I googled my first name and the word Days to find my blog as I never remember how to get to it without doing that, and I was surprised that I wasn't the first entry. It was an article entitled Celebrating Chinese New Year with my Adopted Daughter. So, that's the name of my post and story this time. In the real story, Rory is a tiny Asian girl. Much like me, she also enjoys making dumplings, dressing in silk, and drinking sake till shes blind drunk. I know sake's Japanese, but I'm sure they drink it in China too. So, here's my version of the story. A lot of people don't give an assistant manager of a Blimpies with a shady past a break, let alone Asian twins in need of a stable home. But that's just what happened to me OK, I think that's enough to confuse search engines. This blogspot thing isn't recognizing paragraphs, so
I have to ramble in one big thing. Seriously. I am spacing each of these words out on their own line and the preview shows one huge glob of words.
Recently, I met up with my good friend Doug. Now, a good friendship is like a fine wine. It gets better and stronger with age. Its value increases. Sometimes it has nice legs. A friendship with Doug (last name withheld, although I could add his address, birthday, and work history and if he read this he still wouldn't know it was about him.)however, is like drinking an old zookeepers boot full of kiwi flavored Mad Dog 20/20 and getting punched in the stomach by a paint churner. He is as with it as the last Post It that doesn't realize what has come before it, and as sharp as a GI JOE action figure knife that was dipped in the chocolate river of Wonka: He has longhair like a bass player for 38 Special, missing at least 2 teeth, and you wouldn't feel weird asking him for directions to the Boat Show in ANY CITY...even Phoenix...and now, in short story form, My Adventure Near Death Experience at the Airport
From outside of the Delta terminal, Gate E7, I called Doug. He was nice enough to take time out from his daily routines of laughing at cats, and adding Certs to vodka and calling it a Mojito to pick me up form the airport. "Its 6:40 Doug, I'm outside Gate E7," I said. "Ill be there in 30 buddy," came the drawl from the other end. "Thirty minutes?", I said? Alright there must have been traffic. Thirty minutes come and go. My cell phone goes off. "Hey man, what gate? Have you ever driven around this airport?" I had. And so had he for over 22 years. "Gate E7. Delta," I said again. Twenty minutes later I called Doug. He told me he got lost in the airport driving around for the past hour and he ran out of gas. "Remember when you said this airport was like the Death Star?", said Doug. "Yup. Come get me," I said. Twenty minutes later, I call again and get his voicemail. Ten minutes later he calls me to ask what gate and wants to know if Ive tried to drive around this airport. This happen a few more times. I contemplate suicide taking the bus. At 8:40 Sir Doug of Dallas pulls up...at Gate 22. "Im here," he says on the phone. As I guide him into the proper gate, I see a sun burnt face with his tongue out greet me as I throw my suitcase in the back. An overwhelming scent hits me as I slump into the passenger seat. CK1? Drake Noir? Canoe? Some outdated high school cologne Doug seems to be bathing in. "Damn dude, you smell like an 80's prom," I told him. "Of course I do, I'm drunk," he laughed and pulled away. Doug proved his point that it is very difficult navigating thru an airport drinking Jack Daniels out of a Burger King to go cup. After pulling into several parking lots, long term parking lots, employee only parking lots, and once back to gate E7, we arrived at the exit. Doug did not keep his ticket, so its perfectly understandable for him to make a comment about our Indian gate keepers involvement in 9/11 and speed thru the gate without paying yelling I got away with it, I got away with it. The picture of his license plate they took I'm sure was not on his mind at all. Going 90 mph down the highways in all the lanes, I should have jumped. I should have not gotten in the car with him to begin with, but now I was trapped like James Bond, only there was nothing to outsmart here. "You're coming home to meet my cat," Doug exclaimed. Nope,I'm running late and he was taking me to my theater. He insisted I meet his two cats and his dog. Why anyone lets him take care of anything is a mystery. Sarah McLaughlin is going to come to his apartment and take those animals. We sped past a cop who had pulled another car over. I told Doug to look out and he told me a little known Dallas law I wasn't familiar with: Those motherfuckers cant do two stops at the same time. Doug knew physics! Ah, but they can call another cop down the highway and tell them to look out for you I told him. "Let em try, I got this," he yelled reaching under my seat and pulling out a 35. After much screaming and another dose of CK1, I finally convinced Doug to drop me off at the theater. I gave him $20 thru the window and told him to go fuck himself and went to a bar nearby. He texted me 10 minutes later saying he was tired and was staying in. I wondered if he even remembered picking me up, and then I thought he was a phantom, who died long ago and is the stuff of local legend. Should I even mention that I saw him. or would i be branded crazy? Either way, the shepherds pie at this pub was amazing.
"Have you ever driven around this airport?" -- Doug Richardson