Getting my turn this early in The Summer of Love I figured it is my duty to, again, share some facts about Karl. So y’all know what the hell you are dealing with here. He’s not the sweet, innocent, loveable guy you all think he is. Nu Uh!

So here goes. Everything you don’t particularly want to know about Karl, but I am going to tell you anyway:

• If you fuck up Karl in any way, on Facebook, Twitter or anywhere else on the internets, he will find you, hunt you down and shoot you with his “gun”
• His Mom is not really his Mom. He’s living with a girlfriend 45 years his senior but just is not telling us
• Apparently his nuts are naturally crossed (eewwwww)
• And apparently he is willing to show me that “live” but I am sure if you ask him nicely he will show you too
• He’s into girls being nutcrushers
• Karl’s nose hairs tickle your cheek when he kisses you (see pic).. At least I HOPE those were his nose hairs…
• Karl can drive 14 hours straight
• Well, with 2,367 pit stops to pee
• He will say that those pit stops are for the person he’s driving with but I know from a reliable source that that is not the case: Karl’s got a bladder the size of a walnut himself
• He’s been known to drive thru a drive-thru wearing only diapers
• Karl likes to dress up, preferably in drag
• He does all that shit and calls them “Birthday Dares”… yeah.. Uh Huh, we all know that that is just a cover up for doing what he loves to do best
• Whenever you tweet that you are doing anything with less clothing than usual involved, he will request a webcam to be set up
• He thinks that showing off his nuts will pay for pizza delivery
• Nobody know’s where Karl was when MJ died… Do you?

That’s about it for now… I have tons more exhilirating Karl facts but I know your poor hearts can only handle so many at a time. So signing off for now! Enjoy the continuation of the Summer of Love, guys! And Karl? * SMOOCH *

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Everything you don’t particularly want to know about Karl, but I am going to tell you anyway…

Last night was insanely social for me for some reason. From 10pm thru till about 3 this morning, it was one phone call after another, mixed with IM, Twitter, texting, Skype, webcams…exhausting. Fun, but exhausting. And GeekyTaiTai gives great tongue.

Then there’s all the shit I’ve gotten from this post over the last few days. Amazing how many people don’t seem to have a sense of humor. If you can’t recognize a totally over-the-top spoof, you probably will want to stop reading this blog, like, now. In fact, I hope you will.

Still, it’s good to be back in the blogging saddle. If I can get people’s panties in a twist on Day 2 of my return, all is not lost.

Sybil Law and I had a great convo last night. How I love that woman, though she really did pressure me to write the vile post I was fantasizing about, so I don’t know if she’ll be my Go-To Girl for advice when I’m trying to calm myself down in the future.

I seem to have extended my annual Social Season (this year consisting of TequilaCon, ConFab, and BlogHer in a couple of weeks) another month. Just booked flights to Alabama and Kentucky for next month. It’s Kim’s birthday so I’ll be there for that, then flying to Louisville (which Diana assured me multiple times via webcamchat I’m pronouncing ridiculously badly) to hang with Laci and the other local Kentucky folk.

At some point, I’m really going to need to seal myself into my cave for some serious hibernation. But for now, I’ll gladly deplete my Social Battery over and over.

There are always a million memes screaming around the Net, but one that happens to catch my eye most every time someone blogs it is this one. Thought I’d give it a try. I’m pretty much a straight-shooter, but I do keep a lot of shit to myself. Therapists have told me that’s not a good thing.

Things I’d Love to Say To Certain People, But Haven’t

1. I used to really enjoy you. Now I see what a mean-spirited, pathetic little person you are.
2. I really miss you like crazy, but feel like I can’t be with you any more, for obvious reasons.
3. I’d never treat my worst enemy the way you’ve treated me lately. God only knows what you say behind my back, because the shit you’ve said publicly is pretty vile.
4. You have a lot of people snowed, which has always amazed me. Yet some of us can see your Emperor’s New Clothes just fine. Just who those people are would surprise you.
5. Lighten the fuck up, asshole.
6. I can only pray you don’t believe everything you’re being told. Because most of it is utter bullshit.
7. I thank God for you every day. True friends are a rare commodity, and I’m glad to see those few people for who they are these days.
8. I’d love to verbally thrash you publicly, but I don’t believe in airing my laundry in public. Kind of the opposite of your M.O., really.
9. Out of all the people I know, you make it the hardest to bite my tongue. By the way, it’d be nice if there was a Band-Aid that sticks to the tongue.
10. I wish you weren’t married.
11. I’ll never forget the last three words you said to me. Some things are truly unforgivable, which seems ironic now.
12. I have PTSD, bipolar, ADD, severe depressive disorder, and yet somehow you make me look sane. Way to go.
13. I have the hugest crush on you, but will likely never act on it, let alone tell you.
14. Just because you follow something with “Just kidding,” it doesn’t erase the assholish words you just said.
15. There was a time when I lived for the Drama, but when I watch you orchestrate it like a Master Conductor these days, it sickens me.
16. There aren’t adequate words for how sorry I am, but I don’t know what else to say or do to make reparations.
17. Sometimes inappropriate is funny, but that wasn’t. At all.
18. I wish you’d forget I exist.
19. I often imagine slapping you because the most-uttered words from your mouth are, “I’m sorry.” It’s like if you say “I love you” 578 times a day to the same person - the words lose their importance.
20. I’m a very good judge of character, but I’m sure glad I was wrong about my first impressions of you.

There, that feels slightly better. Perhaps there’s no need to throw Molotov Cocktails anyone’s way, after all.

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Twenty Things I Would Love to Say, But Have Not

Listicles have ruined journalism, and journalism has ruined me (my good nerve anyway, and my fondness for writing), and so there’s nothing to do but offer you a listicle as my contribution to festivities. I always thought that when Karl got around to making me Empress Of The World, I’d be more… I don’t know, proactive?… with the gig. In this as in so many things, I was wrong.

3 Things I Have Been Wrong About Lately

- I’m still in journalism. I got laid off from two journalism jobs in as many months last year. Sensible people would take that as a hint to find a more honorable and durable line of work — whorehouse piano player, for instance, or diplomatic envoy to North Korea. I was in fact on the verge of slipping out of the old racket and into a new one, but someone had the weird urge to offer me a job writing. Finding it frankly bizarre that anyone anywhere still had journalism jobs to offer, I took it, much as one takes the last piece of pie at Thanksgiving to keep it going to waste, and with much the same bellyache ever since.

- This journalism gig gets sweeter as the days wind down. I’m in a dying industry, and not dying all pretty like Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge, either. I was at the big Seattle Zombie Walk last week and I swear the deadest men walking there were the poor humps covering the event for our local papers. I told myself that this last job — because I am sure this is my last journalism job, not only because the industry’s dying but because in journalist-years I am older than God’s babysitter — would be a nice valedictory, a victory lap on a track that’s got just a few more laps for me before it’s too rutted to round. (Be advised, BTW, that this is the only reference to rutting that will appear on Secondhand Tryptophan today. I know, very confusing especially after the previous post, but you are in the right place. I swear it. In fact, let’s just leave it at “I swear,” a fact which I expect to become rather obvious in the following paragraphs.)

- I could get used to suburban life. At some point during the past twelve months, I signed a two-inch-high stack of papers and became the co-owner of the house of someone else’s dreams. (Actually, I know exactly when it was; it was 10 minutes before the HR office at my old job called to tell me I was getting laid off — second of the two jobs of that Summer of Layoff. How’s that for timing? Took the call sitting in front of the escrow office.) The house of someone else’s dreams has a yard and a garage and a Dispos-All and no sidewalks in front of the house. All these things indicate to me that I am not in New York, which makes this definitely The House Of Someone Else’s Dreams, not mine. Any dream house of mine would provide for easy access to eggancheeseonnaroll (breakfast of champions) on the way to the subway (transportation system of champions).

5 Things I Dreaded About Home Ownership

- Yards. Grooming them and weeding out the bad stuff and worrying when they aren’t doing well — yards are like flat, mute children, and I see why Dad always talked about pouring concrete on his. (You parse that sentence your own self; I am not going to help you.)

- Dispos-Alls. I’m aware that many people like the convenience, but if I wanted a sharp-toothed, groaning, stinky maw built into one of the rooms, I’d hire Sam Raimi to do it right.

- Knowing things about sump pumps. Seriously, civilized places have staff for that.

- Becoming my parents. No more fun, no more mobility, and no more travel — even though the goal of buying this house with another person was to free up resources to live elsewhere for a third of the year — somewhere with subways and eggancheeseonnaroll and my hairdresser of 15 years on speed-dial.

- Finding the apartment of my dreams (non-NYC division) right after signing the lease. High ceilings, high windows, a neighborhood with sidewalks. I know it’s out there, just waiting for me to turn my back.

5 Things I Neglected To Dread About Home Ownership

- Knowing enough things about sump pumps. The little fuckers don’t like pine cones, did you know this?

- Finding the apartment of my dreams… and discovering the price would have been extremely affordable on either my old or new salaries. Half a block from my old place, and when I remember who told me that units in that building were “oh, easily a few thousand a month” I’m going to stab that person right in the eye.

