Friday, May 27, 2005
Thumbs
So I’m in North Carolina but on my way here I had a layover in Washington, DC. The connecting flight never came because of maintenance problems and so we were given free hotel rooms for the night by US Airways. They put me in the Hilton on Connecticut Avenue NW, near my old stomping grounds, and I was content to do this for one night provided that I get on the first flight out the next morning to get to NC. Boy, what a night that turned out to be.
First off, right after I check into the hotel, I’m on the elevator going up to my room on the 8th floor. I’m tired and reading the front page of the Washington Post when none other than Condoleezza Rice gets on. It’s just me and her and I’m trying not to stare but that’s kind of hard because, you know, she is the Secretary of State. She finally notices the paper I’m reading and says something like “Don’t believe the hype,” which is pretty cool because I’m thinking now that Condi listens to Public Enemy and that is cool. So I giggle like a nervous twit and all of a sudden she grasps my arm and my eyes widen and she says to me “come to my room and let’s drink,” and I just start shrieking like a 12-year-old girl. Well, I hit the emergency stop button on the elevator panel and the thing grinds to a halt and I’m still shrieking and Condi (I can call her that; we’re down like that) is covering her face with embarrassment and I’m pacing—well, more like stomping back and forth—across the elevator, shrieking because I can’t believe this is happening.
The elevator starts back up and she gets out at the next floor. I get to my floor and right as I get out of the elevator two Secret Service guys are on my ass. They do not fuck around. It was another two hours before they cleared me and I got into my room.
After all that excitement, I was ready to lay on my comfy bed, turn on the TV, order some room service and maybe call a few friends to tell them what had happened. It all felt so silly. I kicked off my shoes, got on the courtesy phone and ordered a burger.
The room service arrived and it was Burt Reynolds, and boy was he pissed. He wouldn’t give me my burger until I promised to go see his new movie “The Longest Yard.” He just kept holding the burger at bay as I leapt up to try and grab it (motherfucker is tall). I was shouting “GIVE ME THE FUCKING BURGER, REYNOLDS” and that made him angrier. I didn’t even think to ask him why he was dressed as a bellhop and delivering burgers at the Hilton, being a movie star and all that.
Finally he threw the burger out an open window in the hallway and I instinctively screamed “WHY????” It was not the high point of the evening.
The high point was when me and Sandra Bullock were chasing a golden retriever through a Metro tunnel west of the Judiciary Square station. It’s a long story, even more intense than the Condi/Burt Reynolds stuff, but basically there we were, covered in syrup (long story) and chasing the golden retriever and let me tell you—that was the most rambunctious dog I have EVER seen—and the old sheriff was still firing shots at us from way behind. I was scared so I kept trying to hold Sandra’s hand or maybe cop a feel but I was covered in syrup and so I felt it might be a bit offensive or as the French say, Non, Poissant. So I just kept running and worrying a train would come along. We never did get the dog but we went out for some bitchin’ Jalapeno Poppers after we got all cleaned up and worked things out with the old sheriff.
I won’t even go into the whole “Horny Toad” incident with Michael Vick or the “He Fucked Your Daughter? That Guy? Are You Sure It’s That Guy? You’re Sure? Cuz I Don’t Want To Shoot An Innocent Man. Shouldn’t We Just Call The Police? Really? That Guy?” incident with John McCain. By the time I got back to the hotel, I was in bad need of a shower and had 45 minutes to get to the airport to catch my flight.
All went smooth after that. I met my dad at the Raleigh-Durham airport and surprised him with an autographed photo of Judge Reinhold that I got in Times Square a few months ago at a celebrity auction. You see, my dad and Judge were roommates in college, but they both got expelled for trying to hold a Wake N’ Bake Pancake Breakfast on the roof of the Dean Dome. Of course, back then it wasn’t called the Dean Dome, it was called the Michael Jordan, A Black Guy You’ve Never Heard Of, Is Gonna Play At This School One Day And Rock The Fuck Out Of Basketball, Which Is The Sport That We Currently Call Wiggerball, Memorial Arena.
