8:00 am: This is my first Sunday back in the trenches, kids, and so far the travelers are trickling out rather than flowing like a river of tourism madness.
Believe it or not, I’d rather have the deluge. The Niagara Falls Barrelman Triathlon will be zooming by the hotel later today – directly in front of our valet deck exit, to be exact – and The Powers That Be expect the resulting chaos to be anything but controlled. Personally, I’m still rockin’ a wicked mellow buzz so I doubt I’ll even notice.
Let’s face it, anyone who has ever read this blog knows that Sunday mornings are the mirror image of the fall of Saigon – including the screaming Asians, the horny, drunken American soldiers and civilians, and on occasion, the explosions and helicopters.
Yeah, I realize I may get comments about that last line. Good, this blog could use a shot in the virtual arm, so so speak. I need to catch up to my buddy/arch-foe Ned Hickson, who appears to have become a blogging sensation after years of ranting and sacrificing virgins to Pagan gods or as he puts it, “hard work”.
As for me and my Sunday morning routine, I didn’t have to wait long for the “fun” to begin. A put-upon father just stumbled by my desk with his demonic spawn/child in tow. To clarify, the larvae in question was being towed – on Big Daddy’s suitcase. They made the journey through the lobby, across the valet deck, into the garage, into the elevator to the second floor, across the second floor, right to the requisite mini-van. All the while, BD slowly shook his head, no doubt searching his memory for the exact moment his life went off the rails. As for his progeny, the wee bugger just bounced up and down like a lap dancer earning her keep on a Saturday night.
Finally, they arrived at the Daddy-mobile, where Big Daddy was forced to lift his suitcase up into the van with Little Nicky still clinging on. Fortunately, I was there to assist.
“It’s a good thing morbid curiosity forced me to follow you along your perilous journey, sir.”
To his credit, Big Daddy took my stalking in stride.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you, Boss. I’d follow the Big Jagoff with the crazy kid if I was you, too! Follow my advice, pal, don’t knock up a stripper! She’ll give you a less-than-perfect kid!”
I should have let the matter lie, but where’s the fun in that?
“Actually, I’m married so there’s no chance that’s going to happen, sir.”
I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
“Hey. I’m married too, buddy! Why do you think I came here all the way from Boston? My ‘other family’ here is my little secret!”
As soon as he had finished his segment on Parking Garage Confessions, his Baby Momma appeared. My friends, I’ve seen many a stripper in my day but this piece of dance hall meat was as the top of the peeler food chain. She was the living embodiment of Stephen King’s Rose the Hat, with razor-sharp cheekbones, toned limbs that stretched to infinity and beyond, raven locks and nipples that were winning the fight against the thin white t-shirt that barely covered her made-for-sex form.
She wasted no time establishing that her inner-self matched the black, tangy, candy-coated exterior.
“I didn’t know you were getting help, honey! Did you tip him or should I give him a “little something something extra’?”
I screamed “God, no!” repeatedly in my head, but fortunately Big Daddy reached into one of his ginormous pockets and produced a crumpled five-dollar bill.
After that bit of blogging gold, I honestly felt I owed this guy a tip.
5:00 pm: I hope you found this fragment of my morning tasty, my friends. It’s currently early in the evening and the day has nearly burned to its core. I hope you enjoyed reading about my day as much as I enjoyed living it. It’s good to be back, isn’t it?
See you in the lobby, kids…