Tracking My Time in Florida

[E-mail to friends on June 21]

So, just a heads up, I will have very limited access to e-mail for the next week.

I don't know if I told you all, but GE is flying me to Florida to celebrate the good job my Florida region did last year when I was still part of that team (my last Louisville job).

From Friday to Sunday I'm staying at a resort south of Tampa, and on Saturday I'm going deep sea fishing. I anticipate getting sick, but I'll make a good show out of it.

I'm flying down tomorrow to spend Tuesday - Friday with Nana and my relatives there.

The weekend will be nice but a little weird because all of my co-workers in the Florida region are older guys with families. I am going to be the youngest person there by at least 20 years. And I haven't worked with these guys or talked with them for about 6 months.

At the same time, I have to treat this kind of like an interview, because I did leave a good impression on these guys when I worked with them, and I think I would be high on their list if one of them ever retired. So I would be in line to take one of their jobs and move to Florida.

Maybe.

Not any time soon, though.

Then I return to NY on Sunday at which point I work and clean and prepare for the arrival of Duchess Petredis and the 4th of July.

So, in a roundabout way, I'm bragging, dumping my anxiety on you, and apologizing in advance.

I hope everyone had a good weekend.

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[E-mail to friends on June 22]

So, quick update:

Y2J and I both had our luggage lost by some ignorance at Laguardia. As soon as the next flight from NYC lands at TPA (7 p.m.), it is being shipped to us each at our homes. His will ship to Clearwater. Mine will ship to Nana's in Seminole.

In the unlikely event that our luggage gets switched, I will put on his outfit (tights and all) and I assault a random passerby on the beach. Nana will photograph. And I will e-mail the pictures to you.

So after the snafu with the luggage, I went to rent my car for the week: a full-size sedan. I was about to sign for a 2010 Honda Accord when I was reminded that my GPS was in my luggage, and I don't have my luggage, so I would be driving aimlessly around Florida unless I got a car with a GPS installed ($40 upgrade through Hertz). I explained this to a nice guy that had been dealing with me.

Initially, when I got there, he asked if I was in Tampa on business or pleasure. I explained that I was in Tampa for both, but the leisure was to spend time with my Nana, not anything wild or sexy. This must have struck a chord with him, because when I got the upgrade to a full size sedan with a GPS, he upgraded me what must have been at least 4 steps up to a Mercedes-Benz E-class sedan (http://www.mbusa.com/mercedes/vehicles/explore/overview/class-E/model-E550W).

I explained that I really didn't need anything so fancy, but he insisted, and he insured me that this came at no additional charge.

So I drove out of TPA ballin', pimpin' hard. My grandmother is having a hard time grasping what her grandson is doing with this car in her driveway. And I think my aunt and uncle might have thought that anyone other than their nephew was hanging out with Nana this afternoon. The last time they saw me driving around down here, it was the summer that Duncan and I had moved down here, and I was driving the '93 Carolla.

I still haven't figured out how to sync my iPod and Blackberry to the dashboard/stereo, but the simple fact that I can makes me feel incredibly hard.

So I've had a good day. Got to the airport, hopped right on the flight, landed, made friends with a professional wrestler, and rode off with a hot car.

Mike and Taylor, I'm going to spring a surprise Walls of Paulicho on you when you're not looking. Mike, I may or may not poop on you when I get you in this hold.

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[E-mail to friends on June 23]

So I fell asleep last night by the front door of Nana's house, sitting in a recliner, reading a book.

There's something about Florida that turns me into an old man.

I fell asleep sitting upright, reading a book.

To be fair, though, I was also waiting for Delta to deliver my luggage, and they told me that they could deliver as late as midnight.

But they didn't.

I called this morning to get a status update on my luggage.

Again, it "has been located." This is very vague, and apparently it means, "your bag is somewhere in this dimension" (not necessarily NY...or Florida....or even the United States). "Located" just means that the number it registered to is in Delta's system as having been scanned once upon a time.

And apparently, it is supposed to be delivered some time between 8 a.m. and 10 p.m. this evening.

I would be kind of put off by this, but when I'm spending time with Nana, we get along fine playing Scrabble and double solitaire for upwards of 8 hours. So having another excuse to be housebound is a-ok with me.

Not being showered or tooth-brushed or deodorized is not ok, but I can deal with it as long as this stuff does show up today.

Also, it wouldn't be conducive to being "cool," if I rolled up on some Floridian honey in the Benz, got her attention, and rolled down the driver's side window to reveal what looked to be a homeless man from NJ.

"'Sup, baby?"

"Ew! Jerk! Who's car did you steal?!"

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[E-mail to friends on June 23]

LUGGAGE WATCH 2010:

30 hours and still counting.

Sooner or later my bag will be delivered to me.

I call Delta about every 1.5 hours to see if they have any more information.

They don't.

But they DO employ a call center of what sound to be nice young women.

And they're all appreciative that I'm not a d!ck to them.

I explain that I used to work in a call center, and that I know they didn't personally mismanage by luggage.

A manager called about 3 hours ago to confirm that I would have my bag within the next two hours.

I said thank you.

And waited.

Had a couple beers with Nana while we took turns beating each other at Scrabble.

I'm moving on to bourbon.

If I take a ride on my bourbon time machine (get blasted), maybe I'll wake up and have my toiletries with me.

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[Facebook status update - June 23]

3 hours after I land in Tampa, a mysterious man arrives to deliver my luggage. He was obese, and his man-boobs were impressive. I could not fault him. He drove a mini-van.

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[E-mail to friends, June 25]

You know that resort that Jason Segel checks into in the movie
Forgetting Sarah Marshall?

I just checked into the Florida Gulf equivalent. F'n beautiful.

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[E-mail to friends, June 28]

I arrived in that swank resort in Sarasota, FL on Friday and enjoyed cocktails and dinner with co-workers. I had one cocktail too many and fast-forward to 11:00 p.m. when I tolerated drunk neo-fascist conservative wives of my co-workers that told me that they wanted Obama assassinated. Being drunk and feisty I tolerated them and steered them in conversation to the point that we agreed non-tax-paying Christians should be deported amongst other wild things that they wouldn't have said without proper instigation.

Later that night I was walking alone on the beach with a bourbon and coke, trying to take pictures of the full moon with my camera phone. When I figured out that it was damned near impossible to get a decent phone pic, I looked at the clock on my phone and realized that it was already 1 a.m., and the chartered deep sea fishing boat was leaving at 7 a.m.

So I stumbled back to my room, slept like a rock, and woke up right on time. I took what I thought would be an adequate amount of Dramamine and proceeded to the shuttle to the boat.

The boats that picked us up at the resort's dock were two tiny things. One man described them as kayaks with motors. I would be generous if I told you they were half the size of the Petredis' boat. We were taking group pictures, and one shocked bystander asked us again what company we worked for that would put us on such small boats.

To be fair, the boats were decent, because we didn't go out far into the ocean at all. In fact, we stayed in the bay the entire time. The worst waves we encountered were the result of some speed boats passing about 400 meters away.

I was the boat leader in catching more than a dozen fish. Only one was a trout, and we were only keeping trout. I caught a lot of catfish and blue fish, the longest 21 inches. It was fun and hot and I'm glad I can say that I've done that now. We saw dolphins and stingrays and a shark.

I never felt an inkling of sickness.

But when we got back to the resort, I had the terrific sensation of being tired. Pat Brumley warned me that Dramamine didn't prevent you from feeling sick so much as it made you feel too tired to feel anything else. And I could not stay awake despite all of the bourbon and cokes I drank to stay awake.

So I slept through most of the early afternoon and into the US-Ghana game. I stumbled down to the resort's pool to watch the tail end of the game, then stumbled back to bed. Then I stumbled to an Italian dinner with a bunch of my co-workers. Then I stumbled back to bed.

That's how Saturday and Sunday went. A whole lot of me stumbling around, half-asleep, trying to take advantage of my surroundings but mostly just pissing paradise away.

The flight back to NYC was uneventful and (surprise) I slept through most of it. I arrived around 3:30, my luggage was there (!!!), and I got home around 5. Cleaned up the apartment a little bit, watered some undernourished plants, and then fell asleep.

