There was a small fire in control tower in Phoenix. The radio transmissions must have been interesting.
Flight 182 to control tower: Dude, there's flames shooting out of your ass.
Control to 182: Dude, what are you talking about? There are so not flames coming out my ass.
182 to Control: Dude! Look! There are flames coming out your ass.

What a maroon. What a ta-ra-ra-goon-D-ay.

I'm sitting here at the airport. The freakin' desk people aren't even here yet. Why? Because I'm here three hours early and it's 4:20 in the morning. Why? Because when my alarm went off this morning (hotel's clock) like a godawful buzzing electronic claxon of impending doom, somehow in my fumblings to turn the fucker off, I changed the time to an hour later. So my clock now tells me that instead of waking up at 3:45 (to leave for the airport at about 4:30 for a 6:45 flight), the clock showed that I hadn't woken up until 4:45. Panic ensued.

Aaaaaaaaaah! How the fuck did I do that?! I know I set it for 3:45!!!! Gaaahhhhhhh!!!! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!!!

Okay. No shower. Yes pee. Brush teeth. Call desk for cab. Thank god I packed last night. Yes new underwear. Wipe face with washcloth. Wipe pits. Do I bother to swipe the crochtal area? No. No time for it to dry. Don't want to put my underwear on while all moist down there. No coffee.

Did I get everything? Did I get everything? Did I get everything?

Stuff dirty underwear into backpack. Stuff everything else into backpack. Everything goes. Just in case. Stuff I would normally throw away. Just in case. Empty plastic bags, Friday's boarding pass stubs, wadded up flyers, TV remote, hotel iron, honor bar contents. My backpack now weighs 300 pounds. But I know I have everything, by god.

Down to the front desk. Check out. Cab's waiting. I'm on my way. Time elapsed from the moment my head came off the pillow to the sound of the duck-and-cover alarm until I hit the airport desk? Twenty minutes. Ha! Fucking Navy SEALS would be impressed with that wheels-up time.

So I stand here by the empty bank of counters for about 10 minutes, thinking well, I still got here before the ticket agents did. And I look behind me and see a digital clock saying that it's only 4:13 a.m. Huh? That's how long it took me to realize that I must have changed the time on the alarm clock somehow. Fucking Navy SEALS would be impressed with my string of muttered curses.

Note to self: get a fucking wrist watch.

(I've been checking the time all weekend by looking at my Handspring Visor's City Time.)

So here sits Badsnake. No coffee. Not so fresh. But packed and ready to go.

Had a wonderful time with Miguelito last night. The new Chez Mig looks great. Much bigger than the former headquarters of future world domination. And the control center of Utter Power is neat, too.

And Oh My God, you should see what he's done with the Rancho postcards. He had them framed. I mean, really, really coolly framed. Five of them, side by side in a wide horizontal display. It's cool as fricking hell. I was SO impressed. And just in general, Mig has way more stuff up on the walls in his new apartment than we've got in the house where we've been living for three years now. Mig's apt: at least three things hung in every room. Rancho South: zero shit on the walls. Zero. I gotta start hanging stuff.

Dinner with Mig was tapas. We had calamari, mushrooms with garlic, paprika shrimp, seafood and chicken (I think) paella, and some dried pork loin. And Mig had a somewhat altered memory of how big the large pitcher of sangria was. It was about two gallons of sangria. But we put a good dent in it.

It's Monday night and I'm pretty worn out. Friday night with Anat and friend was cool, but I'm too knackered to write it up at all.

I think the Rancho is pretty visitored out for the time being. After my conference next weekend, I'm looking forward to some nice quiet weekends with the girls and no other plans.

What I did while waiting this morning.