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August 28, 2017

Return to UCLA

The alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m. and I don't even know what planet I'm on. I refill the cats' water fountain and their food silo, and head for the airport on the KTM.

I have both motorcycle keys on the same key chain, and I have to study the keys at length to get the right one in the ignition.

It's cold in the August morning air, and I zip up all of the zippers on my riding gear as I'm rolling out of the foothills down towards Denver.

Now, I go to the short term parking, instead of Canopy Parking. I'm trying something different this week. Trying to cut down on my parking costs in Colorado.

I get on the plane and we push back and I'm asleep before we even fly over my house. I wake up somewhere over Nevada. We land at LAX and I go outside. My bike is right where I left it. I'm getting used to leaving it at LAX now. Normally, it's at Ontario, but for now, I'm keeping it at LAX.

Hop on the bike and, program my GPS to go to 308 Westwood Plaza, Ackerman Student Union at UCLA. Only this time, as I'm leaving the airport, I finally grasp where I am. I recognize all of the roads now, for the first time.

Now, I'm rolling north on I-405, lane-splitting. The front end has a dangerous wobble, and I'm not clear why. Maybe my front tire is low. Maybe the steering head bearings are loose? I'm not clear.

I park at UCLA, and get into the office at 10:00 a.m. So, it takes me roughly 6 hours to get here from my house. Brilliant.

They don't bring us breakfast today...I think that they never do on Monday. They never bring us lunch, either. So, we only get breakfast, and we only get it 3 days a week (Tues, Wed, Thr). Great.

All of the management disappears into a cloud of conspiracy. Our project was in the news last week, and they're meeting to discuss the project, I'm sure.

At 3:11 p.m., people start talking about where we'll go for dinner. "No...you have to have reservations to eat at the hotel" someone consoles another consultant. And so it goes.

The little man comes in and starts conspicuously cleaning our conference room. Like, it's time for you people to get the fuck out of here. Can you not take a hint???

Mondays are always the hardest. Like, at 5:00, you feel like you've been run over by a train. I've been awake for 13 hours and my life seems like a disconnected series of poor decisions and weak impulse control.

"Where do we go for dinner, John?" I ask him. Like...don't think you flew in from Jacksonville, Florida and are going to skip out on dinner with the clicque.

"Why don't we go to Westwood Village...there's some good places there. We can walk there..." he offers.

"OK. Deal."

So, we walk down to the Fox Theatre at Westwood Village, and we decide to eat at California Pizza Kitchen, so I can have my BBQ Chicken Pizza.

Ben joins us, so it's Me, John, Sapna, and Ben. The four of us sitting there eating pizza.

But Ben is one of those people that just calls you out on everything you ever say. Like...if I had a chance to murder that motherfucker and get away with it, I'm pretty sure that I'd do it.

It starts out with me saying that "When they built Terminal D at DFW airport, they spent a billion dollars on that terminal."

"No way. That's bullshit. THat's not right," the dickhole replies. "No way it would cost that much.".

Like...OK...faggot..you're right...it didn't cost $1 billion. It cost $1.7 billion, and it opened in July of 2005. http://www.corgan.com/story/dfw-terminal-largest-design-project/

So, you're dead wrong on that point. And, then, what does he say? "Oh...my bad...I was wrong?" Nope. He doesn't say shit. If you're going to call me out, how about you say, "Oh...I guess I'm a fucking idiot for calling you a liar when a) you were right and b) I'm a fucking idiot."

So, the night just goes like this. With him calling me out, and me proving him wrong. Just like playing tennis with a quadraplegic.

Then, I mention something that happened to me today on the plane.

I carry all of my luggage onto the plane (it isn't much), and I always put it underneath my legs, and hide it with my motorcycle jacket. So, the long and the short of it is, that I'm not adding any luggage into the overhead bins, which is what the flying waitresses are most concerned about. The only thing that I ever put in the overhead bin is my motorcycle helmet. And, I've noticed before, that people tend to feel comfortable moving my helmet if it suits them. This drives me absolutely bonkers.

