Sex, Single Malt Scotch, & Super Shuttle: 4.30

THE FOLLOWING POST IS FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY
No seriously, I used to read books and watch movies that were too mature for me and look how I turned out.

And regular readers be warned/made happy, because this post has turned into an epic. Please savor with a joint and a martini. Preferably both while all alone in a dark room with your computer. Because you might just wanna pleasure your lady parts or man areas while you read along. And to my bros who do hos- just laugh along with me.

If you haven't heard, I just got back from my very first business trip. If you seriously haven't, check out the post below first. I begin with where that post left off. . . Saturday afternoon. After a carefree Saturday afternoon, the boss and me and a couple of other 'businesspeople' (read: low-level PR-like leechwhores who were nevertheless quite hot) went out for a lovely dinner.

At dinner, I discovered that my boss is into obscure, awesome Scotch. Stuff I'd never ever heard of, like Laphroaig and certain kinds you can only get in Scotland (if you're really into Scotch, and in Scotland, try finding "As You Like It" Scotch). And, New Big Boss tells great stories and is infinitely better than Sloane.

THE HOTEL BAR
So full of Scotch and now alone, I sat in the hotel bar. The band was playing okay jazz at first-- inevitable soulful black woman vocalist, old twinkle-eyed salt-and-pepper piano player, talented white man hornblower (sax and jazzy clarinet), token black bass player, and a young, frentic (in a good way) white drummer. So I concentrated on finishing the last sips of my drink and smoking on the outdoor patio when the singer took a break and they kicked into Dave Brubeck's "Take Five"-- my favorite jazz song of all time.

And then I saw a girl who kind of looked like this, but with more clothes on at the time when we first made eye contact. Truth be told, she wasn't quite as hot as Samaire Armstrong. But frankly, I was also under the influence of Scotch and she was definitely pretty hot. The 13-year-old boy inside of me would later notice she had really bouncy boobies.

But at the bar, she looked pretty- velvety- and the Scotch and jazz were making my blood simmer. With the second glance (when she made this soft, lip-biting motion), I was hard. Plus, after that lip-biting come-on, it was all too easy to buy her a drink, make some chitchat, and invite her back to my room. Frankly, it had never been easier.

THE SEXUAL HEALING
So I hadn't had sex with anyone since my uberwhore of an ex-girlfriend cheated on me. I've been so depressed that working all the time makes me relatively happy. So when we kissed in the corner right before we made the (unspoken) decision to go to my room, I did have a the faintest sensation of doing something wrong. So I just went with it-- because that was helping make me stand at attention again, too.

Did I mention she had great lips? They were big, like mine. She actually commented on that, our shared full-featured-ness. It certainly made for a smooth kissing experience.

Anyway, we sucked face in the elevator then stumbled into my room. I became even more grateful for the soft, cushioned bed-- and that the lamps were sturdy and not wont to topple to the floor when hit with a wayward pillow. Although I would guess that hotels probably do design with that in mind.

And away went my clothes and we dirtied the sheets while MTV played in the background. I don't ever remember her or I turning on MTV-- since we were effectively occupied once we hit the elevator. Fortunately, Not-Samaire brought protection-- 3 condoms, thankfully (although, um, optimistically for your standard drunken one-night stand). And in another stroke of good luck(pun intended), I'd had a little private time earlier that afternoon, so the experience lasted long enough to become a sufficiently stimulating experience for both of us.

After round one, it was time for a shower. Under the shower that I will remember for the rest of my life, the best shower ever, there was even more knocking of boots, which then moved back to the bed after a sensual tubside toweling. It was then that I appreciated Not-Samaire's three condoms. Genius, that girl.

We actually slept together and it wasn't totally uncomfortable. . . we sort of fit, I guess. She was gone in the morning. No note that I found, practically no trace at all, but the slightly-sex-perfumed sheets and the pillow identation where she slept. So what could ruin a weekend like that?

Nothing, frankly. But guess who tried? AirTran and Super Shuttle.

AIRTRAN-WRECK
AirTran is a small low-cost airline that you might have barely heard of. Super Shuttle is usually one easy way to get from almost any major airport in the US to almost anywhere you need to go in the surrounding city. Until Sunday night, I was a fan of Super Shuttle and had a mildly favorable opinion of AirTran, since my flight in from LA wasn't bad and that's really all you can ask. That, and that it doesn't crash onto Headtrip Island.

