Fenway, Ranching, and Following Garbage Trucks.

Try and top that title, eh? Yeah, I think not.

So my adventure begins after my last posting, at which time I had just come back from Nashville (home of the greatest thinkers in the history of mankind. Einstein actually relocated there secretly. It's science). Just after coming home, I hopped on a flight out to Boston to play for the Red Sox. They needed some pitching and batting help, so they called me up. Yeah, I play. You didn't know that? I'm totally Major League caliber. I just don't do it regularly because I can't shoot people playing baseball. If they would just change that one rule...

But seriously, I actually only saw Fenway Park as we drove by it on the highway while heading out to the country for a relaxing visit with friends, co-workers, and the guy who actually pays me to ride on an airplane and kick illegal aliens out of the country. He basically uses the excuse of his son's birthday to invite all of his friends out for a few days of hanging out at the pool and watching movies on his super-small television (with an uber weak sound system, I might add). A good time was had by all, and surprisingly there wasn't a single drunken-adult injury related to either the pool or the "bouncy room." I'm as shocked as anyone. The real capper to the weekend came once everyone else had gone home and I found out that my gracious hosts were treating me to their massage therapist who comes once a week (and who was also at the party, jumping off the roof and hanging from the chandelier while claiming "godlike powers" which, to be honest, I found a little excessive). All that aside, she enabled me to be able to move my neck more than I have in about three months, forever putting her in my good graces (and maybe the part about her at the party is slightly exaggerated. A little).

After coming home from Boston (much, much later than scheduled -- thank you, Jet Blue!), it was off to Pueblo, CO. to visit a very close friend and do some ranchin'. That's right, I'm a rancher. You want horses trained? Call me. You want pigs fed and watered? Call me. You want bloodhounds taught how to track down bad guys? Call me. You want dog poop cleaned out of your yard? Don't call me, call the 9-year old who was helping me. He's better at it and it's his chore, not mine, ok?!?

The funny part is, I actually had a really good time. I've never been a huge animal person, but I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Pretty soon I think I'll be wearing nothing but Carhartts and ropers. Probably get into dipping tobacco, too. I can see that being a cool habit to pick up at the age of 34.

On my way back from Pueblo, I received a phone call from one of my former instructors saying that if I can fly myself out to Oakland, he can put me to work for a week or so. Are you kidding? Oakland? You mean the Paris of the West Coast? What Gucci is to clothing, Oakland is to culture; what Ferrari is to cars, Oakland is to serenity. So naturally I couldn't turn that opportunity down.

The real joy of it is in what I'm doing: The garbage truck drivers for Waste Management decided to go on strike because, get this, the company instituted a policy that if a driver causes three or more accidents that they would be fired. That's it. There is no dispute over pay, health benefits, etc. No, it's because they think it's "unfair" to be fired for causing accidents. Right. I'll just let that sink in and you can tumble it around in your brain for a while. Anyway, so the "scab" drivers are being harassed and, ergo, private security. Pretty boring work, to be honest, but driving through an angry picket line is nothing but a good time. On the first day I was in a suit and tie, and one lady yelled "nice f''n suit! Where'd you get it, Wal-Mart?!?!" I looked down and realized, why yes, yes I did get it at Wal-Mart. Why the heck would I wear a nice suit to follow a garbage truck? Hey, at least I wasn't wearing a dark blue blazer with black pants, white shirt, black tie, and white socks like my partner that day was. Wow. That was... something.

Currently I am just hanging around the hotel lobby, waiting to go in to work later today and see what kind of fun is going on. Things are pretty mellow, so I'm guessing this won't last real long. Once I'm done, I will share a couple more stories about some of the "high speed" individuals I have encountered. Good times.

Until then, stay off the horse that looks you in the eye and smiles, and don't go out riding in a car with a guy who is claiming to do "tactical maneuvers" because he lost sight of his objective while checking out girls in other cars. He's probably not the most "squared away" guy on the team. Just sayin'.