- Becoming my grandparents. It took me several months of living in the new place before I realized that the layout and interior styling were almost exactly like my maternal grandparents’ home. That’s fine, but now I’ve thrown myself into working the whole midcentury-design thing, while Head Housemate is still attempting to decorate for the Craftsman-era bungalows that didn’t pan out in our search. This is somehow worse when one party actually knows the difference between midcentury and Craftsman (and won’t pay for crappy design in either), while the other is a fanatical shopper whose approach to home-decorating issues is modeled on Pickett’s charge at Gettyburg — wave after wave after hapless wave, in this case, of poorly thought out late-Deco lamps. And I was dead on with the no-travel thing; I’ve gotten back to NYC once. My hairdresser of 15 years heard the saga and gave me one last cut, then fired me as a customer — “you’re a Seattleite now!” I swear this development was harder on my nerves than either layoff.

- Mortgage brokers. Was previously unaware that there existed a species that extracts its oxygen from bullshit. That’s the only possible explanation for some of these people.

- Other people. And me a good Sartrean in college, too.

7 Things I Didn’t Fully Appreciate About Living Alone Until They Were Gone Forever

- Saturday mornings. Whatever else the week had done to me, there was the beauty of waking up on Saturday to NPR playing and just breathing while the day began. Now it’s more about people shouting to ask IF YOU’RE AWAKE CAN WE TAKE YOU OUT TO BREAKFAST, AND DID YOU MEAN TO BE AWAKE BY NOW, AND DID YOU KNOW YOU FELL ASLEEP WITH THE RADIO ON AGAIN?

- Order. Once upon a time, foodstuffs went in cupboards, dirty clothes went in the basket, mystery liquids in the bathroom were wiped up promptly, and random toys and bits of food that hit the floor were retrieved and deposited in trash receptacles. I thought everyone lived that way. How wrong I was.

- Non-derailed trains of thought. Did I mention my new housemate comes with additional mini-humans? And that apparently children these days don’t ever go outside or play games quietly and are aghast at the idea of not sharing every thought and action with a grownup? AT FULL VOLUME? OR LOUDER IF THE ADULTS ARE TALKING? I have taken to categorizing my days on the Owl Scale; a good day is when all four house denizens have a match to one of the owls in this video, and a bad day is when we have three of the chattering owl in the back and one of me drooping low and occasionally shaking my head.

- The comfort of being sad. Kurt Cobain was right.

- Refrigerator space. Things I eat: Hunks of cheese, hunks of meat, pasta with strange and complicated sauces, Greek-style unflavored yogurt, odd foods I thought I might try. Things Housemate and Mini-Humans eat: Hot dogs, flavored yogurt, things that need cooking, things that are absolutely familiar and in addition have no flavor or spice lest the younger mini-human think he might be having a new culinary experience oh noes!

- Television. I like TV. There, I said it. I don’t tolerate a lot of dreck, but I like The Office and 30 Rock and Iron Chef and MSNBC and Dead Like Me reruns and things with Ian McShane in them, and I reserve my God-given right as an American to fall asleep in front of the TV watching baseball of a summer evening. One housemate finds this almost as peculiar as my habit of reading books; the other two think that if the set’s on I’m just waiting for someone to come ask, over and over and over and over and over, I WANT TO WATCH ON DEMAND. (Yes, that’s the prevailing form of request. The next generation is a foreign country; they do things differently there.)

- The bathtub. I used to love a bath (rather than a shower) once a week or so — gather a book and a big bottle of cool water, fill the tub, soak and read. It had not occurred to me that this was predicated on being able to take an hour without someone demanding that you observe their new videogame skills, or on not always requiring a good 20 minutes beforehand to scrape god-knows-what out of the tub itself.

6 Things I Neglected To Take Into Account About Living With Other People, Particularly Children

- Noise. Seriously, you breeders out there have to get on the ball about evolving future generations to include a volume control.

- General stickiness.

- Impertinent questions. Yes, my dad has been dead a long time. No, I do not know why the guy next door stares like that. Yes, the lady walking along Aurora Avenue in the heels and miniskirt is very friendly. No, I will not give you a quarter. No, I will not give you 50 cents. Yes, I have a mother. No, I don’t know what the funniest Calvin and Hobbes cartoon ever is, though I’ll bet it’s different from the one you said was the funniest Calvin and Hobbes cartoon ever about 15 minutes ago. No, I do not have children.

- Shift in topics of conversation. I was unaware of how much discussion mini-humans engender — planning, analysis of earlier statements, coordination of homework and school projects, debate over whether the younger one understood why the lady in the miniskirt went around the block three times being friendly. Conversely, children that don’t go outside and only socialize on “playdates” requiring slightly greater coordination than the TARP bailouts are, not surprisingly, fairly weak conversationalists, especially if you don’t give a rat’s ass about Pokemon or Transformers or hearing the plot of the show you just watched together recounted in excruciating detail interspersed with the words “AND DID YOU SEE IT WHEN.”

- Other people’s restaurant choices. All-you-can-eat Chinese buffets? Old Spaghetti Factory? I don’t know whether to be more disturbed that I’ve now got go-to dishes at those places, or that I see (especially at the latter) so many very young-but-grown couples eating there as if the entire world of dining wasn’t at their feet. I’m not saying I want to haul my housemates to a four-star restaurant to give them the appetite for it — anyone dining at a place like that when I attempted it would be quite justified in kicking me in the head — but dammit, a person needs higher dining aspirations than “I hope the waitress doesn’t give us a pack of only green crayons for the placemats this time.”

- Pack-rattedness. Head Housemate has a great fondness for thrift-store shopping, both for general household items and for stuff for the mini-humans. Which is great, but after paying the mortgage for a year, I sort of thought all of us would have all our stuff moved in by now. Instead, we’re still awash in boxes, and I wince every time someone asks if we’re enjoying the new house. In two days, a plumber will come here to make a non-emergency repair, after Head Housemate spent two weeks purchasing tools and materials to fix it only to decide it was too great a time sink. When the plumber asks how we like our new neighborhood, I swear I’m not gonna cry. Out loud.

5 Surprisingly Good Things About Living With Other People, Particularly Children

- General cavorting. It’s not all bad. As Karl knows I’m kind of an agoraphobe, leaving my house very rarely, and when I do leave I’m not much for random acts of expressive joy. Housemates are having none of it. Housemates think we should go to the local Zombie Walk and check out the Steampunk Swapmeet. Housemates want to know what I have against camping, and are disturbed when the list is identical to the reasons they enjoy it. Housemates expect grownups to occasionally sing in public. Housemates are happier when everyone’s laughing.

- Renewed attention to whereabouts of ice-cream truck. Mirabile dictu, despite all the screaming, they all have excellent ears, used primarily for locating the whereabouts of their popsicle fix.

- Sensation of being in foreign country, with concomitant sense of perspective. I know a lot about Pokemon’s marketing push but can’t tell the monsters apart; I have a bookcase full of DVDs but have never seen Ice Age or Monster House or any Transformers movie. Their astonishment at this is palpable, and causes me, however briefly, to wonder if I have already begun that steep slide into cultural isolation, where none of the pop-culture references make any sense anymore. (And wait ’til you tell mini-humans that you hate Scooby-Doo.) On the other hand, YouTube has enabled adults of a certain age to end long discursions on Mr. Bill or the Marx Brothers with “…and you can look it up online.” The mini-humans go around the house squeaking OH NOOOOOO! for a few days, but it’s totally worth it.

- Other people cooking. Head Housemate loves to cook, and will without provocation whip up a rack of ribs and a brace of sweet-corn ears. For my part, I sit in my office reading and staying out of the way. It’s a very good system.

- The barking-spider effect. Anything you might be embarrassed to admit to other grownups you like, you blame on the kids. Nintendo Wii with all the trimmings? Pucca in heavy rotation on On Demand? Don’t look at me, pal. And I have no idea how that string cheese got into the fridge, either.

5 Most Disturbing Neighbor Behaviors (in ascending order)

- Baking things. A New Yorker by temperament if not by birth, I like my neighbors of the friendly-and-chatty-but-not-labor-intensive type. A few days after we moved in, we were greeted by not just baked goods, but by an apology for the baked goods being store-bought. I’m ashamed to say I still have no idea what to do about this. Should I have sent over a baked good of my own? Should it have been homemade, since that’s apparently an issue? How long do I have to unpack my pans and cookie sheets in a situation like that? I heard much later that the householder in question is diabetic; should have taken that into consideration had I pulled myself together to do anything at all, which I didn’t? There was an entrance exam for suburban life, and it was written in chocolate chips, and I’m pretty sure I failed.

- Lurking. The home office of the guy next door, a two-story workshop built right on the lot, looks directly into my own office windows. The neighbor himself seems often to be lurking just on the other side of the fence. Doesn’t seem dangerous (calculates the former New Yorker), and he was a peach when the previous owner moved out and left her cats to the mercies of the neighbors and whomever moved in here next (story for another time), but Head Housemate and I agree that something’s a bit… off.

