Highway to Hell

Hi, kids. Long time no write. I know, I know. But I just got back from Boston but no my arms aren't tired. Just my patience. The next time Envirocon asks me to go on a trip for them somewheres, someone make sure to kick me in the ass. Hard. That'll prepare me for the experience.

So I have to leave God's Country to go amongst the heathen and bring them enlightenment about affiliate marketing. Yeah, go figure. But a gig's a gig. And when your former boss's boss asks you to go, you don't ask a lot of questions. Well, not if you're smart. And we all know I'm not, so I kept my piehole shut and booked my last minute reservations. Through JFK.

Now I've done enough business travel that I never go through two airports: JFK and Ohare. And Hartsfield Jackson may soon get added to that list. But I didn't have an option, the direct flights from SLC to BOS (Banish Our Souls) were full. So Noo Yawk it was. Except that when I got to the Big Crapple, my plane was cancelled.

But that's okay because those same swell, friendly, helpful folks at Delta were willing to put me on the next flight to Boston. Which left about 24 hours later. And since I was going to Boston for a three day conference and I was having to travel there the first day since I live in the mild, mild West (and who starts a conference on a Sunday?), blowing off the second day whilst I diddled my thumbs in New York didn't seem like a good idear.

So our intrepid reporter (man I love hackneyed cliches like that but know I should avoid them like the plague) acted rapidly like the seasoned, grizzled, beaten-down travel veteran I am. I hopped a train to Boston. And other than forgetting that Grand Central Station and Penn Station aren't the same thing, I was fine. I'm such a Country Mouse sometimes. Hey, a train's a train, right?

Anyhow I finally got to Boston only about 7 hours after I was supposed to thanks to the fine people at Amtrack. Unfortunately, my luggage was still in New York but the fine folks at Delta assured me it would be there when that next day's plane arrived. Except it wasn't.

Now I have been travelling enough that I always carry a ditty bag (not a P. Diddy bag) with extra essentials like toothpaste, contacts, meds (I needs my Thorazine or I get snippy), skin care products and the like. I've learned that the hard way. So when I was faced with three days in Beantown and some humid conditions, I was less than enthused. The fine Delta people assured me my luggage would show up the next afternoon. And by "afternoon," they meant before 6 a.m.

So I replenished my supplies of clothing in the hotel gift shop. Hey, I wanted to wander around the conference in a sweatshirt that said BOSTON anyway. Though on the streets of the rougher parts of town, I might as well have been wearing a sign that said TOURIST - TAKE MY WALLET.

And you have not lived until you've watched Sportscenter in high def while you wash your socks and shorts in the bathroom sink and dry them with the hair blower. Classy.

Luckily, my luggage finally came the last day of the conference just in time for me to leave. And though my flight out of Boston was delayed 7 hours, I managed to escape with my dignity battered but somewhat intact. And at least I finally had clean underwear on. And there's nothing like clean underwear to improve your disposition. Other than a quick tour of Fenway Park when you're supposed to be sitting in a seminar about the Top 5 SEO Strategies.

Just a bit of advice for you fellow Country Mice out there. Take the Green Line to Kenmore and walk away from the Citgo Sign unless you're lucky enough to catch the D then you can get off right at Fenway. The Citgo Sign looks a lot closer to the Green Monstah on tv but it's really a couple of blocks away.

Or so I've heard. As far as you, and my former boss's boss, knows.

Lest I Forget

There was a guy wearing a real conductor's hat on the train. But only 33% of the observed workers on the train wore official train wear. The other two (older, more experienced, perhaps wiser and smarter) gentlemen declined to partake in the fabulous hatwear.

For a while, until we had to get on the bus. Then he continued to wear it even though we were on a bus. Isn't there some sort of Conductor Code that prevents you from wearing a hat like that if you're not really on a train.

And a lady asked Conductor Petey (my guess at his name) how late we would be now that we were having to take a bus and drive to all the goofy, out of the way stops that required a bus to drive on windy, single lane roads that a straight train track could have normally reached in half the time.

The Lady said, "When will we get in? I've got a connection at the airport."

His answer, "That depends on when we get to the station."

Slow down, Petey. You're losing me. I guess there's probably a reason you're wearing that hat and punching tickets on the bus.

Godspeed, Petey.

I Think I Can, I Think I Can

Didn't get to post much last week as I was travelling on bidness and was too lame to fight with the 'puter whilst on the road.

Now despite my many travels and travails, I have never taken a train to a destination. Unless you're counting the monorail to the Epcot Center. So I decided I'd save Virtucon the $900 to fly for a two day trip and take a 4 hour train ride instead. I could have driven, but because I wanted a bit of adventure and didn't want to hassle with downtown parking, the Great Train Experiment was launched.

As I had never Amtracked, I was pleasantly surprised. Getting on the train was surprising easy. You grab your bags (and don't even need to show a ticket to get onboard), get your seat and go to it. The seats were surprisingly large--much, much bigger than a plane. And because the typical train traveller isn't that plentiful, everyone who wanted their own row had one. Most folks were sprawled out sleeping for the 7:30 am departure. There were also electrical outlets so you could plug in and do some work or some iPodding and GameBoying.

I had just settled in and was enjoying the new experience when the Great Adventure came to a halt. There had been a derailment up ahead so we had to take a bus the rest of the way. Woo hoo. Yup, you should have driven, dummy.

Now because there were several cars on the train, I had somehow missed the guy who I got seated next to on the bus. And I'm not sure how I missed him in the station because he was definitely someone who was hard to overlook. His attire consisted of:

• black and white zebra-striped Chuck Taylor hi tops (these had to be homemade)
• grey thermal long johns
• brown leather shorts
• black and white plaid flannel shirt
• black hooded sweatshirt
• black leather jacket with silver studs on the shoulders
• black fingerless gloves (which obscured just enough of the tops of his knuckles so I couldn't read his tattoo of letter on each finger
• spiked hair (black naturally)
• back of neck tattoo which looked kind of like barbed wire but was supposed to be some sort of symbol
• a wispy hanging beard (not a van dyke but more of a Shaggy on just the chin)
• an even wispier moustache

And he rocked back and forth and bobbed his head. This began before he started listening to his CD player. It continued for the remainder of the trip.

I was a little disappointed that Spike (I so named him) never talked to me. Sure I wasn't dressed like Sid Vicious, but I'm a rebel at heart. It's not like I was wearing a suit and tie. And I know that he'd have somehow worked "Rock and Roll" into something he said. And I would have responded with "Smooth Jazz." Bless you, Greg Warren.

The train ride home was uneventful. Thank you sweet baby jebus for taking pity on me after two days of business meetings and my having to pretend to be responsible, normal and not evil.

Except for that time I freaked the couple on the elevator out. They were staying on the 14th floor and I told them it was really the 13th floor but they just skipped a number to trick people. That was just evil light.

I will now return to my appointed toil and try not to focus on either the Tigers quest for the World Series, the Lions first win or the Spartans descent into hellishness.

Happy Monday.