Is anyone else still trying to catch up on sleep from last weekend? I sure am. And my fatigue has prevented me from formulating any cohesive thoughts except this one:
I want to own a platypus so badly that it hurts.

Part bird, part reptile, part mammal? With venomous spurs on its back legs? If anyone is looking for ideas on what to buy me for Christmas, look no further. That’s all I have to say. I hope to have other more important thoughts next week.

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The Day Before…

…is mostly a blur because my trip got off to a rough start due to an unwelcome cold that on Friday turned into what felt like an icicle being stabbed in my left eye for 15 hours straight. Mercifully, a good night’s sleep and lots of what I now affectionately call Italian Tylenol (“Hey! It’s red, white and green!”) helped me pull it together in time for TequilaCon.

The Morning Of…

… was when I tried to fit in at least a few essential sightseeing activities since it’s been over a decade since I’ve been to Philadelphia. My friends Natasha, Farnsworth and Dee-Dee decided join me in Philly, so we all started off the day with a trip to the Reading Market.

I was so sad that I jumped at the first food opportunity and filled my belly with a stupid (albeit tasty) almond polenta cake because I would find out minutes later that mere steps away stood the Amish lunch counter where they served HOMEMADE CHICKEN POT PIES and APPLE DUMPLINGS. I didn’t even know apple dumplings were real – I thought it was just the name of the gang. Once again, the Amish get everything right.

Next we got our history on by checking out the Liberty Bell. A Japanese tourist in front of me was confused and disappointed to learn that he couldn’t bring a knife with a 5” blade into the building, nor could he throw it outside for the kids to play with. “Whatever happened to the right to bear arms?” is what I almost said, but I was being strip searched at the time.

After I took Dee-Dee’s picture in back of the bell, because no one could get past the droves of tourists in front of the bell (apparently, if you can’t see the crack, it’s just like any other bell), we headed over to Philosopher’s Hall, which is what I like to call the Poor Man’s Independence Hall, mostly because it’s the only option for those of us who didn’t plan ahead and get tickets for Independence Hall.

The Evening Of…

… actually began in the late afternoon. Vahid, Dustin, Dave and I all arrived at the Northbowl Lounge and Lanes around 3:30pm to stake our claim on some seats to prepare for the actual event. If you could have videotaped me walking up the steps to the upstairs lounge, you would have seen a 10-year old child who just got a Wii for Christmas.

I flipped my wig, seriously. I think this is a direct quote, “Ohmigod you guys! Ohmigod! I’m freaking out! This is so perfect! There’s no one here! Ohmigod! Look – they have Family Guy! Ohmigod it’s Ms. Pacman! You guys this is so awesome! I am so happy! I can’t even tell you how happy I am! Ohmigod it’s a Spiderman pinball! Oh wait I don’t think I’ve ever played Spiderman pinball so I don’t know if I should be excited about that one but anyway! Ohmigod you guys! Everyone is going to love this! Ohmigod! I’m so happy!”

The guys kindly humored me as I bounced around like a total freak for another 15 minutes or so, and then they ordered some food. When the menu came, it was Dustin’s turn: “Ohmigod you guys ohmigod! You didn’t tell me they had seven kinds of tater tots here! Ohmigod I’m so happy! Seven kinds – are you kidding me? I’m so happy right now!”

But really, the space was just perfect. Huge, open seating areas with comfy leather couches, three pool tables, video games, pinball machines, a separate bar, and not a soul up there. Oh, except for a bunch of 13-year old girls having a birthday party. We kept giving them the stink eye every time they even thought about sitting down on one of “our” couches.

The only thing that could have made it better for me is if my TequilaCon co-founder and personal life coach – Brandon – could have been there. I did the next best thing, though, and ensured that he would appear in more photos and in more compromising positions than he ever would have accomplished in real life. He was everywhere… watching over us all, popping up in the unlikeliest of places.

Dave set up the awesome swag table with his lanyards and buttons, and I set out the official TequilaProm mix CD’s. I was in charge of dance hits, while Brandon sent us his love from afar by compiling the greatest assortment of 80’s love ballads ever known to man.
Lisa and her husband, Dude, were the first to arrive and I was so excited not only to meet them, but to have some more bodies to keep the teenyboppers away from our couches. Shortly thereafter, more and more bloggers started to wander in, including my friends Seamus and Dr. Greene who had just arrived from DC.

I can’t even begin to sum up all that occurred that night, but it involved a ton of:
o Laughing
o Pinballing
o Tater totting
o Brandoning
o Mustaching
o Foosballing
o Dancing
o Tattooing
o Singing
o Voicemailing
o And a little bit of drinking

It was absolutely everything I had hoped for and more – but why did they have to close at 2am? There were so many people I didn’t get to spend enough time with!

The Day After…

… was my last chance to spend a little more time with everyone before they headed off to their respective homes, as well as my final opportunity to see more of Philadelphia. Everyone had raved to me about the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum, so Dee-Dee, Dustin, Vahid, Dave and I went there after breakfast.

My planning skills were clearly burnt out, because it never even occurred to me that we might have trouble getting tickets to THE MOST POPULAR ART EXHIBIT IN THE CITY at noon on a Sunday during its final two weeks. The earliest they could fit us in was four hours later, so we had to take a pass on Frida because she hates bloggers. She always has.

Instead, we just wandered around the art museum and looked at paintings of baby Jesuses and dead pheasants and transgendered Little Lord Fauntleroys. At one point, as we made our way through the contemporary art section, I transformed into a pre-pubescent boy and made myself cry laughing by pointing at abstract portraits and telling Vahid and Dustin, “That’s your girlfriend!”

I probably will not be asked back to the Philadelphia Art Museum.

No trip to Philadelphia would be complete, of course, without the obligatory photo in front of the statue of the founder of Pennsylvania, Rocky Balboa.

Some other stuff happened, like when Dee-Dee met some women in a public restroom who confessed that Steak Escape is way better than Geno’s cheese steaks, but I think we’re all pretty tired by now.

So in conclusion:
1. Bloggers = awesome
2. Philadelphia = awesome
3. Tequilacon = awesome
4. Rocky = awesome
5. That painting = Dustin and Vahid’s girlfriend

A million thanks to everyone who attended and made this such a fun-filled event, and a Brazilian thanks to Dave, Dustin, Vahid, Brandon and the extended Pacific Northwest planning committee who helped make this a total success! Until next year…

31 Comments; | Filed under: TequilaCon

Hey, just so you know? Here’s who you don’t want to see when you drag your unshowered post-TequilaCon body off a plane and shuffle through through baggage claim with witch hair while wearing dirty jeans and a bunch of temporary tattoos that are half rubbed off: one of your company’s vice presidents, especially when you’ll be spending the next three days in meetings with him.

That’s who.

I need to go get some lunch before I can write my real TequilaCon post. Now where can I get a good cheese steak in this two-bit town?

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There’s so much to say about TequilaCon, but all I can say right now is.
Oh.
My.
Head.
Except this time, I earned every bit of my headache. It was so worth it! Details when I get home…

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I was feeling really down earlier this week. Things weren’t going my way. In fact, I’m home sick today, trying desperately to stop the pounding in my left eye and get at least half a nostril to work. But then I dragged myself to the grocery store for some Cran-Grape juice and I saw something that changed my outlook, possibly forever.
As I was choosing between chocolate and tapioca pudding Snak-paks (I ultimately got both), I looked over and saw a man standing by the milk. At first, he looked like any other man – a regular Joe – but then I noticed something on his head. He was mostly bald, and had his head shaven like all the hip guys do, but along the top of his head he had grown the tiniest of blonde faux-hawks. It was no more than three hairs wide.
I initially thought, “Who in their right mind would try to grow a faux-hawk with only three hairs?” but then I realized what a triumphant tale this really was. Here was this man who had barely any hair on his head, but he said to himself, “I want a faux-hawk, and dammit, I’ll have a faux-hawk.”
And so he did.
I guess what it made me realize is that it doesn’t matter if you only have three hairs on your head or one-half of one functioning nostril, life is what you make of it. So I’m just going to pull myself up by the boot straps, keep sucking on these ginger-ale flavored Vitamin C drops, and start packing my bags, because tomorrow I’m going to TequilaCon. I’m not going to be at my best and brightest, but fortunately, there will be another 50 people there to keep the party going.
I’ll try to post some highlights along the way… but will save all the juicy details for when I return. Be good while I’m gone, and keep rockin’ it 3-hairs wide!

