Damn but moving is a travail. I feel like fucking Prince Valiant, all "can I ever just kick back? dost there always have to be some terrorizing hippogriff / mouthbreathing AZN gangsta bartender making life difficult?"
Well, the answer is, in order, "no, yes." And just as Val is always gutting fat Korean barkeepers, I can't fucking shake these hippogriffs, no matter how much OFF Deep Woods Sportsman I spray on my ankles. So the last few days have been a little tough, to say the least.
The promised WiFi (short for "wireless finternet") is always down, forcing us to pirate it from Moe's Southwest Grill ("WELCOME TO MOE'S!", says the homepage). La Shinta sticks us in smoking rooms with no shitter vent-fan. While we visited Taliesin West today, sixteen Jerusalem crickets crawled into the folds of my back-fat and created their own vision of organic architecture, blending structure with setting to create an unbroken harmony of home, sky, and land, and also giving me ass-rash.
Fortunately we had a Rivendell moment when we visited Steve-O (Wetmore-O), like myself formerly of BikeBeat. Mr. Boss-Man, as I know him, is now safely ensconced in a jewel-encrusted obsidian throne as manager of Trek Bicycles of Tucson, which seemed very nice and had some dopus hojus bikes on display. If you're ever in Tucson, they're worth looking up because Steve-O has a long history of laying shit out correct and proper in the Tidewater area, and he's the man.
His Western experience is showing in his physique, because SW has always been "the Steve Engine," a total motor until the road turned up. Now, though, the man is lean. He's apparently 25 pounds lighter than when he left, and he's definitely got the racer look -- big chunky legs and little T-Rex arms. So rad.
We ate dinner at a restaurant called "Flo's Chinese Restaurant," and careful questioning confirmed the claim: Flo is, indeed, Chinese.
Up next: jostling for position with suicide cultists on the rim of the Grand Canyon. Move over, bitch, I'm lining up.