Yeah, thumbs.
So I’m in North Carolina but on my way here I had a layover in Washington, DC. The connecting flight never came because of maintenance problems and so we were given free hotel rooms for the night by US Airways. They put me in the Hilton on Connecticut Avenue NW, near my old stomping grounds, and I was content to do this for one night provided that I get on the first flight out the next morning to get to NC. Boy, what a night that turned out to be.
First off, right after I check into the hotel, I’m on the elevator going up to my room on the 8th floor. I’m tired and reading the front page of the Washington Post when none other than Condoleezza Rice gets on. It’s just me and her and I’m trying not to stare but that’s kind of hard because, you know, she is the Secretary of State. She finally notices the paper I’m reading and says something like “Don’t believe the hype,” which is pretty cool because I’m thinking now that Condi listens to Public Enemy and that is cool. So I giggle like a nervous twit and all of a sudden she grasps my arm and my eyes widen and she says to me “come to my room and let’s drink,” and I just start shrieking like a 12-year-old girl. Well, I hit the emergency stop button on the elevator panel and the thing grinds to a halt and I’m still shrieking and Condi (I can call her that; we’re down like that) is covering her face with embarrassment and I’m pacing—well, more like stomping back and forth—across the elevator, shrieking because I can’t believe this is happening.
The elevator starts back up and she gets out at the next floor. I get to my floor and right as I get out of the elevator two Secret Service guys are on my ass. They do not fuck around. It was another two hours before they cleared me and I got into my room.
After all that excitement, I was ready to lay on my comfy bed, turn on the TV, order some room service and maybe call a few friends to tell them what had happened. It all felt so silly. I kicked off my shoes, got on the courtesy phone and ordered a burger.
The room service arrived and it was Burt Reynolds, and boy was he pissed. He wouldn’t give me my burger until I promised to go see his new movie “The Longest Yard.” He just kept holding the burger at bay as I leapt up to try and grab it (motherfucker is tall). I was shouting “GIVE ME THE FUCKING BURGER, REYNOLDS” and that made him angrier. I didn’t even think to ask him why he was dressed as a bellhop and delivering burgers at the Hilton, being a movie star and all that.
Finally he threw the burger out an open window in the hallway and I instinctively screamed “WHY????” It was not the high point of the evening.
The high point was when me and Sandra Bullock were chasing a golden retriever through a Metro tunnel west of the Judiciary Square station. It’s a long story, even more intense than the Condi/Burt Reynolds stuff, but basically there we were, covered in syrup (long story) and chasing the golden retriever and let me tell you—that was the most rambunctious dog I have EVER seen—and the old sheriff was still firing shots at us from way behind. I was scared so I kept trying to hold Sandra’s hand or maybe cop a feel but I was covered in syrup and so I felt it might be a bit offensive or as the French say, Non, Poissant. So I just kept running and worrying a train would come along. We never did get the dog but we went out for some bitchin’ Jalapeno Poppers after we got all cleaned up and worked things out with the old sheriff.
I won’t even go into the whole “Horny Toad” incident with Michael Vick or the “He Fucked Your Daughter? That Guy? Are You Sure It’s That Guy? You’re Sure? Cuz I Don’t Want To Shoot An Innocent Man. Shouldn’t We Just Call The Police? Really? That Guy?” incident with John McCain. By the time I got back to the hotel, I was in bad need of a shower and had 45 minutes to get to the airport to catch my flight.
All went smooth after that. I met my dad at the Raleigh-Durham airport and surprised him with an autographed photo of Judge Reinhold that I got in Times Square a few months ago at a celebrity auction. You see, my dad and Judge were roommates in college, but they both got expelled for trying to hold a Wake N’ Bake Pancake Breakfast on the roof of the Dean Dome. Of course, back then it wasn’t called the Dean Dome, it was called the Michael Jordan, A Black Guy You’ve Never Heard Of, Is Gonna Play At This School One Day And Rock The Fuck Out Of Basketball, Which Is The Sport That We Currently Call Wiggerball, Memorial Arena.
Yeah, thumbs.
