Some parts of the following account may not be appropriate for small children, or those with any aesthetic sense whatsoever for the written word. Consider yourself warned.
Parts of it are so obscene that the actual actions will be replaced with much cleaner ones so as not to offend any younger readers. My general feeling, not to put anyone off, is that adults who are easily offended can go fornicate themselves.
Hang on. I should have said above, “can prepare their own federal taxes” as that is the phrase I have chosen for the sake of cleanliness. My bad.
Well, anyway, this weekend I participated in a track racing training class over the course of two beautiful spring afternoons. A pilot friend of mine was there with another buddy of his whom I had not met previously. They also sought their track certifications.
After the races that comprised the end of the day Sunday, we all gathered our crap and headed for our cars. There I found my friends loading their bikes into my pilot friend’s car, a flight bag with pilot’s cap laid atop it conspicuously placed nearby for all to see. After all, your chief concern as a pilot is letting everyone know you’re a pilot. It’s only by coincidence that this occasionally requires you to fly a plane somewhere.
These gentlemen related the following story to me.
It seems that the previous afternoon they were at one of their condos, whose windowed wall faces a hotel across the street. A girlfriend screamed in the rear of the house, and then ran into the kitchen to find my friends. She told them to look outside.
Across the way they saw a naked man at the window of his hotel room aggressively preparing his tax return and staring at them. They related that there could be no doubt that he knew that the details of his personal return were on display for all to see, as well as his method of filing.
He had a certain wide-legged stance, like a sprinter stretching before a run… or so I am told.
They called the hotel and the situation seemed to dissolve. There was general laughing about the whole matter, and it was generally assumed that the tax preparer across the way had been put into a financially responsible mood by the sight of the girlfriend, or at least the idea that she might be seeing his finances.
Later, the pilot was on the deck of said condo enjoying a cigarette — or, for the sack of non-offensiveness for those former smokers among us, sniffing a delicate rose — when he noticed the tax preparer on his balcony across the way peering aggressively at him. The pilot stared back. After a while nothing came of it, and my friends and the girlfriend all went out and enjoyed an evening together.
The next morning, they awoke to bright sunshine and, again, the screams of a girlfriend. They all rushed to the window to find the man across the way having his taxes thoroughly inspected by a second gentleman in broad daylight on his hotel room balcony. So thorough was this group attempt at tax preparation that the new gentleman was on his knees, and his head was being urged forward by the first gentleman’s hands.
The general consensus based on this new display was that it was, in fact, my pilot friend who was so financially remarkable.
No matter who helps you with your personal finances, let’s remember that they are personal details. You might wish to share them, but not everyone necessarily wants to see!
Smooth Operator
Last night I did one of those really groovy maneuvers where I fell asleep watching a television program and then slept right through until 3AM, whereupon I woke up to find that I missed hanging out with some friends who were in town. I’m sad that I missed my friends, but at least this might put me back in the good graces of the Hermit League.
Reclusive and abusive, Paul heads up the Hermit League
Only yesterday, a carrier pigeon delivered a note scrawled on a piece of bark that read “We’re onto you, Hodgson”. I assume it was from the Hermit League, as pigeons have horrible handwriting and can’t even manage a scrawl.
Now I feel I have to explain to my friends why I didn’t hang out with them. They all know that I relish my time alone the way an alcoholic relishes a free six pack, or the way a relishaolic really relishes relish, so it’s going to be a bit of a tough sell to explain that I didn’t just lurk at home for the sake of a good lurk.
In this situation, a lesser man might be tempted to resort to subterfuge. He might tell what’s known as a white lie. For those not familiar with white lies, that’s when you lie to someone, then lie to yourself about why you lied. The second one makes the first one okay, kind of like sleeping with a one night stand a second time a few weeks later to make it seem like you are legitimately dating, not just getting sluttier when you drink.
But no, I have a policy against lies. They’re for amateurs.
For more on this topic, I recommend stripping down to a martini and a pair of satin boxer shorts, slicking your hair back, and dancing around your home to Sade’s “Smooth Operator“. Be sure to do the kind of dancing that involves a lot of shoulder movements. Trust me.
I did get outside a little bit yesterday, first to go to the cyclist training cave before dawn and second to clean my mountain bike. Upstairs Cutie, my neighbor, came outside while I was scrubbing said mountain bike and grumbling because the car wash place declined to let me use their pressure washer (jerks).
She stopped on the walk on her way past to ask if I were about to go for a ride, asking in a tone that suggested that I was standing next to a snarling puma with a saddle in my hands. I said I was just cleaning it this time, and even offered to let her help detail my bike, but she declined. Little did she know I was about to use my new can of spray lubricant.
Some people just don’t know how much fun bikes can be, I guess. Oh well!