You Make Your Own Fun

We were staying at converted condos in Tucson (not the awesome Tucson Inn, above) -- as it turns out, a fella, "Steve" had purchased a few condos in a complex in the foothills of the mountains and used them as long term resort-style residences for tourists. Upon arrival we were greeted with a colorful blue binder with cheerful hints and tips to survive in the desert. Among these hints were instructions for avoiding Cougars, staying hydrated, and the location of the nearby German Pancake Haus (pas the McDonald's with the dinosaur). We were also given instructions for checkout; put in a load of laundry (linens or towels), take out the trash, and to sign the guestbook.

I nominated myself to sign the guestbook, a plan that left the others concerned.

Were their concerns founded in reality? You be the judge.

Dear "Steve,"

Thank you so much for the lovely apartment and facilities. Our "Hot Girls" party went off without a hitch. Although we did cause some slight damage to the walls, we repaired them to the best of our (unlicensed. Don't tell!) ability. We ARE confident, however, that no structure-bearing elements were affected. We had a fine time in Tucson, although we were unable to avoid any cougars. Call it part of the job!

Don't worry about the

Love,

Richard Gin

Sometimes Things Really ARE Too Good To Be True

Apparently the No-Tel Motel is like this. The link leads to the Tucson Weekly.

Forgetful Richard Needs One (1) Laptop

I had something profound (or perhaps comical) to say about my time in Tucson, AZ this past week and for the life of me I can't remember what it was. Of course, in the Time Before Weblogs it was common place to keep a written journal or diary to hold valuable musings and errata and to keep track of ones thoughts. Why the fuck should I do that?

Anyway I DID learn -- or re-learn, as the case may be -- that I am a horrible golfer and not even the broad, clear fairways of the Dorado Public Golf Course could keep me from slicing off into the sage thicket. The rabbits and stone-grey doves feeding in the twilight didn't even flinch when my balls went whiz-skipping by their ears and wings and more often than not the thick rough had little to fear from my desperate hackings. I did manage to hit the pin from about 15 yards off a well-placed chip which I took as a sign that all was not lost.

The sore loser in me says that golf is a stupid, stupid game made up by lazy Scottish peasants and summarily co-opted by the rich British Aristocracy. The good sport in me says that even a shitty golf course like the Dorado (see the sign above for visual evidence of this bold claim) can be magical and great fun as the sun goes down.

I Call Bullshit

I call bullshit here,

And here,

(Above, dated August 2, 2007)

And I claim by 5 dollars.

(Above, dated May 1, 2007)