- Being unrecognizable. I have a neurological condition called prosopagnosia (face blindness), which means I don’t recognize the faces of people even if I’ve met them repeatedly. This makes it difficult to recognize my neighbors unless they stay in their yards (so I know where they “belong.”). And trust me, you only need to not-recognize someone at the local grocery store once to get a reputation as a rude and unneighborly asshole. Head Housemate is fortunately quite social; I, on the other hand, am finding it easier to stay the hell indoors, ignoring the doorbell, in my semi-surveilled home office. Remind me again how standalone single-family homes are more private and relaxed than condos?

- Criminal element. Head Housemate, again being social, had made the acquaintance of the other next-door neighbor and his caretaker, so HH was able to recognize the caretaker when we came upon him late one night sabotaging his client’s van. Turns out we’d happened across an interlude in a sustained assault against the neighbor, whom the caretaker had decided was cheating him out of money in conjunction with a second caretaker, whom he also beat up that night. Head Housemate nearly ended up testifying in court over that mess. Turns out the police, when they visit a little neighborhood like ours, stay long and take many reports, hoping some respectable citizen saw something.

- Suicide. But no one ever sees anything, really, do they. No one saw the next-door neighbor with the workshop drag his barbecue grill in the house a few weeks ago and tape himself into the bedroom with it. And no one saw him for a week after that, either, and we didn’t think anything of it until his girlfriend came around and checked to see if he’d picked up his mail lately. And after that we saw a lot of official vehicles, and we smelled some things we didn’t want to smell, and now we have some flowers on his porch and we’re all watching for the neighbor’s ex-wife and brother from California to come deal with the house, after which we expect more realtors, and the new-neighbor cycle will begin again. I suppose this time it’s my turn to bring the baked goods, trying again to make the neighbor thing go right.

4 Moments Of Transcendence Anyway

- Serendipity, pack-rattedness and the perfect couch. It’s early spring, and Head Housemate thinks I need to get outside for the first time in a week, and where better to go than Goodwill for some early-evening thrifting? I doubt this, but can amuse myself meandering around wondering why the hell middle-class Americans buy the crap they do, and how they know when they’re done with the useless crap they’ve bought and need newer crap.

And then there it was — the perfect, spotless, curvy, Googie mid-century couch for my box-filled, underdecorated midcentury house. (I swear on Karl’s life I heard “Some Enchanted Evening” playing when I saw the pretty thing across the crowded room.) And Head Housemate was no one to stand in the way of fate; I got no argument at all, not even when we drove it home balanced on the roof of HH’s Volvo and had to carry the thing in quickly before the rains restarted. Even covered with the blankets necessary to guard it against the mini-humans and the inadvertently adopted cat, it’s still beautiful. (The part where it’s a $1799 couch that cost me $250 doesn’t hurt, frankly.) Without the housemates, I never would have gone to Goodwill, or had a way to haul it home, or had a home to haul it off to, but somehow everyone in the house still agrees that it is “my” couch — though the mini-humans seem to have an endless stream of excuses they should be allowed to fall asleep on it while the grownups talk nearby. I’ve even got one of them learning to like baseball.

- Now and forever, shelves. Head Housemate may be baffled by my insistence that reading is fundamental (to me not killing everyone else in the house), but as a packrat he’s got books, and we thus have shelves everywhere, shelves bolted to walls so they don’t seem tippy, for books I could literally go my entire life rearranging and culling and never putting in moving boxes again.

- Did I mention the cooking? At any moment, an omelette could appear right next to me as I write this. And Head Housemate and I both like our bacon very lightly cooked, and no one has to explain a thing.

- Yard work, when the push mower’s making that snick-snick sound and the roses are all blooming like they owe the neighborhood a show and the old guy across the street, who looks exactly like he did the last time I saw him standing in his yard, is making jokes about me chasing away the rain by rushing to mow the lawn before the storm starts. Go fucking know.

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The new neighbor: My year in listicles

I hope I can count on each and every single one of you ladies to help me out. I’ve already got most of the script written. Obviously, I’ve left all the roles fairly open. Not really imagining any women in particular.

BLOGHER HARD

BY KARL ERIKSON

INT. SHERATON HOTEL ROOM

18 giggling scantily-clad women, drinking Captain Morgan straight from the bottle, enjoying the estrogen high of BlogHer 2009.

MINTY: God, it’s so hot in here! I feel like just slipping out of this Victoria’s Secret teddy. It’s just us girls, after all.

BLUENECK MOMMY: I’m with you! Let’s *all* get naked. These garments are far too confining! I’m not used to wearing clothing.

MRS. ZINGER: You don’t have to tell ME twice! [laughs, slips her arms through the flimsy straps of her negligee.]

18 giggling women start helping each other remove their lingerie. Playful fondling ensues.

SLOPPYKISSES: (Wets her finger and rubs it over her nipples) God, did you see KARL today? That man can fill out some cargo shorts!

MUMMYMELEE: Who DIDN’T notice? I’ll tell you, if I wasn’t married…

ALL WOMEN: Oh, why must I be married when guys like KARL and NEAL are here?

Several ladies are lightly brushing their fingers over each other’s tattoos. ANISSAMATTHEW and SADANDGORGEOUS start kissing.

IMWINDY: I don’t know…if KARL came to the room right now…

CHEEKYMONKEY: What happens at BlogHer STAYS at BlogHer?

IMWINDY: (giggling) You got THAT right, my empowered sister!

LEATHERKENNEDY: Damn, why did you have to mention KARL? I simply can’t resist touching myself when I hear his name.

General murmurs and moans of agreement. Much self-touching. TASTELIKEINSANITY begins whinnying like a pony.

KNOCK AT THE DOOR.

BARETOESFOODIE (kicks the crotchless panties from around her ankle): Now who could THAT be?

She walks to the door while SHUSH starts rubbing UNDOMESTICWENCH’S shoulders and nibbles on her neck.

BARETOESFOODIE: Who is it?

ROOM SERVICE: Room service! I have your Chicago pizzas, and 10 bottles of Captain Morgan?

She opens the door and peeks around.

BARETOESFOODIE: Oh my GOD! It’s KARL! And NEAL!

ALL: Let them in!

She grabs KARL and NEAL by the wrists and pulls them into the room.

GINANDTONICA: Come to Momma!

NEAL: Ladies, you ordered the extra cheese and pepperoni?

ROOM407 GIRLS: Yes, we’ve been DYING for a certain special stick of pepperoni!

HERGOODMOTHER: And not the kind you find on a pizza, either.

KARL: What’s going on here? Why are you all naked?

GINANDTONICA, taking the pizza boxes from KARL’S hands and then rubbing her hands on his chest: I think you’ll catch on pretty fast, big man.

KARL: When you said “My boobs are your boobs,” I had no idea.

GINANDTONICA: God, you talk a lot. I hope that’s not the only thing your tongue is good at.

She starts making out with KARL.

MINTY: Oh, it’s not, trust me.

LIZRAZ: Now let’s get you boys out of those clothes. I brought plenty of condoms.

NEAL: I need to Tweet this.

TABLEOFFIVE: You need to shut up and get on your knees, bitch!

KARL: I’d listen to her, NEAL. These women are lapped up into some kind of nymphomaniacal frenzy!

SLOPPYKISSES: Guess there’s no more need for this…

She throws her diesel-powered vibrator onto the bed.

MINTY: Let’s not be hasty.

She grabs the diesel-powered vibrator from the bed and kick starts it to life.

CHEEKYMONKEY: For the love of Lizzie Maguire, KARL! I’ve heard stories about your enormity, but I’m gonna need a shoehorn for that!

BLUENECKMOMMY: I’ve got the lube!

LEATHERKENNEDY: Now THIS is the Room of Your Own I was dreaming about!

So who’s in? This is award-winning stuff, ladies.

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BlogHer Hard

I went out last night because, y’know, it was the 4th of July and in the United States that’s suppose to mean something. Independence, drinking, rednecks with explosives saying, “Check THIS shit out!”, etc. etc. After talking to a friend on the phone for a while, I figured I should shake myself out of my socially phobic roots and go surround myself with people, even if I don’t ever interact with the people I surround myself with on such ventures.

It’s an odd thing, being me sometimes, what can I say?

Course, I found myself Friday night contemplating going out, too. I went to Duffer’s, a local bar here in Sebring - the scene of my most recent video, soon to be coming to a computer screen near you - and while it was okay, the music sucked so I left. I don’t really enjoy rap unless it’s old school shit like Young MC or The Beastie Boys. Mama Say Knock You Out, y’know.

This isn't Sebring's Why Not Lounge, but it's kinda close

So I wound up at the Why Not Lounge. I’m not even making that name up. It’s this hole-in-the-wall of a bar here in Sebring, very dark, one of the few places you can actually smoke INSIDE. They also have karaoke three nights a week.

I met what seemed like some cool people Friday night there, but when I went to go talk to them after my song was finished, they were gone faster than I could have said, “IRS audit.”

So I took a chance last night and went BACK to the Why Not, hoping I’d run into them again. Because this is Sebring, you know, and finding cool young people to hang out with here isn’t all that easy a task. This is a town with 80% of its citizenry getting AARP discounts and eating dinner at 4:00 PM.

And whaddya know, the same people were back there last night. On Independence Day. In a dark, smokey room listening to (mostly) bad karaoke. So we recognized each other and I joined them at their table and had an amazing time, singing and laughing, often both. One dude sang nothing but Uncle Kracker songs, which are nothing but covers, of course - I don’t think Uncle Kracker ever released an original song.