Like...just because I dont' stick a huge oversized suitcase into the overhead bin doesn't mean that you can move my helmet wherever it suits you. I'm the highest level frequent flyer there is at this airline (A-List Preferred). I fly ever week. And how about you keep your fat little hands off of my helmet. Don't tucking touch it. I honestly don't know why they think that they can put their grubby hands on my property and move it around.

So, I'm sitting there in seat 2A, as always, and I look up, and the fucking flying waitress has my helmet in her fat little hands and she's acting like she's going to go bowling with it and I'm like..."Oh no you didn't. I didn't ask you to touch my helmet. Put it back where you found it. I was here first. I'm A-List Preferred. Don't touch my helmet Put it back."

And she says, "Well, I've got two international bags from a connecting flight..." she starts into this diatribe, like I give a fuck.

"I don't care!" I tell her flatly. "Put my helmet back where you found it. I was here first. I'm A-List Preferred. Don't touch my motorcycle helmet."

"Do you have anything else in the overhead bin," the flying pig wants to know. As if that mattered.

"No. I do not. The only thing I have in the overhead bins is that helmet. And put it back where you got it from."

She said something smartass like "great" or "super" or "thanks", or something like that. Something that some cow making $40K a year would say when they just realized they they accidentally dove head first into the shallow end of the pool.

Like...Mother Fucking I don't need you people putting your filthy mitts all over my things. So what if someone is on a connecting flight from another country. What difference does that make? So you're going to take my motorcycle helmet off of the plane. Fuck you. Fuck their suitacases. Stick them in the belly of the plane and get your fucking hands off of my helmet.

So, finally, the flying waitress returns my helmet to when she found it, and leaves it alone. Lord how I hate a flying waitress. I think if there is a heaven, it will be me on a skeet range going "pul!" and having a flying waitress come flying through the sky and I cut her in half with a 12 gauge.

So, Ben is all over this also. Pointing out that I'm a jackass for wanting to keep my helmet in the overhead bin. I think that I'm not going out with him any more. It's too stressful. Like, who needs that?

After dinner, we walk across the street to Diddy Riese, a place that sells ice cream sandwiches....like....you pick the cookies, the ice cream, they sandwich two cookies around a slab of ice cream, and hand it to you, for the grand total of $2.00. Now, keep in mind that this is in Westwood Village. I have no idea how they do this and make a profit, but this place is decadent. I'm eating an ice cream sandwich here every night until I die.

After dinner, and ice cream sandwich dessert, then I ride my KTM back to the place where I'm staying at 1532 S. Crest Drive. The neighbors are all in the front yard drinking beers. I pull up and they immediately invite me over, and now we're drinking beers in Westwood/Beverly Hills, having a grand old time.

This is the nice thing about doing an Air BnB. You can get to know the people and build some friendships, instead of just going to crash alone in a hotel at night.

Apparently, their parents were riding tandem on a bicycle, and got hit at an intersection and were injured pretty badly, but are expected to make a full recovery. So, I'm praying for them.

I file a complaint with SouthWest and ask for their fat-pig flying waitress air-hogs to not touch my motorcycle helmet ever again. They say that I should get an email from them in 24 hours. Sure. I'm sure that that will happen.

And now, I go to sleep for a few hours, after a long and crazy day.

Posted by Rob Kiser on August 28, 2017 at 6:28 PM

Comments

It's genetic. I am in multiple texting with Vanguard over their inability to provide appropriate links for me to accomplish simple DIY tasks on their site. They notify me in Bright Yellow that I am about to exceed my RMD , but do not provide any way to correct or adjust this. A situation which they deny exists. They apparently think I'm the usual idiot user. Then they provide two phone numbers which they brag are open 8 am to 10 PM, but when called at 8:15 pm, the Bot Tree informs that the hours are 8-8. when this is brought to the attention of said Vanguard texter, she repeats the same wrong information. Customer service is non existent when the Farmer thinks the cows are stupid.

Posted by: Another Irritated Consumer on August 29, 2017 at 2:19 PM

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