8 posts tagged “screwed and tattooed”
FACT: Tonight begins Rolling Thunder weekend.
FACT: The weather is supposed to be fair over the next few days, and I have been looking forward to opening my windows to air out my dingy hovel.
FACT: Those windows and my hovel are situated approximately one hundred and fifty feet from US Route 1 (Northbound) - the erstwhile number one (natch) north-south thoroughfare in the nation.
FACT: My unscientific research shows that roughly eighty-five percent of all Harley Davidson owners reside in the southern United States.
FACT: Harleys are loud.
FACT: Many of those loud-ass Harleys coming from the south for Rolling Thunder weekend will make use of US Route 1 (Northbound), which passes one hundred and fifty feet from the open windows of my dingy hovel.
FACT: After another long week, I have made exactly zero plans for tomorrow in the hopes of a full day of peaceful relaxation at home.
FACT: Those loud-ass Harleys traveling north approximately one hundred fifty feet from my open windows will disrupt my peaceful relaxation.
FACT: I hate Rolling Thunder weekend.
Today is not a significant day. But then, neither was yesterday - and yet thick-necked fraternity brothers and vacuous sorority sisters everywhere commemorated the non-occasion with three dollar mojitos and unplanned pregnancies. So perhaps the great unwashed might also one day remember this uneventful day. With a massive marketing campaign and a vague (at best) understanding of the flimsy history involved - all supported by the entire weight of a legalized drug industry, natch - we here at hotrod.vox.com think there just might be an outside chance they will. Step three: profit.
Today marks the one week anniversary of the first day we might have posted our inaugural installment of our intended new weekly feature "the vault." And today marks the first deadline we set for ourselves pertaining to said feature that we have missed. We anticipate that it will be the first of many, which is why after considerable deliberation our editorial staff has decided to delay the debut of this much-anticipated column. Astute readers no doubt will have noted a more sporadic than usual posting schedule here at hotrod.vox.com over the past six weeks or so. After careful study of our second quarter projections, we expect this trend to continue into the summer. Things are just way too hectic down at the lab, what with a high-profile study of the University of Maryland's indigenous turtle population occupying most of our time. The last thing we want is to begin a regular feature for which our massive readership awaits weekly with bated breath and then not be able to follow through. So look for "the vault" to resume - or to begin, rather - in July.
Make no mistake - this delay has nothing to do with the record we selected to review in our initial installment. It sucks. Really, really bad. We can't wait to write the review, actually. We just don't have the time.
I screwed up. There, I said it. I know what you're thinking, but there's a first time for everything. There was a grave oversight in the "desert island record" list I posted a week and a half ago. And was reminded of such this evening by a song M-----l posted. I don't know how I overlooked the Wrens' "Meadowlands" CD, but I did. And it belongs on my island. I have edited the post accordingly. Suck it, Uncle Tupelo.
I'm not so much a fan of homemade videos (let's be honest - most of them blow), but the band seems to like them. So who am I to disagree?
This bodes well.
Tomorrow's ride starts farther from my house than any other ride on our schedule. We normally drive forty-five minutes to an hour out of town to get out of traffic where the roads are more open and the hills are more rolling. Well, tomorrow we start from a little town called Berryville, VA. Berryville is practically in Kentucky. It's a good ninety minute drive, and I am supposed to be there by seven-thirty. For me to leave here by six means my alarm starts going off at four-thirty. And guess whose insomnia decided to show up tonight. Good times.
Don't get me wrong. The Back Roads Metric Century - that's the cue sheet we're following tomorrow - is a lovely ride. But, is it an hour's sleep better than any of the other rides we do? I doubt it. My co-worker A- asked late this afternoon about my weekend plans. After I gave her the rundown she suggested: "You know, hobbies are supposed to be fun. Your hobbies don't sound fun at all." She may have a point.
Anyway, as long as I'm still up, I may as well get this out of the way. Don't worry - not every Saturday will be a vaguely bicycle themed rock song. The only other one I can think of is also by Queen, and nobody is getting two songs. Also, it kind of sucks. The other song, that is. This one is great.
There doesn't seem to be anything else to do in this abyssmal hell-hole, so I may as well spend some more time on the internets....
I'm tired. Still operating under the assumption that I'm going to step off an airplane into the sunny South Pacific in about thirty hours, I forced myself to get out of bed at the regular time. Which is to say: before six o'clock. This could backfire, and tremedously, but the thing is I have a private guide of the moai reserved for the afternoon of my arrival. If I'm dragging ass half in the sack, it could be a long afternoon. The potential backfire, however, is that I have real troubles sleeping on airplanes, and I'm on an overnight flight to Santiago. Fortunately, I'm working with about three hours of sleep right now, so it just might work out. See? I'm so tired I even slipped briefly into borderline optimism.
