The Philadelphia Story (pt. 1 - Departure & Arrival)
So, on Thursday, I went to Philadelphia for a wedding. It was the first wedding I'd ever attended that wasn't for a relative, as all my friends either exchanged their vows in small, private ceremonies, did not like me enough to invite me to their large (but still private) ceremonies, or are gay and thus not allowed to marry. Ho ho. This particular friend, while gay and not especially fond of me, was still generous enough to invite me, so I accepted with the intention of offsetting the considerable expenditures by drinking enough free booze to kill several goodish-sized horses, which I'm proud to say I did--with my bare hands, no less!
Anyway, the trip began--as most long journeys do these day--on an airplane. Or, to be totally accurate, inside an airplane. Never being one to deprive myself of the high life (which would be a hilarious airplane joke if I'd intended it as such), I flew out first class.
"Whoa, there, fatstuff!" you're surely saying to your respective computers right now. "You've been unemployed since 1986 and are constantly begging us for money. What deviltry is this?"
To which I can only reply, "I'm not fat. I'm chubby. Besides, I had a voucher and it only cost me $60 to upgrade."
"Isn't that $60 you could have more wisely spent on, say, food or medicine?" you may well ask.
"Yes, probably," I would say, "but in first class, they let you have a glass of juice before takeoff. And note that I said 'glass.' Not one of those cheap plastic cups you plebian types have to endure. Plus, I got to watch a movie I had no desire to see ('The Bourne Mediocrity') for free, whereas you'd have had to shell out $5. So who's the idiot with no sense of reasonable financial restraint now, jerkface? Yeah, I thought so."
I have little else to tell you about the plane ride, other than to say that I got pleasantly drunk on bloody marys and single-handedly stifled a terrorist operation, an incident that has not surprisingly been suppressed by the mainstream liberal media. But that story is for another time. For now we are in Philadelphia, the fabled City of Seething Animosity, just in time to wait the better part of an hour for my sole piece of luggage to make its way around the baggage carousel, then avail myself of the resentful, mumbling gentleman at the courtesy desk to arrange a shuttle to the Embassy Suites, then go outside into the chilly, mid-Atlantic night to wait another hour for the fucking thing to show up.
Outside, I was immediately greeted by a passing lad of no more than fifteen, holding a huge wad of bills. "Three hundred dollars!" he told me chummily. "My lucky night!" Just as quickly, he walked off, leaving me to ponder just where the money had come from. My guess was: somewhere in long-term parking. Then I crossed the service road, chatted sporadically with the foreign gentleman in the little booth, and waited the better part of another hour for the van to come. Then it was pointless conversation with the van driver and the other passenger--a middle-aged woman from Orlando who I think was in town to get laid--and then the Embassy Suites (just like a real suite inside a real embassy--the Paraguayan embassy, maybe. The one in Uruguay, perhaps), where I had to wait the better part of two hours for the bachelor party contingent to return from their fancy dinner and get the party started.
In the interim, I tried unsuccessfully to order room service (as provided by the adjacent T.G.I. Friday's), and so wandered around a little bit looking for a restaurant before finally settling on the aforementioned Friday's. I returned shortly to the room with my takeout cheeseburger and a copy of the Philadelphia City Paper (with, ridiculously enough, a cover story on the Dead Milkmen), watched the Mavericks beat up on the Heat, ate my shitty hamburger, and subsequently found myself feeling exceedingly queasy, a sensation I was to come to know well over the course of the very long weekend.
Eventually, I received a phone call from the man of the hour (to whom, much to his increasing chagrin, I kept referring as "the birthday boy"), telling me that he was on his way.
-------------------------------------------------------------
(Coming tomorrow, or possibly not: Strippers, cheesesteaks, and fights, fights, fights!)
Anyway, the trip began--as most long journeys do these day--on an airplane. Or, to be totally accurate, inside an airplane. Never being one to deprive myself of the high life (which would be a hilarious airplane joke if I'd intended it as such), I flew out first class.
"Whoa, there, fatstuff!" you're surely saying to your respective computers right now. "You've been unemployed since 1986 and are constantly begging us for money. What deviltry is this?"
To which I can only reply, "I'm not fat. I'm chubby. Besides, I had a voucher and it only cost me $60 to upgrade."
"Isn't that $60 you could have more wisely spent on, say, food or medicine?" you may well ask.
"Yes, probably," I would say, "but in first class, they let you have a glass of juice before takeoff. And note that I said 'glass.' Not one of those cheap plastic cups you plebian types have to endure. Plus, I got to watch a movie I had no desire to see ('The Bourne Mediocrity') for free, whereas you'd have had to shell out $5. So who's the idiot with no sense of reasonable financial restraint now, jerkface? Yeah, I thought so."
I have little else to tell you about the plane ride, other than to say that I got pleasantly drunk on bloody marys and single-handedly stifled a terrorist operation, an incident that has not surprisingly been suppressed by the mainstream liberal media. But that story is for another time. For now we are in Philadelphia, the fabled City of Seething Animosity, just in time to wait the better part of an hour for my sole piece of luggage to make its way around the baggage carousel, then avail myself of the resentful, mumbling gentleman at the courtesy desk to arrange a shuttle to the Embassy Suites, then go outside into the chilly, mid-Atlantic night to wait another hour for the fucking thing to show up.
Outside, I was immediately greeted by a passing lad of no more than fifteen, holding a huge wad of bills. "Three hundred dollars!" he told me chummily. "My lucky night!" Just as quickly, he walked off, leaving me to ponder just where the money had come from. My guess was: somewhere in long-term parking. Then I crossed the service road, chatted sporadically with the foreign gentleman in the little booth, and waited the better part of another hour for the van to come. Then it was pointless conversation with the van driver and the other passenger--a middle-aged woman from Orlando who I think was in town to get laid--and then the Embassy Suites (just like a real suite inside a real embassy--the Paraguayan embassy, maybe. The one in Uruguay, perhaps), where I had to wait the better part of two hours for the bachelor party contingent to return from their fancy dinner and get the party started.
In the interim, I tried unsuccessfully to order room service (as provided by the adjacent T.G.I. Friday's), and so wandered around a little bit looking for a restaurant before finally settling on the aforementioned Friday's. I returned shortly to the room with my takeout cheeseburger and a copy of the Philadelphia City Paper (with, ridiculously enough, a cover story on the Dead Milkmen), watched the Mavericks beat up on the Heat, ate my shitty hamburger, and subsequently found myself feeling exceedingly queasy, a sensation I was to come to know well over the course of the very long weekend.
Eventually, I received a phone call from the man of the hour (to whom, much to his increasing chagrin, I kept referring as "the birthday boy"), telling me that he was on his way.
-------------------------------------------------------------
(Coming tomorrow, or possibly not: Strippers, cheesesteaks, and fights, fights, fights!)
posted by Rob at
12:26 AM
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