The odd thing is that I already follow one of the guys on Twitter. He recognized the King Karl photo on my business card. I’ve done searches for Sebring on Twitter before, hoping to find some local people to hang with. This guy, Justin, is the first Tweeter I’ve met in the local area. And Tracy? She looked very familiar to me and then I found out why…she’s on OK Cupid.

So I made some new local friends on Independence Day. And for me, that is a good way to spend a holiday evening, since I know virtually no one in this town. Seems the bulk of my favorite people exist in the ethereal plane known as Twitter. Which is fun, but when you need actual physical company? It’s good to know locals.

Finally, Happy Birthday to the lovely Becky. She’s a rock star in my book. Go wish her some birthday lovin.

a

Why Not Independence?

Welcome to another Summer of Love! As Karl takes a well-deserved (day-specific) break from his copious amount of blogging, he’s gathered some of his friends, colleagues and others that foolishly answer his emails to write his blog for him. This means that for the next few weeks, there will be some entries that seem different than the usual. Spelled correctly. More advanced vocabulary. More interesting topics. So, enjoy! The summer of love  is here again!

For those in the USA, please take a moment to remember the freedoms you have (for now) as we celebrate our Independence Day. For those in the UK, sorry about all the troubles a couple of hundred years ago. For everyone else (depending on the date line), hey! It’s Saturday!

My original plan (since we are free to write on anything we would like) was to document the life and tragic death of Michael Jackson, since it doesn’t seem to be getting much coverage in the press. However, I didn’t care when he was alive, and I care less now, so that’s out.

So, I decided to work on a topic I knew something about. Business travel.

I Hate Business Travel

Now, let’s discover why I hate business travel, shall we?

I’m Kevin Gilhooly, and I’m a business traveler. (“Hi, Kevin!”) The next time somebody tells me “You’re so lucky, you get to travel all the time“, I am going to punch them in the head. I have two stories from this year to explain why.

A bit of explanation is probably in order - I work for a rather large company named “mumble, mumble” and I work on a worldwide technical sales team. My team supports sales and technical sales people (wait for it …) worldwide.We’re actually not allowed to travel very much any more. We’re not allowed to travel at all unless there is a customer visit involved. On the bright side, when we do finally get travel approved, no matter where we go in the world, we get to fly in coach! So, to justify some trips, you have to find a customer to visit and then you can do whatever the real purpose of the trip was, as well.

The first example is a log of my trip to the UK earlier this year. This trip was really to teach the local staff about a spam prevention product that I support, since they all refused to read any of the materials that I had prepared, attend any of the video conference calls, or watch the video replays of the calls. I was asked to replace one of my colleagues on the trip - and the sales representative asked me directly instead of going through the proper channels. This is a corporate mortal sin. (It’s also the way I get 90% of my requests.) My boss refused the request and said there was no way I was going on the trip. Period. After almost three weeks of wrangling through emails and phone calls and escalations on both sides of the Pond, my boss told me I was going to the UK. Up until about a week before I left, I had no idea where specifically in the UK I was going. Sales doesn’t always plan ahead very well. Also, customer visits were harder to arrange than expected, but we finally had a number of customers to visit.

London is one of my favorite cities in the world, and a place I would go every year, if I wasn’t constantly attending family weddings. However, by the time this trip ended, I was shaking the dust from my feet and running for the plane. The difference? This was a business trip.

Once I landed on the other side of the pond, I didn’t have mobile phone access, so instead of Tweeting all day as I usually do, I just created a log file in the electronic notebook on my phone (phone function turned off to save the batteries - but it’s still a PDA.) I was posting the logs to my Facebook account each evening. Having the log files, rather than individual Tweets gave me the ability to edit for clarity before posting. While it gave me the ability, I did not always partake, as you shall see.

My director read them and found it hilarous, so I guess publishing was not a security issue. I’ve edited it slightly for this article, to correct the spelling errors and more questionable grammar, take out the most horrifying curses and to protect (most of) the innocent. Otherwise, it’s pretty much verbatim.  Enjoy.

My UK Sales Trip

Saturday (Departure)

I didn’t take notes!

Sunday (The Arrival Day)

These are some random notes I scribbled in the lobby of the hotel while I was desperately trying to stay awake since they didn’t have a room available and I really didn’t think I should sleep on the couch. It started out as good points and bad points, so far.

Good points:

• Free upgrade on the flight over.
• Comfortable seats.
• Free booze.
• Taxi queue manager had actually heard of “Staines.”
• Taxi quote wasn’t as bad as I feared.
• Guinness on tap at the hotel (this is not surprising.)
• Hotel has a restaurant and room service.
• Can hear trains rumble by while watching rowers on the Thames.

Bad points:

• Seat-mate forgot to lock toilet door on the plane, so almost walked in on him.
• Express immigration line was full of “problem” visitors (many long discussions.)
• Pre-booked taxi didn’t show after almost two hours and a page (so £31 for a ten-minute ride.)
• Mobile phone doesn’t work in Europe, so couldn’t call the taxi company (and probably didn’t have number anyway.)
• Driver didn’t know where hotel was, so had to turn on laptop to get address (told him the street, and when he was going to turn onto it, the hotel was right in front of us.)
• Room isn’t ready (maybe by noon), so no nap. (Considering stretching out on the couches in the lobby.)
• No idea when (if?) the sales lead is showing up. It’s chilly - that crisp London breeze, and the doors to the patio are open.

Random Thoughts:

• Why are so many people in shorts?
• Would get laptop back from storage and check WiFi but clerk may have a nervous breakdown - he seems stressed.
• Breakfast buffet is open but can’t deal with food right now. May just sit at bar until someone brings coffee.

After seeing some of the creatures wandering through the lobby, am beginning to think this is not a business hotel. Let’s just say one guy walked by in shorts and a shirt with patterns that clashed so badly, I said “Wow. Those don’t go together.” and I’m not known for my sartorial sensibilities.

My room has a view of the Thames River. It actually has a small patio. I know this because the doors to the patio were open when I got into the room. Note to hotel staff: just because it’s April doesn’t mean it’s warm enough for open windows!

Monday (The Internal Meeting Day)

Overslept - no wake-up call. Awakened by fire alarm test blasting  at 8:45am. Supposed to meet colleague at 8:30am.  Threw on t-shirt, ran downstairs to restaurant, no colleague. Was asked “Table for one?”

Arrived at 10:00am for a 9:15am presentation. (Wrong turn on walk over.) Colleague went first. Good job. Many questions. Left 10 minutes for my demo. My last technical presentation took an hour and a half. Actually finished early. Could see eyes glaze over - sales people are just not that much into technical information.

Going to another site to repeat the session this afternoon. Hopefully, I will get more than ten minutes.

Booked tomorrow’s Scotland trip - up and back on British Midlands airline. Had to book over the phone - can’t book online within 24 hours of travel. Need to extend hotel tonight, so we don’t have to schlep our luggage around. Hopefully, they won’t forget the wake-up call tomorrow.

Presented to my internal team - the ones I support from worldwide. Bloodied but not scarred. Took almost an hour and a half. Mostly sales questions.

Can’t get the hotel extended - so we’re moving tomorrow - before, during or after the Scotland day trip.

Birmingham meeting is actually in London on Thursday. This is a shame, as I’ve never been to Birmingham. On the other hand, I’ll be in London.

Suggested moving into the city since we’re going to be in London the rest of the week, anyway. Colleage suggested moving down the street.

Let’s see - tomorrow’s flight is at 7am. Need to be at Heathrow by 6am. Need to take suitcases to new hotel first. So, need to leave hotel by 5:30am. Need to pack, shower and shave. Hmm. Need to be up about 4:45am. Ouch. Probably should have less pints than I’m planning to have.

The afternoon’s and  evening’s progression:

• In The George pub, Staines. Hand-pumped Courage bitter. There is a God, and when He doesn’t drink Guinness, He drinks hand-pumped bitter.
• In the Boundary pub, Staines. Marston’s Smooth is very tasty. I think it’s better than Courage. Watching the cricket match. Life is good for now.
• My colleague asked the bartender where to get good fish and chips and without hesitation, he said “The Swan.” Is it just in the US where the automatic answer is invariably “Here.”?
• At the Swan Hotel, Staines. Fuller’s ales. Specifically, Fuller’s ESB. Can I move here?
• Dinner at the Swan. Salmon followed by fish and chips. Is that redundant?

The Holiday Inn on Bath Road will be my home the rest of the week, as soon as I can book it.

Fish and chips were excellent. Cheese platter for dessert was good, as well.

Starting to worry about the time I have to get up.

Double-shot of Jameson’s to close the night. Time to go pack.

Mentioned to front desk that I didn’t get my wake up call. Reminded him we pay corporate rates and we drink. Still no room available tomorrow night.

Setting cell phone alarm “just in case” per one of my Dallas colleagues.

Meeting in the lobby at 5:30am to head out in the taxi. If I were ever to die in my sleep, this would be a good night.

