I talk a lot of shit; it’s true.
Especially here. I’ll call out / make fun of anything or anyone I feel deserves it and not feel bad because, hey, someone has to do it. Might as well be me. Well, last time I checked I was included in the “anyone” category so here’s a little something to prove I’m not above making fun of myself.
I’m supposed to go to Indianapolis for a sales meeting this week. I woke up around 5:45 AM this morning, packed my bag, ironed a shirt, brushed my teeth and The Mrs. took me to the airport.
Check-in at Reno / Tahoe International is one of my most favorite parts of traveling, especially in the AM. It’s early; everyone is cranky; there is usually a hefty line for United Airlines check-in. I waltz in like Britney Spears – my own theme music playing in my head and everything – and bypass everyone and go to a special “Premiere Executive” line. Or lack thereof. It’s great; everyone stares at me like I’m Bill Cosby in a speedo. I giggle on the inside when, regardless of the fact they’ve all been waiting for twenty minutes, I get checked-in before they do and jump, hop, skip through security before they can even say, “Yes, ma’am, I packed my own bag. Oh, you want to finger my ass with a plastic glove in the back room? No problem.”
It’s the highlight of airport adventures.
And let’s face it: I deserve it. I went from being nobody to Premiere Executive on United in less than a twelve month period. Why? Because I have to fly all the time. Too much, in fact. And yeah, you’re sitting there going, “Boo hoo, faggot, suck it up,” and I know – I’m not complaining. I’m simply saying I flew a lot this year and therefore should be allowed little luxuries like pissing off a line full of people by cutting in front of them without getting fouled for unsportsmanlike conduct. That’s all.
The joke was on me, though. I got to the airport and entered the Premiere Executive line like the giddy asshole I am. I got flagged over for check-in before anyone in the twenty-person-plus regular check-in line. I did an Irish jig in my mind, flipping off all the people behind me. I handed the United representative my ID – then I got jacked in the face.
Counter Guy: “Your name, sir?”
Me: “Chris Walker.”
Counter Guy looked down at the screen.
Counter Guy: “Mr. Walker, we don’t have you flying out until tomorrow.”
Panic hit me. “No, I’m supposed to be leaving today,” I said. Doubt replaced panic; am I really supposed to leave today? I left my itinerary at the office so I call my boss.
Me: “Am I supposed to show up at Indianapolis today or tomorrow?”
My Boss: “Tomorrow.”
Me: “Well shit, I’m at the airport trying to check-in for my flight.”
Laughter.
I showed up a day early for my flight. What a genius. I woke up at 5:45 AM this morning and packed a bag for nothing. I’m standing in front of a bunch of people I just cut in front of and have no plane to get on.
I laughed it off, told the United representative I made a mistake, joked that I’ll, “See you tomorrow!” and scurried away with my tail between my legs. I had to call The Mrs. so she could pick me up. Again, laughter.
I am a complete and utter idiot.
Posted: January 30th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Uncategorized | No Comments »
Here are a couple of my favorite highlights from the Killers show in Las Vegas.
So, It’s Going To Be One of THOSE Kind of Nights.
I rise early Friday morning after just getting back from Indianapolis the previous day. Life’s been a non-stop roller-coaster of travel over the past couple months. I’ve gone from San Diego, to Australia, to New Zealand, to San Diego, to Indianapolis, and now Vegas. I want to crash. Nevertheless, I should immediately get going because it’s a six and a half, sometimes seven, hour drive to Las Vegas. The Killers’ concert starts at 8:00 PM. I manage to leave the house around 11:00 AM.
After numerous bouts with road construction and retarded drivers I pull up to my sister’s house in Las Vegas at 6:30 PM. Just enough time to iron a shirt, drink a freshly purchased Michelob Ultra, and wait for Pablo to pick me up. I don’t typically drink Michelob Ultra. When it is my only option I’ll drink it but never by choice. The only reason I bought it was because I thought it was what Pablo drank. I was mistaken, though. Currently, Pablo’s beer of choice is: whatever’s available. Good to know.
To redeem myself for such a horrible purchase when we arrive at the Hard Rock Hotel, where the Killers are playing, I one-up myself by going to the Circle Bar and ordering, and I quote, “Two shot Jager. Two Budweiser.” I decide this will be our drink for the rest of the evening. And not Bud Light. Oh no. Budweiser only. And anytime we order a drink it has to be that combination, no exceptions: a shot of Jagermeister and a Budweiser.
After round one Pablo and I play Roulette. I bet $20 on black. I win. Next spin Pablo bets $20 on black. Pablo loses. I buy the next round.
Never Trust A Girl Wearing A Backpack.
After two shots and two Budweiser each, Pablo gives me my ticket and we head toward the venue, which is outdoors. Our tickets have seat and row numbers.