This morning I feel like I'm finally balanced out. I'm taking care of business, back in the swing of things, putting the world back on my shoulders, and committing all kinds of other proactive figures of speech.

So I'm out on a walk while participating in a nationwide conference
call for work. I found a sweet, sweet trail through a woods....but
somehow I got turned around and am completely turned around and lost.

Thank goodness I have GPS on my phone.

How is it that shoe companies make the best commercials?

Victory Brewing Company's Whirlwind Witbier

Hot dang! This beer is delicious.

Reviews on beer advocate are mostly positive, the most pretentious criticism being "almost too easy to drink." Beer snobs sometimes piss me off. "I like this beer a lot, but its almost too easy to drink." That's like saying, "This new band really speaks to me and the lyrics affect me on a personal level, but because they're popular I CANNOT enjoy them." I suppose snobbery is snobbery across the board, whether its beer or music or whatever. Irritating snobs.

The beer rocks and tastes like a delicious summer beer. I would be upset if someone tried to put some fruit in the pint I had it served in, but that's just me. Perfect for drinking while you grill, when you're done swimming at the beach, or while you're in the midst of running sales reports on a Saturday afternoon (me).

This is the kind of beer that makes me nostalgic for the days I had a porch and a grill. And it will definitely go well when college football returns. Not a "cigar beer," but not every great beer is.

To paraphrase Ricky Bobby: "Buy Whirlwind Witbier....or go fuck yourself."

David Lasoski - Unrequited Lover and Ultimate Tough Guy

Excerpts from the entry on David Lasoski from next book:

Main Entry: ¹sauce

Pronunciation: \ˈsȯs, usually ˈ>sas for 4\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin salsa, feminine of >salsus salted, from past participle of >sallere to salt, from >sal salt — more at salt

Date: 14th century

1 : a condiment or relish for food; especially : a fluid dressing or topping 2 : something that adds zest or piquancy 3 : stewed fruit eaten with other food or as a dessert 4 : pert or impudent language or actions 5 slang : liquor —used with the

David Lasoski - The day I met David Lasoski I had no idea what I was getting myself into. An obliterated, skinny little guy wandered into my apartment and started harassing my roommate. I would never have suspected that some years later he would be my roommate. It is funny how that worked out.

Recently I was reminded of what a compact, little beast he is. Apparently, something has tricked his eyes into becoming blood-red globes of Cajun-spiced fury. David and his doctors like to claim that this is allergy-related. I prefer to think that the fiery, mean demon inside of David is slowly bubbling to the surface. However, to placate the red-eye, doctors/priests have prescribed eye drops.

Eye drops?! Seriously?! You think that can bottle the genie that is inside Dave?!

I digress. Somehow I was tasked with the responsibility of returning these eye drops to David after they had been left behind at a cabin we'd vacationed at. Needing money for cigarettes and liquor (two things I often purchase for myself at David's expense), I sold the eye drops to some drug runners that I know in Louisville. I did not tell David about this. Not many people realize the street value of black market prescription eye drops. Nothing elevates you to another plane of existence like prescription eye drops.

When David started texting me and calling me for the return of these drops, I knew what I had to do: replace the eye drops with Frank's Red Hot Sauce.

As soon as I saw him next, David snapped the small tube from me and proceeded to the nearest bathroom to calm his irritated eyes. And he never screamed or flinched. I do not believe he even noticed that he had put hot sauce in his eyes. And this confirmed what I always thought about David: he is no normal man.

There are a lot of supernatural qualities about David, and I constantly find myself referencing them when I describe Mr. Lasoski. But that's best left for another post.

But for as extreme and intense as David is, I can also confirm that he is a delicate, gentlemanly lover. I cannot confirm this through personal experience (fortunately), but I can tell you that the guy leaves women satisfied. He is the immaculate playboy. Whether it comes through with his singing, his dancing, his cooking, or simply his playful, giggle-filled storytelling, there is no denying his effectiveness.

There are too many aspects of David Lasoski to adequately describe in one entry. Similarly, one book would not in itself give him justice. Even the Encyclopedia Davidica would surely omit parts of the legends.

He is the sound a tree makes when it falls in the woods and nobody is around to hear it. The tree, in its dying breath, whispers, "David Lasoski."