Tuesday (A Day in Scotland)

Woke at 3:30am. Abandoned hope of sleep. Checked email, packed. Since I was awake, naturally I got my wake up call. Had time for one coffee after checking out. Taxi was almost on time. Driver was slow and deliberate - not a good quality when trying to make time to catch a plane. Made it to new hotel to drop bags. Discovered there are two Holiday Inns on Bath Road. Miraculously, I think we both picked the same one in the corporate reservations system. Woman at desk was helpful, slow and deliberate. Almost had to kill her.

Made it to Heathrow with a couple of minutes to spare. Had to take belt off to go through x-ray machine - did not lose pants, but close. Did not understand this as do not have traditional Texas buckle. Weight Watchers must be working. Jogged to gate to catch colleague who had disappeared into the mist. Went through second security check - no disrobing required. Ticket class allows lounge access. Too bad I can’t drink my breakfast. It’s 6:30am.

Learned on the plane that British Midlands now charge for all drinks in economy - even coffee. Business class seats have yellow towels on the back - otherwise the seats are identical. I should have stolen one of the yellow towels to get free drinks.

Just found a £5 note I’ve had in my wallet for years. Coffee, please. (I knew it would come in handy someday.)

Four flight attendants on an hour-long flight. Impressive.

I was served tea instead of coffee. Not so impressive. Nice cup of tea, though - for £1.80. Pocket now full of heavy British change.

Brilliant concept: flight attendant hands you milk and sugar packets in a baggie so you have a trash bag for empty packets, stir-sticks and used tea bags. All airlines should do this.

Ears just popped - almost in Scotland.

Glasgow. 8:20am. Need a nap. Yet another airport with no ride apparent. This is not a good trend.

Wearing my suit - no wedding, no funeral. A new concept.

Found our contact, and he was on time. Also, a new concept. So far, so good. Brief meeting at Starbucks (oy vey) and we’re off to the customer site.

It’s Scotland, therefore it’s raining. Umbrella safe in suitcase at Holiday Inn Heathrow, so it won’t get wet.

Following the River Clyde out of Glasgow up to meeting. It’s a beautiful river.

Just passed an Italian bistro on the Scottish coast.

Bridge is out (constrruction) on way to customer - will now probably be late two days in a row. Looking for Diversion signs since they don’t have detours here.

Right on time, actually.

An hour and a half - good meeting. Now, off to lunch and then another customer.

Just ordered my first dish of haggis. This should be interesting.

Haggis rocks. That was very tasty. It’s really just like sausage, or ground meat, it’s just mystery meat.

Haggis, Neeps and Tatties is not a Scottish law firm. (It’s haggis, turnips and potatoes.)

Time to head to the airport, then back to the new hotel. We’re there the rest of the week, so I can actually unpack my suitcase.

British Midlands wanted a £66 fee to change to an earlier flight, as opposed to the £30 I was told when I booked. Decided I didn’t want to explain that high a charge to my manager or eat it myself. I guess we will kill an hour in the bar (we’re flying in the wrong ticket class for lounge access - flew up on fully-changeable ticket, flying back on cheap ticket - why is it never the other way around?)

Successfully “dropped trou” in security line after removing belt. It was only a matter of time. Oy vey. No response from anyone behind me in the line. Didn’t notice stiff upper lip or actually stiff anything - which is good.

Ordered first Guinness of the week to help forget “the flashing of the guard.”

I guess I need to start busking to get change to have a Coke on the flight home.

Switched back to hand pumped ale. I can get a proper Guinness at home.

Goal for this evening’s surfing - find a quick way to our London corporate offices for Thursday’s meetings. Also, find my old home pub (can’t remember the Tube stop near the White House Hotel, but it is one stop from Baker Street) and how to get to Porter’s. I need a copy of the Tube map.

On the plane back to the pub. I mean London.

I asked the flight attendant if I was on the right flight since they recheck ticket class stubs at the door. She said, “You are going to Barbados?” She belongs on Southwest.

My colleague has been drinking Strongbow which looked like light beer, but is actually apple cider - hard cider. Just bought a can on the plane - now I see why he drinks it. (Since it’s made from apples, it must be packed with vitamins.) I will have to see if they have it at the Tipp (editor’s note: RIP Tipperary Inn) at home - I know they have cider, but I don’t know the brand.

By the way, our host in Staines yesterday drinks Dr Pepper. They had it at Sainsbury’s. I missed it, so I had Coke Zero.

Almost back to London and it looks like tomorrow is an open day. I think we have two meetings on Thursday and Friday I head home.

I want to go to Porter’s for dinner tomorrow, in fact, I just got an email from them today to remind me that they are still alive and kicking. Traditional British food at fairly reasonable prices - a bit touristy, but good. It was the place I first had Spotted Dick, which is not as dirty as it sounds.

I should have had more haggis at the airport pub.

How much is 440ML in American? This is a large (hic!) can of (hic!) cider. Strongbow is my new favorite drink.

I am really digging British Midlands. They’re now selling train tickets for the Heathrow Express on the plane.

My ears are popping - we must be almost to Heathrow. It’s been a long day. I need dinner, maybe a round or two in the pub, and sleep. The pub comes first because I can sleep at home.

Checked into the Holiday Inn - one of two on Bath Road and one of at least three at Heathrow. It doesn’t suck. Wired and WiFi access.

Considering going to Stonehenge tomorrow if no meetings planned. Need to do train routing to Salisbury. First, dinner.

What’s the British version of “Peace, Out”?

Wednesday (The Open Day)

I abandoned my Stonehenge plans - there’s really not enough time, especially since I was just told tomorrow’s meetings are on our database product and not our anti-spam product that I support. It’s research time - I have to become a mail database expert overnight. (Here’s what I know so far: there’s a tool that strips and stores attachments from mail files. If you send 37 people a copy of your great presentation, only one copy gets stored on disk. This is much less costly in disk space. Cool.)

Somehow, my colleague is on the “bed and breakfast” plan and I’m not - which probably means I picked the wrong column when I booked the room online. His breakfast is included, mine would be £17.50. I’m not spending that much of my meal allowance on a meal I usually skip. (It did look pretty good - a traditional British breakfast.) I had coffee which was better than the instant coffee in the room.)

Saw second Microsoft “Windows … Life without walls” billboard. If there are no walls, what’s holding the windows in place?

On the Piccadilly line, bound for Piccadilly Circus and the Bakerloo line. I love the tube.

Almost an hour on the tube. Heathrow is a long way out. We will need to take the Heathrow Express train tomorrow to make better time into the city.

It’s really too warm for a long-sleeve shirt.

Walked through St James Park to Buckingham Palace. Was not invited into the palace. Watched many tourists walking into each other’s photos (bad) or into traffic (very bad.) My feet are starting to hurt.

Walked back across the park in search of sustenance.

Stopped for a pint at The Chequers. Sitting near Bullshit Corner. I want this sign. Pub grub for lunch - sausage and onion baguette with chips.

I didn’t see a tube map at the station and I need one.

Just passed a store that has pre-owned Patek Philippe watches. How freakin’ expensive are they new if there’s a used market?

You can see a lot of London while looking for an AmEx ATM. This is unfortunate, as my feet are killing me and I have money. However, my partner does not.

Stopped at The King’s Head to rest foot. There seem to be quite a few pubs here. Seeing if Fuller’s London Pride ale cures blisters.(It does not.)

No matter what time you enter a pub, you will not be the only customer.

Now, for the dramatic (and rather bitchy) conclusion to the day. To any of my colleagues that know who’s with me, just pretend you don’t, and read along.

After wandering around London with no real plan, it was time to head back to the hotel on the tube. Found the Piccadilly line, and dozed all the way back to the Terminal station.

We took a bus from Heathrow to the hotel since you have to pre-book a cab, and we hadn’t. I would have just gone to the terminal to get a regular cab, but colleague seemed to be in a huge hurry. He tried to call the hotel, but couldn’t get connected. I remembered the front desk told me this morning the U3 bus went from the hotel to the airport, so we got on it when it pulled in. I never saw the hotel, and pretty soon we seemed to be going into the neighborhoods. Colleague asked driver where the Holiday Inn was. Driver said the second stop. We were at the twelfth stop. Oops. So, we got off, walked across the street, and waited for the bus going the other way. I considered it an interesting tour. Colleague was not enjoying the ride. Apparently, it’s my fault, as much bitching ensued, directed at no-one, but aimed at me, and yes, I am sensitive about this.

Colleague now in charge of navigation since I am obviously a dumb-ass. He gets off the return bus three stops early and then walks two and a half blocks in the wrong direction to the Sheraton. Unfortunately, we’re in the Holiday Inn. He looks at me and says “Now, what?” So, now it’s my problem? I thought I was a dumb-ass. Why are you putting a dumb-ass in charge? I mentioned he might have gotten off too early, and he looked at me like I had two heads. Back-tracked. Went into a Chinese restaurant to ask directions. The Holiday Inn is a “ten-minute” walk in the other direction. Oops. I think that means I was right. We walked back to our hotel. I lost him near the end since I couldn’t keep up. My feet are killing me. I may be a dumb-ass, but when I was lost, I was riding in air-conditioned comfort.

So, lesson confirmed today: when on a sales project, when it goes south, you were in charge (whether you knew it or not). You will be berated when the mistake is discovered. If they screw up, it’s never mentioned, you’ll just get put in charge again. When you’re right, you’re ignored and they’ll abandon you in the end.