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It’s almost May.
And it’s 35 degrees out.
And it’s raining.
And I’m freezing.
And I didn’t listen to the weather this morning so I only had a light coat.
And I’m wet.
And I just caught a rotten cold yesterday.
And I’m probably still going to be sick for TequilaCon.
And I had to cancel fun dinner plans because I feel crappy.
And my camera is messed up.
And I don’t have any time to get it fixed before my next photo class.
And all my photos for my assignment have a giant black blob on the bottom.
And it’s not the lens.
And I missed my earlier train.
And I don’t have any food in my house.
And I don’t want to go to the grocery store.
And oh look, it’s cat puke.
And this gum lost its flavor at least twenty minutes ago.
And I wish someone would just make me some matzo ball soup.
I feel a little better now that I got that out. Feel free to add any annoyances of your own.

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As I looked for a seat on the train this morning, the grey-bearded man seemed overly put out when I asked if he could move his Chicago Tribune so I could sit down. He held his arms wide as he continued to read the sports section, to prove a point, clearly.
His phone rang. It was the theme song from Caddyshack.

I’m alright
Nobody worry ’bout me
Why you got to gimme a fight?
Can’t you just let it be?
I liked him even less.
I’m alright
Nobody worry ‘bout…
“Hello?”
“No, this is his brother.”
“No, he’s not here.”
“No, he doesn’t have any other phones.”
“No, you can’t reach him anywhere. He’s really difficult to get a hold of because he’s in the witness protection program.”
“The witness protection program. With the FBI.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
So I began to wonder if a) this man had just revealed to a stranger that his brother was in the witness protection program, or b) this man had just discovered the best way to end telemarketing calls ever.
But then he proceeded to belch after each sip of his coffee for the remaining five minutes of my ride, and the witness protection program started to sound like paradise.

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In my tireless pursuit of becoming interesting, I decided to begin taking a photography class last week. Our first assignment is to take between 40-50 pictures of essentially anything, as long as we’re using the correct exposure.
My next class is this Thursday, and so far, I have about 100 pictures of bricks, bricks, alley, bulldozer in alley, bricks, door, cocktails, train tracks, bricks, another door, some more bricks, rusty fence, pine cone, pine tree, stick, grass, broken pine cone, clump of sap, bricks and bricks. When I whittle that down to just 50, it’s going to be the most interesting collection of brick photos this instructor has ever seen.
In my tireless pursuit of becoming drunk, my friend Natasha and I decided to begin taking wine tasting classes last week as well. I found that even in wine tasting, I still want to be the best student. After our first sip, the instructor asked us what we tasted.
I swished and swirled and smacked my tongue and said, “I get a definite pear taste, followed by a citrus finish.”
She kind of nodded patronizingly and said, “Okay, so what else?”
Then Nat chimes in with, “I don’t know… it tastes kind of herby to me.”
The teacher flashed her a huge smile and said, “Excellent! There is a delicate basil undertone in this one! Very good!”
I was like, Herby? That’s not even a word.
Then we moved on to reds and I tried to redeem myself by calling out the strong blackberry in the Sangiovese we were drinking, but before I could swallow, Natasha yelled, “It tastes like dinner!”
The teacher just about jumped over the table to congratulate Nat on her sophisticated palate, because apparently there was something meaty and spicy in this wine that few people can pick up on.
Clearly, I was not meant to be the Wine Tasting 101 teacher’s pet. My only saving grace was that the teacher had to keep yelling at Nat for holding the glass by the bowl. If you could meld Natasha’s keen sense of taste with my unparalleled ability to hold a glass by the stem, you would have the most unstoppable oenophile this country has ever seen.
Nat says we should take master sommelier classes. I’m not so sure she’s wrong. Think of all the amazing photos I could take – wine bottle, cork, cork, corkscrew, wine glass, bigger wine glass, cork, table, white wine glass, cork and cork.

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So… this slogan seemed frighteningly apt given my recent entries. Is the random slogan generator reading my blog?

Your Slogan Should Be

Jenny. First Man, then Machine

So what’s your slogan?
(Stolen from Michelle.)

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What would you do if you were trapped in an elevator for 41 hours? I can tell you I wouldn’t have been nearly as calm as this guy. At about hour four, the security cameras would have seen me sobbing uncontrollably in a tiny ball in the corner, right before I started slamming my head into the wall to end it all. Plus I would have peed a lot. Didn’t he have to go to the bathroom?

[via Neatorama]

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