So I was practically whistlin' Dixie as I boarded my AirTran flight (Big New Boss was going to New York, not LA like me). I arrived early at the airport, my plane showed up at the gate when I got there, boarding started on time, I found my seat, everyone else sat down reasonably fast and BOOM! We sat there long enough for me to notice an inordinate amount of hacking, coughing, phlegm-sucking and the like.

And sat there for another few minutes. Until we hear on the loudspeaker: "Good evening folks, this is your Captain here. I just wanted you to know that one of our flight attendants is sick and unable to make it. The good news is we've found another flight attendant and she's on her way over right now. So it should just be another few minutes."

Twenty minutes, the loudspeaker came back: "Hi, folks, should be just a little longer. Our replacement flight attendant was downtown at mud-wrestling tournament and is taking a bit longer to get back than we expected."

And everyone on the plane laughed. Except me. Because I knew my plans were deader than the TV President. Or someone on the plane who had the Ebola virus.

The loudspeaker would make another mud-wrestling tournament joke a few minutes ("Show us the trophy!") later when the flight attendant finally showed up, saying: "I have every confidence that our great pilots will be able to make good time and get us in to LA close to our scheduled arrival time." And I have every confidence that your stupid airline needs to spend more on salaries that cause people to actually show up for work, and less on hiring 'funny' people.

THE NOT-SO-SUPER SHUTTLE
Despite assurances that we'd arrive on time because they'd go 'extra-fast', we landed thirty minutes after our scheduled arrival time, which was specially chosen so I could see the Sopranos at 9:00. No, seriously, I actually re-arranged my itinerary so I could catch the first new Sopranos episode in two years. I'm that committed. I mean, heck, I am actually Sicilian. So it's sort of required that I'm crazy in love with the show and would do that...right?

But maybe I'll be able to make it home in time, I reasoned, glancing at my watch. Dashing as fast as my carry-on bags would let me, I made it outside in record time, and, not seeing any available cabs, headed for the Super Shuttle station. I sat on the sloping silver bench for a minute shivering in the LA night, but seemingly lucked out when a Santa Monica/Marina shuttle was the first one to arrive. My driver was an angry Russian man who threw my bag into the backseat, snarled at me to write down my address and zip code and jerked his thumb toward the van, indicating I should enter.

I was ecstatic-- if this guy was as rude and short with everyone else as he was with me, I'd be home in no time! And he was! The next girl who got on even remarked: "This guy's a little crabby, huh?"

Unfortunately, Comrade was a little too into capitalism and when we didn't quite have a full van, he decided to make another airport loop to pick up more passengers. At LAX. Which takes approximately 30 minutes-- on a good day. Any hope I'd had to see the Sopranos that night was dashed. And to add insult to injury, it ended up costing MORE on Super Shuttle than a taxi ride. ($17 + $1 tip on Super Shuttle, $15 w/tip for a taxi) I reached my apartment at 9:55, just in time to frantically turn on the TV, and then hurriedly turn it off, so as not to see anything revealing. And then I sighed.

CONCLUSION
So instead I watched HBO's new series, "Big Love" which, despite Chloe Sevigny's best efforts, isn't a complete waste of my time. Frankly, I like it, especially Lily Kane (aka- Amanda Seyfried) who plays Bill Paxton's daughter, and Tina Majorino, who is rocketing upward on my awesome list for her excellent role choice.

But the point is, I missed The Sopranos. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW I LOVE THE SOPRANOS! You don't, you bastards, you don't!

And it didn't show up OnDemand quickly, either. It hadn't Tuesday, which was fine, because I'd already planned to smoke a lot of weed and watch American Idol until The Amazing Race came on. So by the time I finally saw it on Thursday, I'd already accidentally seen a wide variety of info about it...thanks in part to your stupid emails, guys, asking what I thought about this or that aspect. Thanks a friggin' lot. Anyway... I developed a cold, mid-week, which was lovely.


And now I feel like this picture. Bleckky and out of it, thanks to AirTran's recirculated germfest, a lingering lack of sleep, stress, fatigue, and yes, because I smoke things.

But really, couldn't you use a cigarette right about now? After all, I managed to end a sexy post with an ugly picture and a mention of bacteria!

Next time on Assistant/Atlas: I drink down The Sopranos like a single malt Scotch.
Technorati Tags: single malt Scotch, Sopranos, Super Shuttle, AirTran, Airlines, Air Travel