macon Georgia. I resisted the siren's call of the Waffle House next door and promptly passed out, waking the next day with just one more political border to cross: the Florida state line.
I hit the FLA a few hours into the day, and, mind you, having driven through the deep south already, was somewhat surprised to see the largest Confederate flag I'd ever laid my eyes on waving just off the highway, in all its ... err... glory?
Hours later, I reached Highway 27, Highlands County, Avon Park (home of Hal McRae) and finally, Sebring. I was home.
But not quite.
Centerville, Utah.
North Platte, Neb.
Webb City, Mo.
Macon, Georgia
... and finally, sunny Sebring, Fla.
Clocking in at 3,400 miles of asphalt and true grit, my harrowing journey across these United States ended Wednesday evening with touchdown in Sebring. I literally crossed city limits as a Queen double-play of "We Will Rock You/We are the Champions" blared from the stock moving-truck radio, while my weary, road-worn eyes scanned my new digs.
Say, I didn't notice that Circuit City when I came out for the interview. Oh, look — a Books-A-Million. Sarah will like that. Man, I'm definitely hitting that Red Lobster tomorrow night.
But back to the trip.
Podcasts helped. Tremendously. The "This American Life" and "Radio Lab" episodes I've purposefully not listened to over the past few months melted the miles away, and the occasional full-album listening (and passionate singing/drumming along with) between shows have made the gradual change in scenery somewhat bearable.
After 14 hours and 831 miles on the first day, I landed in Centerville, Utah (Salt Lake suburb) and met up with my long-lost buddy Jared, who graciously welcomed me into his home for the night, despite the fact that I haven't seen him for seven years. Chinese food and beers with he and his wife, some catching up, then on the road again.
I left Centerville via some of the nicest scenery on the trip, for about an hour at least. Then came the rolllllllling hills of Wyoming, which, for my moving truck's sake at least, gave way to the flatlands of Nebraska. 75 mph and loving it, I rolled into North Platte for an evening, stopping specifically at the hotel nearest food and drink ... and promptly passed out as soon as I got in my room.
After 11 more hours on the road, I stopped in Webb City, Mo. for two days for a visit with the Ogden family. Two hours after my 11 p.m. arrival, the big man rolls in, and we're off for poker, booze and mingling with his co-wokers. We finish second and third in the tournament, roll in, and, seeing as it takes a full day to cook a brisket, decide to wait out the grocery store's opening to buy the meat.
Marination ensued. Followed by sleep. All day.
I woke up to the smell of the smoked meat and more smoked meat. There were garlic cheese potatoes. Bread. A new two-liter of Coca-Cola.
Followed by more sleep.
The next day or so was spent mainly drinking the namesake drink, playing softball with the girls, and shooting cans with a Daisy rifle. It was the intermission of my journey, and really, the best part.
I headed out the next morning with a belly full of home-cooked goodness and a mind full of sports journalism knowledge and rolled through Kansas, Mississippi, Alabama Tennessee and to Georgia, where I rolled through Atlanta and called it a night at the Ramada Inn in Macon Georgia. I resisted the siren's call of the Waffle House next door and promptly passed out, waking the next day with just one more political border to cross: the Florida state line.
I hit the FLA a few hours into the day, and, mind you, having driven through the deep south already, was somewhat surprised to see the largest Confederate flag I'd ever laid my eyes on waving just off the highway, in all its ... err... glory?
Hours later, I reached Highway 27, Highlands County, Avon Park (home of Hal McRae) and finally, Sebring. I was home.
But not quite.
9.12.2007
Final dispatch from the 219
This will be the last post from my apartment, which is now an empty shell of its former self. Sitting on the floor, back uncomfortably rested against the baseboard heater, I'm reminded of my first day in this place, when it was empty expect for me and my computer ... and, like today, it was hot as fuck.
A 16-foot truck turned out to be the exact size Sarah and I needed. Pretty much filled to the brim, but with enough free space for everything to breathe comfortably ... or shift during transit and shatter.
I still have a few errands to run, namely chatting with Comcast, the power company and the post office, but then I'll be on the road, stopping in Wilsonville for an afternoon/early evening of sleep, then hitting road in the wee hours of the night. I'm actually getting excited for the trip, though I know that feeling will undoubtedly wear off before I cross the Oregon border (I'm looking at you, Baker City).
