Oliphant Parts

You’d think a phone company would know how to connect a call, wouldn’t you? If so, you’d be mistaken. I canceled my second phone line today, or at least I hope I did. It’s hard to tell with Verizon. My first attempt seemed to go well until they put me on hold to contact the subcontractor in charge of actually disconnecting the line. At that point, I went on hold for 10-12 minutes, then received a message stating that all circuits were busy and that I should try again. I was then disconnected. Okay . . .

I waited a few hours, then tried again. Surprisingly, I got a human operator fairly quickly. It helps when the automated system cannot fully understand your request. I had to be put on hold again, but this time the operator (technician? hell-desk person?) stuck around and reminded me every few minutes that it should be just a few minutes more. After 10 – 15 minutes of this, I was connected to a new person who verified that I really wanted to disconnect my spare phone line. After trying to sell me some new services, she finally accepted that yes, I wanted to disconnect the line, and promised me that it would be done today. We’ll see. I’ve tried this before with Verizon and they haven’t been very good at carrying through on their side of things.

Be warned: This is not a face you want to see while eating. I have no idea what sort of diplomat he was, nor what his qualifications are for running the World Bank. I do know, however, that flipping the page of my morning paper and having him staring back at me as I tried to eat was very disturbing. The good news is that he makes Wolfowitz look almost handsome in comparison. Wow.

Friday morning, time to go home. Yes, it’s much too early to be up, but I can’t sleep. The people are nice, but I do not like the South. Too humid. Too southern. The ice cream has ice crystals in it. Hmmm, maybe that last one is just a Hilton thing. I’ve lived in Georgia and North Carolina, and am definitely a West Coast boy. And right now, I am a very Tired Boy who needs to put on some clothes and finish packing. I’m outta here!

I woke up this morning to the smell of smoke. No alarms, just smoke. It was worse in the hallways. A little nervous, I went outside. Ah, good, it’s only a forest fire. My hotel isn’t burning, just Georgia. It’s the little things in life that fill me with joy.

Now if I could find a way to send the smokers to Georgia. Silly, really, having one side of the hallway non-smoking, the other side smoking. Did they think that the cigarette smoke would know to stay on its side of the hallway? More likely a matter of slogans: “Welcome to the Hilton, where we just don’t care!”

Two beers and a bloody mary later and he wanders to the bank of elevators, waiting patiently for the cars to arrive for the short ride up. Four stories, that’s all. Schindler’s lift again. Like the Burbank Airport Marriott, the world’s slowest elevator is in use. The stairs would be quicker, but being both stubborn and lazy, he waits. Not a good choice with a bladder this full. Time passes slowly, each second marked by the further expansion of that swollen pouch, every ounce of liquid turning to urine. Oh Joy! The elevator arrives.

Standing before the mirror, observing the decaying hulk that is me. Muscle turns to fat, bulging here and there. No longer lean and angular, more eggplant. I am old. Damn. It happens to the best of us. I deserve this room, I suppose. I checked in to a room with two neatly-made beds and a bathroom with drip-stains around the toilet, two pubic hairs in the shower and a strange brown streak on the wall an inch short of the toilet paper. Is it possible that the sheets have at least been washed? I wouldn’t be surprised to find the obligatory dead hooker in the box-springs. Welcome to the Hilton Garden Inn in lovely Montgomery, Alabama. Oh joy.

It’s time to face the truth, people: Paris Hilton is not attractive. Sure, she’s blonde and definitely sports the concentration-camp chic when it comes to weight, but has anybody ever listened to her talk? Or looked above her scrawny neck? There is more to beauty than clear skin stretched too thin over your skull and more to personality than a whining undeserved sense of entitlement.

I generally avoid reading or watching anything related to Ms. Hilton, but even I’ve heard about her latest troubles. Busted for drunk driving, then driving on a suspended license. And now saying it is unfair that she will actually be punished for her own actions? Welcome to the real world, babe; there are consequences for your actions. I know, it’s rough being treated like everyone else, but it happens sometimes. So please, Paris, shut the hell up for a bit, serve your time and maybe get a bite to eat.

You might also want to get some sleep: The pictures they keep plastering all over the papers here show you either squinting or gazing off to the side, eyes half-closed. Maybe if you got some sleep you’d remember things a bit better. Like to turn off the video camera before sex if you’re really that concerned about your privacy, or that laws are supposed to apply to all people, not just to those of us unfortunates who weren’t born to obscene wealth.

It’s time Cuba honoured their leader with a new capitol. I envision a city named Fidel, if only so that I can visit some day and let people know I’m in Fidel. Okay, that was much funnier in my head. Damn . . .

Anyway, I am so glad that I am not a duck. Thanks, Dale.