My reaction: We’re actually going to sit down for this?
Of course not.
Outside, there is a gigantic line. It looks like we’re trying to ride Space Mountain or buy a Harry Potter book at midnight. The line is THAT ridiculous. Luckily for us, the place is so chaotic we’re able to bypass the line. Once inside, we’re able to easily move closer and closer to the middle of the crowd. Still not as close as we’d like to be but we’re getting there. Then a golden opportunity strikes. This miniature security guard – you know: the overly authoritative, plastic badge toting, tough guy even though he’s not allowed to carry a weapon – is making a big deal about getting the “press, picture-taking people” to the “press, picture-taking people” booth. He’s pushing people out the way for the photographers creating a perfect lane for me to sneak through on my journey to get closer to the stage. With Pablo behind me, I wait for all the photographers to pass. Then I make my move.
Mistake. I run straight into the miniature cop without a badge as he tries to move in the same direction.
He immediately huffs and puffs and proclaims his importance. Instead of questioning Grown-Cartman’s authoritah I – for once – use my brain. I step back and let him bask in his gnome-like glory. You’re in charge, buddy. Why please, ladies first. Because hey, I’ll just follow this gross little booger as he forces his way back through the people. Number one: he’s got a security shirt on. Pablo and I don’t. He can push through people without them getting angry. Pablo and I can’t. Number two: it looks like he’s escorting us. He’s our little Carlton-like lineman clearing a path to touchdown victory. Our own personal Moses, splitting the seas.
And here’s where the fun begins. I notice a not-heinous-but-certainly-not-attractive-enough-to-give-a-shit-about girl on her cell-phone. Let’s put it this way: she’s wearing a backpack. Guys, if you’ve ever been out and met a girl wearing a backpack – and she hasn’t just come back from mountain hiking – you know what I’m talking about. She might as well just have, “I’d really like to go home with someone tonight, I’ve come prepared,” slapped across her forehead. You NEVER want to talk to that girl. You CAN NOT trust her. She will either steal something from you by slipping it into her backpack or “just-so-happen” to leave something from that backpack at your house so she has to call you later and come back to get it. A girl, out on the town, wearing a backpack, can only lead to horrible things. If you have a brain about you: stay away.
Her cell phone conversation is going something like this: “Just try and come up, Jill, just come on. Say you’re going to puke or something and that you’ve got to get through.”
Feeling the buzz of two shots and two beers, I feel the need to interject.
“Tell her to say her boyfriend is up here and she’s got to find him.”
Backpack Girl acknowledges my brilliant suggestion.
“Jill, say you’re trying to get your boyfriend.”
It’s not working, though. Jill is obviously a dimwitted individual (and this assumption is solidified as fact when Amazon Girl finally makes it) so I go a step further. I tell Backpack Girl to give me her cell phone. Being the backpack wearing whore she is, she hands it over.
“Jill, I want you to Rocky your way up here. Pretend you’re running up those steps and Rocky your way up here. Do it. Look for the guy in the salmon shirt, he’ll have his collar popped. Pablo, pop your collar,” Pablo pops his collar. Okay, look for the guy in the salmon shirt with the popped, tinted collar. Pablo, tint the collar.”
“I don’t know if I can tint it, dude.”
“I believe in you, Pablo. Tint the collar.”
Pablo tints the collar. Tinting entails some form of folding the popped collar. Honestly, I had no clue what I was talking about. We made it up on the spot.
“Jill, are you Rockying your way up here?”
At this point I get bored, hand the phone back to Backpack Girl, and erase the event from memory. It’s not until Amazon Girl actually makes it that I acknowledge the gruesome twosome again – reunited – at which point I bite my lip, bend down a bit, and exclamate: “Hooray! You finally made it!”
Amazon Girl looks at me: puzzled. Backpack girl stumbles hard with thought too, exuding the same mystified look, before a random spark fires in her brain and she tells Amazon Girl I was the guy on the phone earlier. Yeah, like I said: she’s wearing a backpack. And ‘exclamate’ isn’t even a word.
Moments later the crowd erupts into frenzy. Evidently, Paris Hilton has arrived and everyone seems to think this is important. It isn’t. Seriously. I’d throw her out of bed for eating animal crackers.
My First Confrontation with a Plus-Sized, Carnival-Esqe, Rotund Mound of Person.
The Killers performance is phenomenal. Far better than the first time I saw them at the House of Blues almost a year prior. They retooled some of the songs; Brandon Flowers was far more animated; Ronnie Vannucci (the drummer) was still the star of the show; it was a polished performance.