And I had a brainstorm last night about my potential transfer disaster. I started to get nervous - naturally - about my chances of collecting my baggage, going through customs, circling back around and checking in, and still making my flight. I'm nervous again now just typing it. But there may be a potential solution. After the re-booking process, I am now on a LAN flight out of Miami, which also happens to be my carrier out to Rapa Nui. And which also happens to be a partner airline of American Airlines. So I'm going to try to get ticketed and get my baggage checked straight through to Easter Island. I'll probably still have to go through customs, but at least I won't have to collect my bag and check in. The upshot of all this is that I no longer have to figure out how to kill an afternoon in Raleigh; anticipating problems, I'm heading to the airport stupid early to get all this sorted out. If I'm sitting for three hours at the airport, that's a good thing, because it will mean there was a minimum of hassle.
There are only three flights a week out to Easter Island. If I miss my connection, I'm screwed and tattooed. This had better work. And now I'm heading next door to the aforementioned Waffle House for some pancakes. I'd prefer an omelet, but I'd also prefer to continue feeling sorry for myself a little bit more.
Okay, everybody - put the kiddies to bed, 'cause this one sure as shit ain't gonna be Maggie-friendly....
Fuck Texas. Fuck. Texas. And fuck North fucking Carolina too. A few years back, on my way to China, the plane I was on out of JFK had some mechanical problems and they had to cancel the flight. It was a hassle, but the people at the desk re-booked every single person and we went on our way. Because people in New York know that they need to get shit done. You don't find any of that laissez-faire "You can fly out tomorrow" shit-kicker attitude in New York. People in North Carolina could stand to learn a few goddamn things from New Yorkers.
But I wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place if Texas wasn't a god-forsaken place where no one should live. Apparently dump-trucks of rain fall on the place daily during the summer and Texans are too fucking stupid to realize: "Hey, maybe we shouldn't live here." I'm not even kidding any more. We need to give Texas back to Mexico. It's what they want anyway.
Obviously, I'm not on my way yet to South America. My connecting flight to Dallas was cancelled due to weather. The plan as of now is to fly to Miami tomorrow afternoon and connect to Santiago to land at 6:30AM in time for my 8:30AM flight to Easter Island. There's not a whole lot of room for error, though. And I'd be lying if I said I was feeling overwhelmingly positive about this going off without a snag. I suppose some might consider this karmic payback for my crack about "gloat[ing]" in my previous post. But I, for one, feel I am to be commended; I toned the smugness down quite a bit. I didn't even mention "the littles" like I did in my first draft.
For the immediate future, my options are limited. And I'm not even thinking far enough ahead to consider how to kill the day tomorrow. I've already checked with Emma and Daby, and apparently Raleigh is too far from the Outer Banks for them to come pick me up so I can hang with them for the evening. Who knew? I mean - they're both in the same goddamn state, right? Seemed reasonable to me.... Anyway, my options for a glorious evening in bum-fuck North Carolina seem to be:
A/ Remain here in this too-small-for-two-people "business center" at the Days Inn with my new douchebag friend right next to me talking and laughing to himself and surf the internet on this slow-ass probably dial-up podunk bullshit connection.
B/ Hit the Waffle House next door and then watch some TV and hit the sack.
C/ Go get drunk at Hooters.
I wish I was joking. I think I'm gonna go to Hooters. Perfect. I'm the best seventeen-year-old ever.
So it seems that while visiting this weekend in Picksburgh, Hotrod signed into Vox on my laptop and never signed out, and now I have full access to his Blog. Wow, what power. What fun! What danger...
I could, for example, post comments to Jodi's blog posts so that this little wager we are engaged in came to an end, and Hotrod would attempt to argue that it wasn't *really* him who was posting, but me, under his name, without his permission.
Or I could send private messages to people...
Or I could... well, the possibilities are endless.
Love, Vanna
dabysan and i passed a little time at the nationals game last night,
but don't ask us who won. we mostly talked about football.
we covered fantasy football (who and, more importantly, who would not
be this year's fantasy studs), the overall strongest division (AFC
West, obviously), and how much money you would sacrifice for a
championship for your team.
the last was particularly of some interest to me when dabysan stated
that it would be "a life-changing, in the neighborhood of a new house,
amount" that would lead him astray of the ***skins. [editor's
note: this publication objects to the blantant racism of the
washington, DC area professional american football squadron's nickname.
henceforth, we will not use it.] this surprised me, of course, because for
all his semi-coherent bluster i assumed he was at the very least a true
fan. but it turns out he is not.
i can think of no amount of money i would rather have than a steeler championship. in other news, this is what those present after my demise will enjoy. and my back looks like this:
