graceland's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fly Eagles, Fly I've been traveling forever. Just packing, unpacking and repacking the same bag. It's insane. I was in a limo this afternoon, looking out the window and asked what state I was in. I flew with my friends on a private jet to a remote part of an island last weekend. It was completely insane, it was essentially a reenactment of the '86 Mets. I looked over at one point, from my foursome section who were playing blackjack, to see my four friends next to me playing quarters with 20-year old scotch. Several people have no recollection whatsoever of exiting the plane, walking on the tarmack and traveling to our resort. The resort was ridiculous. Five star resort, everything paid for by our friends getting married. I was placed in what became known as the "The Surreal Life" house and I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that I assumed the "mini-me" role the last night there, with my 6'5" protective friend shadowing me all night like Peter Brady to ensure that I stayed out of [too much] trouble as I ran thru the resort from villa to villa, party to party. I got into plenty of trouble. Plenty. My room should have been called the candy room. And there was a swimming pool in my room. That was dubbed "the grotto." Yes, *in* my room, which was also beachfront with a yard and chaises. My best friend was in the room next door, fully beach front with her own pool facing the ocean. Across the living room hall from us was our other good friend, with her own grotto and beach front. The boys were upstairs, with rooftops decks. At one point, I recall wearing a bathrobe over my bathing suit and slipping across the marble living floor, running from one room's pool to the other and the other. I was in my bedroom for an undisclosed reason at one point around 5am and heard my friend next door yell "Marco!" When I got back there were about 7 stripped down people in the plunge pool drunkenly playing marco polo. Oh. And one ex-stripper. And we had several 24-hour bartenders assigned to us. Full bar. Anything we want. I drank Veuve Cliequot for four days. That's about all I can report about this trip in good conscience. Last weekend was the last hurrah. Everyone put their game face on and batted out of the ballpark. I've never seen anything like it. I'll never see anything like it again. You get one of those weekends in your life. It's a buy weekend. The next time it comes around it usually means death. Several people have told me that I'm lucky I didn't die last weekend. I told them, they are right. Anyway, I came back for one day, and left again for work. Another five star resort but little enjoyment. Nonstop work. Back now and debating whether I can pull it together to whirl into Philthy tonight, or hit it tomorrow. This is it, you guys. We're finally in the Superbowl. At the big dance. Like Rocky with a Million to 1 Chance. We HAVE to win. We just have to. But like Dawkins said, "Philly's used to being in the no respect position. We're comfortable with it. And we'll prove ourselves to everyone again." This is it. I don't know how I am going to watch this game. I am freaking out. 2:52 p.m. - 2005-02-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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