Anyway, there's no way we'd have gotten to this point without a lot of help, especially from Mr. Hammett and both sets of parents (Dan and Justine, Tom and Betsy, Ryan — take a bow), and I can't wait for reward them with free room, board and meals when they come visit.
And yes, I said "when."
So yeah, that's it from 97128. Nice town, nice people — a nice step.
I'll miss it, sure, but as of now, the road is my only home.
A 16-foot truck turned out to be the exact size Sarah and I needed. Pretty much filled to the brim, but with enough free space for everything to breathe comfortably ... or shift during transit and shatter.
I still have a few errands to run, namely chatting with Comcast, the power company and the post office, but then I'll be on the road, stopping in Wilsonville for an afternoon/early evening of sleep, then hitting road in the wee hours of the night. I'm actually getting excited for the trip, though I know that feeling will undoubtedly wear off before I cross the Oregon border (I'm looking at you, Baker City).
Anyway, there's no way we'd have gotten to this point without a lot of help, especially from Mr. Hammett and both sets of parents (Dan and Justine, Tom and Betsy, Ryan — take a bow), and I can't wait for reward them with free room, board and meals when they come visit.
And yes, I said "when."
So yeah, that's it from 97128. Nice town, nice people — a nice step.
I'll miss it, sure, but as of now, the road is my only home.
9.09.2007
Man, I have a lot of shit
Loading your possessions into french-fry boxes bound for the back of a UHaul has a funny way of making you question this whole capitalism thing. I love my things, of course, but I'll be a lot happier with they're all neatly stacked in my new Florida apartment. Or condo. Or house.
Speaking of Florida, that's where Sarah and Adam are going on their honeymoon. It was a lovely wedding with two lovely folks set in an Independence barn with stringy lights. A beautiful bride, a dancing toddler, a sort-of drunk Cutty and unadvertised open bar made for a great evening.
My take-home moment: It's just after the ceremony, when guests were filing into the adjacent barn for drinks, and the fire alarm goes off. Chef comes out with a dumb look on his face, staff are scrambling and Sunday-best-clad children have their fingers firmly pressed against their eardrums. A minute or two into the madness, I look over to the crowd and notice the groom, Mr. Adam (it's not hard, he's tall) calmly sipping a beer, having a chat and looking like the piercing wailing of the siren was music to his ears.
Great guy. And he's got a great lady. They're going to have average-sized children.
Take-home moments, honorable mention: Sarah dancing to "Footloose," meeting a truly savage Christian rock star and watching James Brown WORK HIS MAGIC.
OK. Enough blogging. Back to heavy lifting.
Speaking of Florida, that's where Sarah and Adam are going on their honeymoon. It was a lovely wedding with two lovely folks set in an Independence barn with stringy lights. A beautiful bride, a dancing toddler, a sort-of drunk Cutty and unadvertised open bar made for a great evening.
My take-home moment: It's just after the ceremony, when guests were filing into the adjacent barn for drinks, and the fire alarm goes off. Chef comes out with a dumb look on his face, staff are scrambling and Sunday-best-clad children have their fingers firmly pressed against their eardrums. A minute or two into the madness, I look over to the crowd and notice the groom, Mr. Adam (it's not hard, he's tall) calmly sipping a beer, having a chat and looking like the piercing wailing of the siren was music to his ears.
Great guy. And he's got a great lady. They're going to have average-sized children.
Take-home moments, honorable mention: Sarah dancing to "Footloose," meeting a truly savage Christian rock star and watching James Brown WORK HIS MAGIC.
OK. Enough blogging. Back to heavy lifting.
9.06.2007
F L O R I D A
The buzz on the Internets is true: I'm moving to Florida.
And, figuring a life-altering surroundings shift will spur some worthwhile reflection, I've decided to document my move, arrival and experiences in and around The Sunshine State here, on my once sort-of-thriving, but now completely-defunct blog.
This should last for all of about four posts.
And, figuring a life-altering surroundings shift will spur some worthwhile reflection, I've decided to document my move, arrival and experiences in and around The Sunshine State here, on my once sort-of-thriving, but now completely-defunct blog.
This should last for all of about four posts.
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