By the Time I Get to Arizona

Tuesday afternoon, after working a full day, I have to get on an overbooked Southwest Airlines flight that will no doubt smell like Mr. Hanky's Poo Sleigh and travel a whole forty-five minutes to Phoenix (imagine Vegas if Wilfred Brimley were in charge) for work bullshit. God, I hate the Las Vegas airport. It's barely bigger than Louisville's airport, and in case you aren't aware, Las Vegas is slightly more of a tourist destination than Louisville. And since it's midweek, every cheap bastard on earth will be coming to town to take advantage of the thirty dollar rooms at the Stratosphere. It'll serve them right when they're brutally assaulted while stumbling drunkenly along the crack-den-laden streets that surround the hotel. Luxor, bitches. It's cheap and it's on the South Strip.

There's an old Nazi lady who checks I.D. at McCarren (the airport's actual name). The last time I had to deal with her she stared at my driver's license for the better part of a decade. Granted, my I.D. might be the worst ever; the camera at the Henderson DMV doesn't tilt up, so being 6'6" I had to slouch to get the top of my head in the frame. The result makes me look like a creature from Planet Neckless. Anyway, she was about to give the license to me when she pulls it back and says in a Schwartzeneggeresque voice, "You hahv und-til Novembuh," meaning I had until November to renew my license. This was in March, thanks for the heads up. I actually said, "GIMME THAT!" and snatched my I.D. from her hands. The people next to me laughed out loud. "I'm not usually like this," I told them as I rushed to the metal detector before She-Hitler decided to have me detained.

Once I'm on the plane I'll look for a seat in the emergency exit row, the only ones with adequate leg room, but they'll be taken by a group of pixies who need the extra space for the ten pieces of full-sized luggage they neglected to check at baggage claim. Then when I'm finally shoehorned into a space, someone about five-feet-zero will recline his seat on me, introducing my knees to my face. On the bright side, the last time I flew home from Louisville I was able to blow myself.

When we finally get to the hotel it's time to check in and take the hotel shuttle to Mill Avenue in Tempe, where there are bars and restaurants aplenty. It's an Arizona State hangout, but I'm tired of being ignored by women my age; it's high time I was ignored by college girls. Occasionally I'll remind a young girl of her wacky uncle and she'll buy me a drink.

Then on Wednesday morning we begin a fun filled day of being told how much we suck and how lucky we are to have jobs. In my case, this is true, but who wants it verbalized? I hate my job. All I want to do is put in my eight hours and go home. We don't need training. IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING MONKEY JOB. Some overpaid douchebag at the corporate office has to justify his salary, though; so let's waste my time, by all means.

In better news, I'm going to Hollywood Saturday night to see a rare (only three U.S. dates) concert by eighties goth gods Bauhaus. My friend knows a cat who knows a dame who knows a dude. Halloween weekend in Hollywood seeing Bauhaus. This should give me my freak fix for the year.

I'll blog again Thursday night/Friday morning. Everyone have a great middle of the week.