As I type this I'm sitting in a tiny seat on a tiny airplane heading back to my comfortably-sized hometown. I've just spent the last three days talking shop with professional business people about the business of doing business. If bullshit was sand I would have created a new desert. There are so many anecdotes that it would take longer than this flight to type it all out. Three days in Atlanta and the only time I got outside the hotel was to walk to the adjacent mall to eat the generic Chili's/Applebees/TGI McPickleshitters clones that can be found at any mall in the U.S. Three days in a suit, looking damned fine if I do say so myself, but for what?

Your guess is as good as mine.

Here's the hotel:

Reasonably swanky. The photo doesn't convey the humidity, the lack of adequate air conditioning or the Wednesday morning complete lack of hot water throughout the entire hotel. You know what's better than wearing a suit and uncomfortable dress shoes from 5:30am until 11:00pm? Preceding it with an ice-cold "penis inverter" shower at 5am. I promised myself that I would try to be positive about it, so instead of complaining I'll just say it was a bracing way to greet the dawn. (I'm happy to report that my ween has since returned to its previous state as an "outie".)

Here's me as a smooth operator in a suit:

Dashing? You know it, dawg.

I've never understood the whole "looking sexy in a suit" thing that some people find so appealing. Frankly I think it makes me look boxy, but to each his own. All I know is those Kenneth Cole shoes, while perhaps not very comfortable for all-day wear, are fierce.

I hate that disconnected feeling of being alone at a hotel on business. That feeling of being adrift, missing some essential component. But if there's a silver lining in it all, it makes you appreciate the life you left. And right now at 35,000 feet over the central U.S. the only thing I can think about is getting home.

So sorry for the quiet week here on el blog-a-rino.

If I can muster the strength and change the names to protect the innocent, or in this case protect me from the guilty, I'll tell the story of the crazy woman at dinner and the "almost had a 3-way with Bruce Willis" story that will frighten you. I have pictures, but I don't want to be sued and/or fired. So just ask me to see them sometime in person and then you, like me, can say "there's no way Bruce Willis invited you to take any part in a three way, save for maybe having you hold the camera."

I specifically put this post under the category of Schadenfreude not because of the joy I normally take in other's misery (with the single exception of the odd-gal-out in the misfired Willis 3-way), but so you could take a little joy in mine.

More this weekend, kiddies.
Hugs a-plenty.
Huzzah.