Phoning it in

Short and sweet is what I’m planning to do today.

For a couple reasons.

First, I got to bed really late last night, like 1:00 AM kind of late. A full three hours past my standard bedtime. And still two past my Friday night bedtime. Second, because even though I’m exhausted and kind of cranky pants this morning there’s commerce to visit.

Because, our coffee maker died. Do I even have to say the hell no that should accompany that phrase? Matt has been heating water in the microwave and pouring it directly over the grounds to brew our coffee the last two days.

And while I love him for helping me keep the inner monster at bay (READ: what I do before 10 AM while under-caffeinated would be a solid defense strategy), he can’t keep doing that.

It’s a pain in the ass for one, and also, the coffee is really weak.

The reason I long for stronger java this morning is because we went over to Phoenix International Raceway last night to spend time with Matt’s parental type folks. As NASCAR fans they come out from California twice a year and immerse themselves into the little city that the parking lot next to the track becomes.

With the grandstand holding about 67,000 people, seated, and thousands of people just camping to watch the race on television while day drinking and embracing general debauchery, things can understandably get a little wild.

Last night we spent about five hours hanging out and in that time I personally took part in, or at least witnessed:

• Too many trips to a port-a-potty.
• Hearing a story about a kid swimming inside the toilet of a port-a-potty and coming out looking like a Smurf.
• Both male and female boob grabs.
• Outdoor carne asada fajita consumption.
• Being in the “way back” of a golf cart and realizing that the girl driving the one behind us was too young to understand what I was doing when I made the internationally known symbol for “honk the horn, trucker!”
• Holding on for dear life while the golf carts raced each other out to the Busch Gardens stage and bar.
• A local musician, Harry Luge, with a pretty rockin’ band and a fun rock-country vibe.
• A guy dressed in overalls and a cowboy hat with a sheriff badge attached and matching silver, star shaped nipple covers (because, you know, some guys are modest).
• Leaving about 15 minutes too late as we walked back to the car in a wind-driven dust storm.

Between weak coffee, lack of sleep, and a sea of cowboy hats, I don’t have anything in my head right now (other than wanting to wake Matt up so we can get this show on the road, divide and conquer, and finish our shopping so we can get home and spend the rest of the weekend binging Fringe).

I’ll just leave you with the last song I remember hearing on the radio outside the RV last night while we talked and ate, Hello.

 

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In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
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