Sunday, August 27, 2006

Travelogue V

So Thursday was back on the L.I.R.R. or (“Long Island Railroad” to da resta ya) to Planhassettdomashington. Way back in the day, they even had drinking cars, or so I saw in this really bad Paul Newman movie that had him carrying on with Joan Collins. There is a distinct lack of trash and the occasional upchuck or urine, unlike the train we have here that goes to the East Bay. Yet, Long Island doesn’t have a Borders or a Barnes and Noble in every town, like we do out here. Is there a correlation?

Draw your own conclusions. Actually, that‘s not representative of anything, so, merely draw exploding stick figures in meetings like Dubya does. That night we did the bucolic-thing which you have to wonder why that bothers me to be a homebody in the suburbs or in the country, as opposed to one in the city. Still, I cannot equate myself living a “bucolic life” without the “c-o-l-i-c.” I can’t handle the suburbs.

Let me jump off this rant before I send myself around the moon. We went to the second youngest sister’s house for a big party that Friday and all the sibs were there. The In-laws have eleven grandkids altogether, six girls and five boys. Ages thirteen to five, and my Father-in-law has a small rolodex to keep the birthdays straight.

Now, with the this many grandkids and the fact that we venture out there only once a year, means lots of pictures. So many pictures, in fact, that you see leopards, “not dead people,“ Haley Joe Osment. Flash, after flash, after flash. The neighbors ask, "was that lightning?" And someone says, "no, that was Write Procrastinator's Sister-in-law."

“Oh, come on, just one more picture!” You hear that about sixty times a party. One of my nephews birthdays falls right around our visit time, along with the patriarch of the family, who hit the eight decade mark like he does mayors. So everyone in the family got to experience just what it was like to be stalked by the paparazzi, only the stalkerazzi will not serve you two kinds of birthday cake.

My oldest niece and oldest nephew are taller than one of my sisters-in-law, as well as the Mother-in-law. I dare say they will pass me up in the next two or three visits.

Saturday was a day of mixed feelings, we didn’t want to leave, but we also had exceeded the three days like that quote about houseguests and fish. The flight was nicer on the way back because a man was nice enough to give up his seat so that we could all sit next together. I typed my Friday flash fiction on the plane instead of this last installment, so a few things have been lost forever to jetlag and the joys of unpacking.

See? Now I just recalled a big event just before I put this post up. As I’m walking through first class, I see none other than
Frank DeFord. You might have seen Mr. DeFord on ESPN’s “The Sports Reporters” or about a billion other sports or news talk shows. He tried to get a daily sports newspaper going, called “The National” up around 1991 and it was a damn good paper. He got the best writings I’ve ever read out of this one reporter (who now works for a San Francisco paper), so I considered Mr. DeFord to be both a good editor and motivator. I told him as much as he gave me his autograph.

Think about the best sports reporters that you have in your town, then forget about him or her because they aren’t qualified to be Frank DeFord’s pencil caddies.

The flight back home was uneventful, save for the landing. I can say that I’m disappointed that no one applauded our landing which was outstanding under the circumstances. There was a fierce wind whipping up and that was reflected by the churning waters on San Francisco Bay, so I thought that the pilots didn’t do to bad a job. I’m not afraid to laugh by myself or make an ass out of myself, but I won’t applaud by myself. Go figure.

We took Super Shuttle back home and unfortunately, the people that got out of the van just before us, accidentally took one of our bags. Fortunately, they called and I remembered where they lived, so we exchanged bags. Not only that, I got to eat at the restaurant that I wanted to because it was the closest. Literally, a block away.

The Missus and Procrastinator Jr. went to the school picnic today, I slept through and I’m trying to adjust my clock back to graveyard, Pacific Standard Time. The bums, the drunk UCSF students and people speeding through my neighborhood have been kind enough to make all kinds of noise, at all hours of the day. “Be it ever so humble,” right?

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