Getting a late start.
My plan worked like a charm yesterday: After putting in an early day's work covering things at the Con, I made my way out and wandered across the City of Saints to a friendly watering hole. I had good timing, too, because as I was leaving the X-Cel Center there were huge crowds coming in.
I knocked back quite a few belts at Alary's throughout the afternoon and evening.
This was an Irish establishment and I had a little "Luck O' The Irish" myself: There were no TVs broadcasting the Con so I could really unwind and get away from it all.
It reminded me of the old days, when I'd stay out 'til "the wee hours" at a bar very similar to this one, only to be harassed by my nagging wife and wailing kids upon returning home. "You said you were going out for baby formula!" she'd complain. Well, my "Formula" for baby's was to get away from them! I believe in the sacred values of Motherhood and that Men shouldn't interfere on matters of childcare. She couldn't see it that way and she'd tell me in no uncertain terms (repeatedly, believe me). Wisely, I'd be sure to imbibe enough so that her yabbering would fade into the background. Ah, youth.
No such hassle here in the City of Twins. I made it back to "Chez Flea Bag" when I was good and ready. And after all my bloodhound reporting yesterday decided I'd give myself a break (for once) and sleep in.
When I woke up I couldn't remember where I left my wallet and searched my room in a panic. Turns out I'd left it in the ice machine down the hall (what's a post-bartime nightcap without ice, right?) but as I was looking I found this newspaper from last weekend under the bed:
A woman? Mr. McCain picked a woman to be Veep?? Not only that, but she's a looker. Says she used to be a beauty queen. I'm not so sure this is such a good idea. If you're reading, Mr. McCain, then listen up to a story of mine:
Back in the 1970s, when a lot of folks were "letting it all hang out," a beautiful lady by the name of Liberty ("Libby," we called her) came to work at my newspaper's editorial room. She always had a smile and a tight-fitting blouse. It was clear from Day 1 that she had "A Thing" for me, and she'd make that clear the way she'd say "Good Morning," when she'd see me in the morning and "Have a Good Night" when she'd be leaving for the day. I can still hear her voice and smell the warm aroma of her hairspray.
Now, don't judge her too quickly. I'm sure I had my own role in what happened as well. Back then I'd keep a few extra buttons on my shirt unbuttoned (it teased the ladies – I know, I'm terrible!) and wear a "Macho" Taurus medallion around my neck. I'm not actually a Taurus (I don't believe in that Astrology Witchcraft anyway) but I thought the bull imagery had the most sex appeal so there you go.
One day during a Deadline Crunch, Libby rushed into the Photo-Stat dark room. It was the most obvious ploy and for me to not follow her would have been, to my mind, rude. In the soft glow of the dark room's red light, she lunged at me and thrust her heaving bosom into my hands. Passion works in strange ways—as she jolted backwards, she spilled a tray of developing chemical all over my Polyester pants, ruining them.
With that stain on my pants, our cat was out of the bag, and there was no option but for Libby to be let go. Too bad for her, but that's the moral I'd like to impart to Mr. McCain: Working with women is bad business. They are too emotional (you should have seen Libby when the City Desk Editor fired her) and they become attached too easily. They're impulsive and they have no self-control.
I'm sure some of you ladies out there involved with "Women's Lib" won't understand. That's okay, we can "agree to disagree" with mutual respect intact. But just like Mr. McCain, I deal in "Straight Talk."
And Libby, if you're out there on the Superhighway reading this, there's something I've always wanted to tell you: I forgive you.