The glamorous life of the sportswriter---
Right now, it's 9.30 am, and I'm in a hotel just outside of Detroit. I'm not sure what day it is. I think it's Monday, but that's just a guess. I'm having a GnT to get my bearings.
In the past two weeks, I've been in such exotic ports of call as Des Moines, Iowa; Branson, Missouri; Omaha, Nebraska; Springfield, Missouri; and now I'm in Detroit. The day after tomorrow I'll be in Portland. A few days after that I have to go to St. Louis, then Kansas City, then back to Portland, then Los Angeles. (All of this will take place between today and 22 August.) In the month of July, I've spent exactly 5 nights in my own house. In August, that should drop to 3 or 4.
No wonder I drink.
Back to the point: It's in pretty limited distribution, but I can report that the ADB homepage has once again been recognized in print (I humbly inspect my fingernails) in the latest issue of "Beer Across America" magazine, in which my new column "CyBEERspace" debuts. As does my story about the beer scene in Portland, in which I managed to squeeze in a quote from our own Greg Mitchell. Go to your local book megastore and demand a copy of this brilliant drivel.
Time to catch the next plane. Next time, some decent stories, I promise...
Dave (BDK)
Somewhere in America...
From:Steve Kellett
Date: 24 Jul 1996
Dave Kelley wrote:
The glamorous life of the sportswriter...Ah, the good old twilight zone... The one where you wake up half-pissed at 3am and realise you don't know where the fuck you are (like, going down to the lobby doesn't help. It'll look like a high class urinal with an android behind the check-in, and you could be anywhere from Bogota to Bangkok, but I digress). So you pick up the phone with trembling hand and dial the operator:
[Operator]: "Hello, how can I help you?" (Says a voice with all the charm and sincerity of Heinrich Himmler addressing the Mother's union on the benefits of a racially integrated society)At this point you are advised to emtpy the mini bar (into yourself, that is if you havn't already, naturally) and run screaming into the night. At least when you get put up in front of a judge the next morning they might tell you what country you're in...
[Traveler]: "Yeah, can you tell me where I am?"
[Operator]: "You're in room 792 sir"
[Traveler]: "Yeah, but where am I?"
[Operator]: "Probably on the bed, under the shitty repro painting, slightly to the left of the curtained alcove which tries to purvey the impression that there's a window to the outside world and thereby disguise that you're buried deep within a concrete mausoleum with achitectural and aesthetic virtues which could best be improved by the application of a couple of hundred ounds of semtex buried in pig shit expoloding next door to it"
[Traveler]: "Yeah, but where am I?"
[Operator]: "Probably..."
- Steve K.
From: Dave Kelley
Date: 23 Jul 1996
Steve Kellett wrote:
Ah, the good old twilight zone... The one where you wake up half-pissed at 3am and realise you don't know where the fuck you are (like, going down to the lobby doesn't help. It'll look like a high class urinal with an android behind the check-in, and you could be anywhere from Bogota to Bangkok, but I digress).The real fun happens when you wake up around 6.00 and can't tell whether the sun's rising or setting, you have no idea where you are or why you're there, and you think you have a plane to catch at 7.00 am on Tuesday, which may be today.
[Operator]: "Hello, how can I help you?" (Says a voice with all the charm and sincerity of Heinrich Himmler addressing the Mother's union on the benefits of a racially integrated society)So you ask,
[Traveler]: "Yeah, can you tell me where I am?"
[Operator]: "You're in room 792 sir"
[Traveler]: "Yeah, but where am I?"
[Operator]: "Probably on the bed, under the shitty repro painting, slightly to the left of the curtained alcove which tries to purvey the impression that there's a window to the outside world and thereby disguise that you're buried deep within a concrete mausoleum with achitectural and aesthetic virtues which could best be improved by the application of a couple of hundred ounds of semtex buried in pig shit expoloding next door to it"
[Traveler]: "Yeah, but where am I?"
[Operator]: "Probably..."
[Traveler]: "Can you at least tell me what time it is?"Hmmm. Never thought of that. Worth a try...
[Operator]: "It's just past six."
[Traveler]: "Six what?"
[Operator]: "Six o'clock."
[Traveler]: "What day is it?"
[Operator]: (A lobotomized laugh) "That's a good one, sir. You're quite the character."
"[Traveler]: Am I dead?" (hopefully)
[Operator]: "I certainly hope not. You haven't checked out." (Hyena-like guffaws)At this point you are advised to emtpy the mini bar (into yourself, that is if you havn't already, naturally) and run screaming into the night. At least when you get put up in front of a judge the next morning they might tell you what country you're in...
Dave (BDK)
Home for 32 hours, so I'm washing and re-packing my clothes...