At some point Pablo gets my attention and points to two girls standing next to me. I’m confused. Why do I care? Then I realize they want to get past me. I kindly oblige them when suddenly a third follows through. At first, I think nothing of it. The two initial girls continue to make their way closer to the stage but the third girl stops directly in front of me. Then I realize this is no girl. Oh no. This is some sort of massive wilder-beast determined to press her enormously fat, sweaty, back into me even though I’m a good couple inches away. I tried to step back to further the distance between us. Still, her fat found me. For a minute I thought we were magnets. I could not distance myself enough from her without leaving the area and going down the street.
Why she felt it was necessary to maneuver her body DIRECTLY in front of mine after making a nice gesture to other people, I’ll never know. This girl had been standing two people away, to the right, at the beginning of the show. It was completely unnecessary for her to get in front of me. Regardless, her colossally obese ass was leaving its mark upon me and I was appalled. I mean, under normal circumstances – if it was a normal sized individual – I wouldn’t have cared. My view wasn’t obstructed, what’s one more person in front of me? It was just the way her grease-oozing, Carl’s Jr. saturated back fat kept massaging itself into me that made me want to slam dunk a basketball and the laugh in the faces of blind children; start a forest fire and punch Smokey the Bear in the bear mouth; drink a year’s worth of six packs, save the plastic ring holders, and dump them into a duck pond. Really, I just wanted to scream at her to stop pressing her gross, sweaty fat into me.
So, what did I do? Did I scream at her? No. Instead, I politely and gently (not that I needed to be, I’m sure her fat could have absorbed a fierce blow) pressed my forearm into her as to propel her ever-so-slightly forward. Being buoyant and of a thick, Jello-like consistency – she bounced back. She stared back at me with her big, fat face. I shrugged at her as if to say, “What do you want from me?”
She turned to watch the performance again and our dance of touching back-fat / wriggling in terror continued. After the song ended she turned around and started to intentionally grind her shoe into my pant leg. At first I thought it was cute, the little orca trying to enact some form of revenge after my forearm shiver. Go ahead Walk, let her have her moment. You’re an asshole. She deserves it. Problem was, she didn’t know when to stop.
Me: “Okay, I think that’s enough!”
Fatty: “Gyojdhoishfdgjshdgjsgfgdg.”
Me: “What?”
Fatty: “Gghodhgishgsodghsodxghodg.”
Me: “WHAT? I can’t hear you through the bubbler on your face!”
Fatty: “You spit on me!”
Me: “That’s a fucking stretch. Isn’t there a buffet you need to be at?”
For the record: I did not spit on her. Best part of it all: her Mom, I repeat, HER MOM is standing right behind me witnessing the whole thing go down. Pablo thoroughly enjoyed himself. Eventually, she won the territory and I had to move. I just couldn’t stand having her body pressed into mine and it was distracting me from the show. It’s was abysmal.
Yes, I found that word in a Thesaurus.
For A Split-Second I Contemplate Pretending I’m Famous.
Midway through the show someone throws a smoke-bomb / firework / Molotov cocktail under the area of bleachers Paris is sitting in. Smoke fills the air. An offensive odor fills the nostrils. Everyone has to watch.
I turn to Pablo and say, “Oh my God, Paris is burning!” Pablo laughs. Pablo is the only one. I tell him to remember I said that, in case I don’t, because I’m going to put it in my blog about the show. A drunk girl standing behind me asks me about my blog. She’s very interested in what magazine / website I write for, regardless of the fact she is with her incredibly drunk boyfriend. For a moment I contemplate telling Drunk Girl I am a highly influential concert reviewer, whose work is distributed to several prominent and well-trusted publications, including my own. Haven’t you heard of chriswalker.com?
But I don’t. I figure if I do it will only lead to more conversation and I really don’t want to talk to her. Not that she looks like Yuffy Yuff of the Yuffkins or anything. I’m just not in small talk mode with drunk girls and their drunk boyfriends while at a concert. I’m not really even into talking to myself after enough drinks.
The Debauchery Continues; No One Acts Surprised…
There are more stories to tell. Like seeing the RESERVED section at Rainbow Bar & Grill and deciding they must have known we were coming. Or the amount of Budweiser bottles that were broken while in the RESERVED section. Or the fact Drunk Girl and Drunk Boyfriend ended up at the same bar after I recommended it in passing after the show. Or not realizing Pablo’s girlfriend was, in fact, Pablo’s girlfriend. Or thinking some random guy at the bar was Hugh Grant’s roommate from Notting Hill. Or the amount of times Pablo and I slapped each other in the face. Or how, the next day, I told a woman to shut up in the middle of Fashion Show Mall because she wouldn’t quit talking to me. Or. Or. Or. But there are already a lot of words here and I commend you if you’ve read this much. Hope you’ve had a blast. I know I did.
Posted: January 16th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Uncategorized | No Comments »