You can also blog whatever you want about it because none of them understand blogs or Facebook.

I’m ready to go home. I never thought I would say that I was ready to leave London, but I’m done. I was not meant to be in sales. Fire, Aim, Ready just makes no sense to me, and I can’t get any of them to Aim, anyway.

Thursday (A Day in London)

The Holiday Inn has no soap in the bath. It has a squeeze bottle of hand soap by the sink and a squeeze bottle of shampoo in the shower (both wall-mounted) but I really don’t think you’re supposed to carry a handful of soap into the shower with you and I hope you’re not supposed to drip across the bathroom to get soap in the middle of your shower. I just used shampoo for soap, since I have normal hair pretty much everywhere.

Feet still throbbing. Changed shoes. Now ready for the last day of the UK tour, as feet are throbbing in different way than previously. I am beginning to see why one musician said he isn’t paid to perform, he’s paid to travel.

We’re going into the city, method unknown at this point. Taxi, Tube or Train + Tube are all options - and all have their good and bad points. I will have no opinion - I’m not falling for that again.

8:48am. Taking the tube. Train arriving in six minutes and only 19 stops to go.

Have a Zone 2-6 ticket, per colleague. Going to Zone 1. Exiting the station may be interesting. I was trying to get a Zone 1-6 ticket when he told me what he had. Figured we should argue with the transit police together.

9:23am. We’re at Barons Court, still in the ‘burbs, basically. Colleague on the phone - sounds like we may be late. Train is going underground, so it was a short call.

9:52am. Waiting outside Waterloo for our host. That was actually a quicker trip than I thought.

Turnstiles at Waterloo locked on my colleague’s tube pass. “Seek Assistance.” Bored guard lets us through the locked turnstiles. It looked like she was considering explaining that we had the wrong tickets, and decided against the bother.

Made the meeting on time. An hour-long discussion - I think it went well.

Had a ham, cheese and tomato panini, a bag of cheese and onion crisps and a metric Dr Pepper for lunch in the the company cafeteria - in other words, a traditional British lunch. Added a Mars bar since sweets seem to be mandatory.

The corporate cafeteria doesn’t take cash, only smartcards (or local badges.) We had to each get a temp badge to buy lunch. We also have to remember to cash it back in before we leave - or have to eat more since there is still money on the card. Wondering if the company thinks many guests will forfeit the £2 deposit to keep such a magical card as a souvenir. Me? Notsomuch. (Another site  had them at one point, but on my next trip were back taking cash, as well. It’s great if you have a badge, but a pain otherwise. My US badge didn’t work in England, so I had to get a temp card, anyway.)

Some of the trash bins are color-coded. This is very useful unless you don’t know the code (or are color-blind, I suppose.) Left all my crap on the tray - let the professionals sort it out. (I was not alone in this.)

The smartcard machine only takes bills, but it only returns coins. Fifteen pounds in coins can be heavy.

One more meeting to go. Pre-meeting at 1pm, real meeting at 2pm. This was a long way to travel for an hour to ninety minutes each.

Never try to help two salespeople meet. It is more effort than you would expect, since neither is on time or paying attention. Stick to herding cats.

Meeting was actually at 2:30pm. Very interesting customer. I think we were learning from him.

Done with meetings - off for my own personal adventures in London. I managed to find Porter’s English Restaurant by going to Covent Garden on the tube and walking in larger circles until I saw the TGI Fridays, which is hideous but right down the street from Porter’s. (When traveling, I always think I should just stand outside random TGI Fridays and Starbucks and apologize to any natives that go by.)

An aside: I get lost so often trying to find the same places, that I have landmarks. I used the TGI Fridays trick to find Porter’s last time I was in London.

I was going to go back to the hotel and change before venturing out into London, but decided I didn’t have that much time to waste. Besides, rush hour was starting and I would have been standing most of the way. Best to have a couple of pints down first to prepare.

Just hit with an amazing feeling of relief that the week is done. It may have been the bitter. (Note to Spousal Unit: you are no longer the only one who can drive me to drink.)

Steak and Cheddar pie with chips. Tremendous. Porter’s has amazing puff pastry for their pies. However, chips of the week goes to The Chequers whose chips tasted like battered mashed potatoes. Double-amazing.

So, I started the week with haggis, and ended with Spotted Dick. I noticed that pie, pudding, cappuccino and a bottle of bitter I ordered was four pounds cheaper ala carte than the fixed-price pie, pudding, coffee and half-bottle of wine.

Suddenly wondering if I can find a cricket bat.

Two words I never thought thought I’d say to a taxi driver (or anyone) without the Spousal Unit in tow: “Harrods, please.” Where else would you go for a cricket bat on a Thursday evening? Harrods not only had cricket bats, they also had green Harrods bags shaped like a cricket bat to carry it home. (Note to Spousal Unit: I did not choose the £189 professional model.)

Harrods can also charge you in US dollars so they can give you a bad exchange rate instead of having to wait for the bank to give you a bad rate. (They also had a £12,000 foosball table but that made my head hurt.)

Now, back to the hotel to see if it fits in my suitcase, since cricket bats are on the “specifically forbidden carry-on items” list. How many cricket bats are being carried around the US, anyway?

An older couple standing by me on the train is getting frisky. Smooch, smooch. Ick. If a couple publicly kissing is younger than I, I think “Get a room!” If they’re older, I think “Viagra commercial?”

I took the infamous bus from Heathrow to the hotel - and found the proper stop, just outside the airport. It’s not a short walk, but it’s shorter than yesterday’s.

The cricket bat fits in my suitcase. Hurrah! Thank you, Harrods!

Someone from the hotel read this before it was published, because there is now a bar of soap in my bathroom.

It’s time to go home.

Interlude: The Kumars Run a Bar

I went down to the hotel bar for a quick adult beverage and to see if my colleague had returned from the city yet. He had not, but I had a most amusing time.

First of all, if Ashwin Kumar had ever just opened a bar instead of letting his son run a TV show, I’ve found the bar. (If you’ve never seen The Kumars at No. 42, you owe yourself.) He would almost be Basil Fawlty on an incompetence scale, but he is exceedingly polite, as most Indians I have met are (a positive stereotype for a people scarred by doing too much remote tech support.) The head bartender (and I believe bar manager) is a completely overworked, almost elegant Indian gentleman trying to keep order, instruct the (incompetent in his eyes) staff and serve drinks to his customers, and between his running around and the customers either confused, annoyed or bemused by the service (depending on the number of drinks they’ve consumed), it is quite a show.

One gentleman ordered two pints to go before paying his tab and mentioned that the beer was preventing him from killing someone. I didn’t think the service was quite that bad, but we all have our tolerance levels. This gentleman is also dear to me because he had a sneezing fit that was comperable to (if not greater than) one of mine, and he said “I must be allergic to beer.” (I would never think such a thing. I would blame it on the glass.) I told him he needed to drink faster or slower, but I wasn’t sure which. He said faster was always better, so I deferred to experience. I also told him if the top of a beer made him sneeze, he should just send it back and start over.

I ordered a Scotch and Coke, because the Beatles used to drink it a lot (according to many quotes in various books), and I’ve simply never had the nerve to order it in the States because the bartenders there generally know me, and they don’t like ruining good Scotch. I told “Ashwin” to use the house Scotch so nothing of much value would be harmed. (It was Bell’s, which is probably just above rotgut.) Scotch and Coke with cheap Scotch and Pepsi (curse hotel tie-ups with the wrong brand) is actually not bad. The Coke (Pepsi) takes the edge off the Scotch, so if you don’t like Scotch, it would probably make it palatable. It’s not like Boone Farms wine, and it shouldn’t have an umbrella, but if you don’t like the taste of Scotch, this would help. Personally, I like Scotch, so while it was an amusing little drink, it’s not going to make my usual rotation. “Ashwin” asked if I was going to pay cash or charge it to my room. I said “room”, he rang it up, I said “Can you just keep it open?” and he said “No, your room number goes there, and sign it please.” So I did.

I ordered a refill (eventually.) Same procedure. That’s when I began to notice everyone around me was running a tab. Considering I’ve had bartenders start tabs for me when I walk in off the street into a bar I’ve never visited (even when the locals have to pay cash per round), I found this strange. Bartenders usually look at me and think “He’s good for it and he’s going to need more than one.” So it goes. Maybe “keep it open” is not English, but American.

After that, I decided to apologize to the gods of single malt, so I ordered Glenfiddich, one of the few single malt Scotch whiskies I can pronounce sober. (Did I do that joke already?)

Actually, I decided to see how long it would take to have him ask me if I wanted another drink. After serving at least four people and having a discussion with one about how to mix his tomato juice (the guy also asked for his bill, but that part was missed), and then spending five minutes actually mixing the tomato juice (with a splash of Tobasco and something from the seltzer gun), he finally asked if I would like something else. That’s when I asked for Glenfiddich. They were out. Well, he couldn’t find the bottle, so he announced they were out. There were two different vintages of Glenfiddich on the menu, so that’s out of a lot. I asked what single malts they had and when he got to Laphroaig, I said that was fine. I said “straight up, with just a couple of rocks.” To my horror, he put Coke in it. So, I sent it back. He looked pained as seven pounds fifty went down the drain, but nobody said anything about Coke. I had planned to tell him I was done with kids’ drinks and wanted a real one, but I didn’t think he would necessarily understand. Maybe that would have helped. Coke and single malt? Shudder.

After that drink order, I was awarded a small bowl of crisps. They were a bit stale, but it’s the thought that counts. I’ve been in this bar every night since I’ve been here, and he’s the only one who’s ever gotten me a drink, so I really thought I would be a regular by now.

I may have to go back later this evening, since one of the goals was to meet my colleague, since I left him in the city hours ago and he does like a Scotch to finish the evening. I would really like to know if he gets less manic as the place clears out (I doubt it.) I would also like to know if I go and say “I’d like to run a tab” first, if that would help. I’ve been tipping them on each round, and that didn’t seem normal with the crankier customers that were leaving. One of the other staff told me they’re open until 1am. I don’t have a plane until 2:30pm tomorrow afternoon. This could be a fun night. (Note to Spousal Unit: it’s called research.)

Friday (The Travel Day)

I wasted as much time as I could in the hotel but finally had to head to Heathrow. I counted £20 in change to exchange at the front desk for bills (”unchange” in the Urban Dictionary - accepted for publication last night.) Desk clerk just applied it to my bill. Brilliant.

Taxi ride was five minutes, eight pounds and worth it. Driver refused my tattered £20 note that has been in my wallet for ten years or so. He told me to change it at the bank.

Managed to hit a lull at all the lines at the airport which is a bit miraculous. I would rather have the miracle of an upgrade, but there’s still time. Was one pound something over in suitcase weight (damn you, extra PC and topcoat) but was let off with a warning. New security question: “Have you had a laptop or any electronics repaired while you were here?” Is there a master list of repair shops likely to put bombs in broken electronics? If you have a receipt from “All honors to Allah” Electronics Repair, do they confiscate your laptop?

Made it through boarding pass checkpoint and prepared for the X-Ray walk of potential exposure. Security did not make me remove my belt (whew!) or shoes. Sailed through. Passport Control found the stamp from Sunday and decided to let me leave. Next was the separate shoe security - your shoes are scanned while you walk by with your carry-ons. I wonder if the Shoe Bomber is pleased with all the stupid security procedures he caused.

Considered a day pass to the Admirals Club since I had two hours to kill but decided I couldn’t drink or steal enough bitter lemon to make it worthwhile.

There is a Krispy Kreme in the terminal. My head almost exploded.

Decided to get lunch at the fake Irish pub. Cappuccino was very good. Ham and cheese sandwich was a panini, like yesterday, but an Irish panini rather than British. Chips were really good, but The Chequers chips are still the best. When you want it done right, go to the pub. Eight pounds, which was not bad for airport food. It all seemed cheaper this trip.

Decision point: More cappuccino? I could see how high my heart rate would go. Last pint? Alcohol before a flight, yadda yadda yadda. Go to Harrods? Wandered through on the way to the pub, nothing jumped out at me except really high points food. So it goes. I guess I should buy duty-free booze on principle. I may try to find a book. I may even go to Krispy Kreme. Who am I kidding? One last pint, it is.

The barmaid just winked at me when I approached the bar. Now, that’s what I expect in a pub. Maybe she should give “Ashwin” customer service lessons. Maybe the Irish are just more friendly.

Gave her the ancient £20 note for a pint of Guinness. She accepted it happily and gave me an ever more tattered £5 in change. She then asked for it back and gave me a newer one. I need to start mystery shopping pubs. It’s where customer service excels.

Forty-five minutes or so until gate assignment. Time to wander, although I will miss the barmaid of the year.

Forty minutes and £70 cash. If I had ovaries, this wouldn’t even be a challenge.

Harrods knick-knacks purchased. Decided against trying to find toast to sample marmalade. Would probably be overkill to spread marmalade on a Krispy Kreme.

Waiting for a gate assignment - an interesting concept. You can’t just get to the airport early and crash at the gate because they don’t tell you which gate it is until an hour or so before takeoff. It’s the gate where the plane from DFW landed this morning.

Gate is now “Please wait” which is a bit ominous. The plane should be here - it arrived this morning as the matching flight inbound.

Switching back to Dallas time on PDA. It’s now 7am. Suddenly sleepy.

Gate 36. Time to go.

Find sign for gates 23-50. Staring down hallway to infinity. Sudden flashback to long walk in from gate on Sunday. Starting to regret heavier purchases.

Old fart reunion in front of me. Old guy describing plane seating layout and facilities, then realized he was remembering a Continental 777 and we’re on an American 767. Thanks for the loud, booming lesson anyway, plane expert. Beginning to think this is an AARP package tour flight. I may need to put the iPod on in self-defense. Blue hairs now discussing coffee drinks. Apparently, cappuccino is bad.

Next year, this could be me. Cyanide, anyone?

Older guy is getting frisked by security. Hopefully, not a Viagra commercial.

Kids and grandkids inventory discussion commences. Where is the plane expert when you need him?

Holy crap, this is a small seat. It feels like an MD-80 seat from the “pack ‘em in” era. On the bright side, there isn’t much of a view, although I can see business class. If you ever meet someone from the corporate internal finance team, kill him. As usual, I think I got the upgrade on the wrong leg of the trip.

Managed to use the toilet while the AARP brigade was still tramping onboard. That will save one trip climbing over whomever is next to me.

Seatmate seems reasonable and about twenty-five years below the average age in the gate area. This is a blessing. Younger guys don’t talk about their grandkids. Break out the iPods and let’s get out of here.

I miss the 777 that brought me over. This plane blows chunks.

Powering down for takeoff. The next time we land, I can turn the phone on again.

8:52am Dallas time - takeoff, twenty-two minutes late. After initial climb completed, flight attendants played security video. Oops.

A brief prayer of thanks - just prior to taxi, a flight attendant told me seatmate there were open seats. He left and never came back. Now, I have room to spread out. Thank you, Lord. It’s not business class, but I will gladly accept it.

Crew is very chatty, but only among themselves. Wondering how much we will see them in the next nine hours.

My next steps will be in America. My phone will work and some people will speak with a drawl. Plus, it’s the start of the weekend.

Stroganoff or tortellini? The equivalent of Gas chamber or firing squad?

Delta gives you one free drink with dinner. American, notsomuch.

The stroganoff was not bad. Even if it had been, it wasn’t that much. On the plus side, the sauce blended well into my shirt.

You know you have left Europe when asking for coffee just instantly gets you a cup of brown liquid instead of “Cappuccino? Espresso?”

Idly wondering (again) what would happen if I started singing along with my iPod. As Oasis is playing currently, given my fellow passengers’ ages, probably rather loud protests. Maybe if I had champagne music instead of Champagne Supernova.

I always thought an interesting music video premise would be some poor bastard in coach starting to sing a song,and  randomly people join in, and then they find the band is in First Class, with their instruments. Just a thought. (”Don’t Look Back In Anger” is playing, and that’s a bizarre but guaranteed audience participation song for Oasis, so I just had a vision of someone in the back of the plane starting with the chorus, only to have Noel Gallagher wander back with his drink to pick up at the start of the verse. Of course, the flight attendants would probably just chase him back to his ticketed cabin.)

Wouldn’t it be interesting if your iPod could tell you if anyone else on the plane was listening to the same music? You could find a kindred spirit.

Dear Noel Gallagher - What is a freakin’ Wonderwall, anyway? (Besides a George Harrison soundtrack album.)

Seven and a half hours (or therabouts) to go. It may be time for some sleep, although I am a bit afraid of what I may dream.

Not even Oasis can drown out the toilet flushing right behind your seat.

Listened to Bob Newhart, Jay Mohr and Gordon Ramsety read their books; so not much sleep.

Turning off electronics. I’m home.

INS needs more people – six lines for 280+ people coming in is not enough. Luggage was actually coming off the carousel as we arrived from passport control. Limo driver was actually in the lobby with a sign.

Half-hour down LBJ and Central, and I’m home.

Postscript

So, I survived. Barely. There were any number of people who said “England? I would love to go to England!” To them, I say, “Go on vacation on your own dime, because going on a sales trip will give you migraines and nightmares.”

The “unchange” turned out to be a brilliant idea for everyone except corporate accounting, who flagged my expense account for having an “other” expense on it. I had to explain (twice) why I had a negative number on an expense account that didn’t fit into any of the normal categories. They didn’t understand “I paid part of the bill in cash.” Twits.

My Israel Product Demo Trip

Tuesday (The Crisis Day)

Recently, one bright Tuesday morning, I was supposed to have a conference call with my boss - nothing critical, just our usual every-two-weeks chit-chat, which had been rescheduled from the previous week because I had an actual crisis meeting that over-lapped with it. Eight minutes after the call was supposed to start, he sent me an instant message and said he had to cancel, since he had an “emergency in Israel.” No problem, a crisis is a crisis. Then, he asked me how I would install a bunch of Lotus Notes clients automatically. This was a warning sign.

Less than an hour later, he asked me to join a conference call in progress. His emergency in Israel was now  rapidly becoming MY emergency in Israel.

It seems there is a customer outside Tel Aviv that wanted to run a proof of concept (basically, a free test of some of our software) on his production computers. Then, it turned out they specifically wanted our software that isn’t actually released yet. So, now, they wanted someone to install beta software on their production servers.(”Beta” is so-called because it’s “beta” than nothing.) This is dangerous,  because if you break someone’s production computers, they tend to send lawyers after you, and it’s doubly dangerous because beta  software tends to break frequently.

So, I suggested we get someone from our services group to lead the project at least in name since they have a standard contract that prevents them being sued when they break things in production. Services has much better lawyers than we do in sales.

That took the rest of the day. Someone up the management chain in Europe finally found someone in the Netherlands who could run the proof of concept in Israel and he has basically the same skills as I do, so there didn’t seem to be much point in my going over. Still, my boss was adamant that I was in fact needed for the project, and should make plans to go. Just make the reservations, but don’t book the ticket yet.

Wednesday (The Panic Preparation Day)

It was determined that the proof of concept was starting Sunday, outside Tel Aviv (remember, the weekend there is Friday and Saturday.) To get to Tel Aviv for a Sunday morning start, I would have to leave Dallas on Friday evening. So much for the weekend. I would also be there until next Friday, so I would miss the day off for the Fourth of July, and wouldn’t get home until Saturday morning.

I booked my ticket on Delta - $2,500 round-trip. Non-refundable. Coach. I actually couldn’t book it without three levels of management approval unless it was revenue-related for this quarter so I naturally said it was revenue-related. I wasn’t really sure how they were going to get revenue from a proof of concept that was going to end after the current quarter ended, but that was my story and I was sticking to it. No signatures necessary.

Now, I had to consider my rather complex personal life. What was I going to miss while I was away?

The Spousal Unit started hyperventilating when she realized I would miss a Sparky’s Pals volunteer meeting (and probably being the “other” volunteer in attendance besides her) and the photo shoot for her sister’s friend’s rather large family on the Fourth, plus all the AirHogs baseball this weekend. Then, she started frantically doing laundry (and cursing under her breath bilingually) since I hadn’t worn long pants since my last business trip to Chicago in May. Luckily, Tel Aviv is business casual, so I didn’t need to find and clean my suit. She gave my Saturday-night baseball ticket away to a friend, so she wouldn’t have to go alone. I dropped my photography class a week before it was completed since there was no way I was going to get the rest of my homework done from Tel Aviv. I moved my doctor’s appointment out two weeks since I now had a conference call in the morning to discuss who was doing what the next week, and I couldn’t be on a conference call while an older gentleman was telling me to turn and cough.

As I started working through all this crap, I was really dreading the trip. I don’t like working on production servers. I don’t like working with someone I haven’t even met yet who’s actually leading the project. I don’t like going to places where the online travel reservations system auto-generates a warning letter when you make a reservation (even though the warnings were pretty minor.) I don’t like the Spousal Unit freaking out, although you’d think I’d be used to it by now.

Still, by the time I went to bed, I was almost looking forward to it. I’ve always wanted to visit Israel, and I’d get reimbursed for the major costs of this trip. Tel Aviv is a coastal city with beaches and 24-hour bars. It probably wouldn’t take the whole week to get the project done. On the project plan, my name was on the easiest part - and the one most likely to work if everything before it worked. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I wasn’t sure it was going to be fun, but it probably wouldn’t be torture.

Thursday (The Oops Day)

I got up on Thursday and there was a note from my contact in Israel with a security form to complete. I filled it out and sent it in. Then, there were two notes from my lab contact who was supposed to assist me if I had problems. He was concerned about having to take calls outside business hours in his local time. Lab people do not understand time zones. As I worked my way backwards through the mail, I found the next note - “Cancel all travel plans. The proof of concept is not starting next week.”

The customer did not have room for us to work in their facility.

We had a conference call this morning and most of us determined that not having space was hardly a show-stopper when we could do most of the work at the corporate office. However, to the Israelis, it was a show-stopper, and it’s their show. My boss is having surgery next week to repair a small tear in his stomach. I think I know what caused it.

So, I’m staying home after all. The next time I travel on Delta within a year, I have $2500 to apply to the ticket cost, minus $200 and the difference in fare.

This Week’s Update

The project plan from Israel was updated this Thursday (the day before yesterday.) My part starts on Monday. Nobody has told me yet and I would have had to leave yesterday to get there on time. Plus, the Israeli workweek starts Sunday, so I’m late. Had any of this happened, I wouldn’t have been able to write this, since I would be on a plane.

That’s why I hate business travel.

Enjoy your vacations!

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Guest Editorial: I Hate Business Travel

I almost feel a little bashful around you these days. We barely know each other. But I thought we should get reacquainted, since you’re going to see a lot of activity for the next couple of months.

See, tomorrow is the official start to The Summer of Love ‘09, two months chock full of amazing guest posts here at 2HT. Four days of guest bloggers every week - Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, AND Saturdays through the end of August.

And my plan is to fill in the gaps on the other three days a week with my own stuff. Been a while since I’ve done the daily posting thing…a LONG while. So I’m going to use the Summer of Love as incentive to get back on the blogging horse. We’ll see how it goes.

In the meantime, for those of you curious who will be residing this Summer at 2HT, here’s a short video with the full lineup.

Here’s the video link if your name is Sybil and you can’t see the video.

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Announcing the Summer of Love Lineup for 2009

I met Louie B a while back on his radio show and haven’t been the same since. He’s outspoken, curses like I don’t know what I’m doing, and has conspiracy theories coming out nearly every orifice.

Showtime: 10PM Eastern

Show Link

Call-In Number: 724-444-7444, Call ID is 23738

Chatroom available during the show. Hope to see you there.

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Tonight, it’s Louie B From CrotchShot Radio on SecondHand Radio

For all of July and August, the goal is to have a different guest blogger every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. And I’m going to attempt to get back on the blogging horse and blog every day in between. It’s been a long time since I left my daily blogging schedule behind…time to do something about that.

Then there’s reading other blogs again. Ugh. My feedreader should be on a respirator.

And yes, Black Belt Mama, I haven’t forgotten about your request for a video. It’s in the works. Hoping to make it happen in the next few days.

TONIGHT ON SECONDHAND RADIO, my guest is Mr. Josh Loposer, the newest guy in the Famecrawler.com stables. Josh is a hip, happening, young Green-loving dude who lives in Austin, Texas and writes for various blogs such as Green Daily.

He also happens to be a really handsome bastard. Look at him, all smug and shit, knowing he has the world at his compost-loving feet. Oh, and he’s married. Sorry, ladies.

Josh was a drummer in a rock band, AND he’s big into conspiracy theories! This is going to be a fun show. I don’t often get to talk to my coworkers at Famecrawler, since we’re spread out all over the continent.

I hope you’ll join us tonight at 10pm Eastern. Tell your friends!

There’s a live chatroom at Talkshoe (where you should register if you haven’t already) for your use during the show. And you’re ALL welcome to call in at any time to talk to Josh and I, ask questions, whatever.

Showtime: 10pm Eastern, 9pm Central, 7pm Pacific.

Show Link

Call-In Number: 724-444-7444, Call ID is 23738

SecondHand Radio in iTunes

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Conspiracies and Treehugging on SecondHand Radio Tonight: Josh Loposer of Famecrawler

Thanks to everyone who entered the contest over the weekend for a free membership to Picnik.com. I drew the winners yesterday afternoon after 5, using random.org to randomly generate two numbers between 1 and 26 and came up with the following two winners:

• Lori Norton
• Mikkie

So congratulations to Lori and Mikkie! They win free 6-month premium memberships to Picnik and I’m sure they’ll be making lots of fun images. And my thanks to Picnik for providing those free memberships for me to give away.

Yesterday I went to go see “The Proposal” with my mom for Father’s Day. I’ve really been wanting to see “The Hangover,” but I thought the subtle humor might escape my mother, so we did the Sandra Bullock movie. Which I didn’t really mind, because I like Sandra Bullock.

Plus, you can’t go wrong with Betty White. Like Dave2, I have a major crush on Betty. And the movie also had Craig T. Nelson, Mary Steenburgen, and Ryan Reynolds, who really is very good in the movie.

Predicatable, as all romantic comedies are, but very fun and enjoyable. Great date movie, I’d think. Y’know, if I had things like dates. Mom loved it, too.

This week, I’m seeing “The Hangover” if it kills me. Not today, of course. Today I’m working hard at getting my ass to work again. I’ve been fitful since February and that isn’t helping me or anyone else. Because, you know, the gossip never sleeps.

For those of you that are new to 2HT, I write gossip for Famecrawler.com. And I appreciate everyone who clicks through on my stories because that’s my bread and butter right there.

You can see all the stories I write there with this link. And every time you click on one of my headlines, Daddy gets closer to buying a new pair of shoes. Digg and Stumble those stories and I’ll love you forever.

And there’s Famecrawler on Twitter, too, which Tweets every time a new story is published on the site. All your favorite celebrity gossipy goodness.

If you’re looking to find me elsewhere on the Web, try those nifty little icons in my sidebar…Facebook, Twitter, Last.fm…links to most of my little hideaways.

Now I must consume loads more coffee and put my nose back to the grindstone. My nose is getting calloused now, so it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

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And the Winners Are…