Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
It looks like the California trip is on. Yesterday my boss emailed me,
and told me to go ahead and make the necessary arrangements. Which, of
course, means call an "approved" travel agency, give them a
credit card number, then bend over the proverbial couch and bite down on
a metaphorical dishrag.
I did as I was told, and it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. My airfare is
less than four hundred bucks, and I got some kind of corporate discount
on the fancy-ass hotel, which will run me $213 per night. I've got a car
reserved with Avis, and apparently I'm all set. In two weeks I'll be
seated in an outsize tube of aluminum, hurtling through the sky toward
the western horizon.
I probably shouldn't admit this, but I've got a twinge of concern about
the whole thing. About the flying, I mean. I don't think I've been on an
airplane since early 2000 (that's before 9/11), when we were in the
process of moving from that "paradise" out there. Up to that
point, I flew quite a bit. But it all came to a screeching halt when we
moved to Scranton.
Back in the Atlanta days, before kids and mortgages, etc., Toney and I did a
little traveling. We went to San Francisco a couple of times, out to see
Sunshine in Nevada once or twice, and spent an excellent week on the
Oregon coast one summer, where I magically transformed into a
fully-realized beer snob. Best. Beer. Ever.
Plus, I attended a lot of "meetings" and such through my job.
And I put parentheses around that word because it happened during the
record weasel years. One such trip featured Prince and the New Power
Generation performing in a hotel ballroom in Chicago, with Oprah Winfrey
herself gyrating her big flower-print ass on the dance floor. So you can
see, these were not meetings, they were "meetings."
But that was then, this is now. And now there are four of us, and we're
not the freaking Vanderbilts here. Four airfares at once will cost ya.
Plus, my "new" job doesn't require me to travel like my old
one did. So, without really noticing, I find myself sitting here having
not flown in about seven years. And I recently watched United 93,
and really want to see We Are Marshall before it leaves theaters.
Yesterday I heard Lynyrd Skynyrd on the radio, and on Tuesday I talked
to a guy at work who grew up a rabid Yankees fan. His favorite player as
a kid? That's right, Thurman Munson.
But whatever. It's not a major panic, just
a little nagging concern way back in the battle-scarred folds of my
brain. My bigger worry is the meetings in Burbank. And the meals with
bigshots, where my counterpart and I will basically be onstage. Man, I
hate that kind of thing with every fiber of my being. And, mister, my
being is just lousy with fiber.
It's going to be an excruciating three days, and I have a feeling it's
not going to be a beer-free January, after all. In fact, I'd better
watch it, or I might end up like the guy in this Fountains of Wayne
song.
-- And speaking of getting my shit together.... So far so good on the
ass-reduction project. I know it's only been a couple of days, but I've
managed to stay away from the candy bars at work, as well as the
sexy-as-all-hell Mountain Dew machine. And, as they say, every journey
starts with a single step, or some such bullshit.
Now I just need to add in the exercise component, which is going to be
the hard part. I'm not joining another gym, what with the nauseating
stew of funk-suppression smells, and the bobbing penises in the locker
room. And I can't really see me wallowing around in the floor doing
sit-ups like something off a 1950s sitcom. What am I, a complete douche?
I've tried walking and even running, and that's not for me either. I
always resent having to wave at people.
But I need to figure something out, before I'm over at Dick's Sporting
Goods, wearing a fake moustache and buying a stack of sports bras. I
really do.
And that's about all I can muster this morning. I'll try it again
tomorrow.
--
It looks like the California trip is on. Yesterday my boss emailed me,
and told me to go ahead and make the necessary arrangements. Which, of
course, means call an "approved" travel agency, give them a
credit card number, then bend over the proverbial couch and bite down on
a metaphorical dishrag.