The Blue Box of Happiness

I’ve been working 12-15 hour days for 2 weeks. I haven’t had a day off in a month, unless you count a trip to Montana to visit the family a vacation. Which I don’t: my parents get up at 5 am Mountain Time, which is 4 am for my internal clock. After 3 days I was worn out. Anyway, I’m a little fuzzy. And little loopy. Everyone recharges in a different way, and I recharge by sitting alone and doing nothing for a hour or two. Days and days of nothing but working and sleeping leave me messy and a little weird. But bear with me: a couple of minor, blog-worthy tidbits have come up, so I promised myself and Matty that I would write them down.

First, and foremost, is the untimely death last night of Hunter S. Thompson. He shot himself at his Colorado ranch, apparently on purpose. He famously liked guns, alcohol, and drugs, which can be a bad combination but overall seemed to serve him well. Thompson wasn’t Shakespeare, but he was odd and funny, and definitely had an impact on journalism in the US. In his last column, he described how he called Bill Murray at 3 am to pitch the game of “shotgun golf” that he’d developed with the help of his friend, the sheriff. He called his shotgun an “alley sweeper.” He offered to get Murray in on the ground floor, presumably with some sort of Carl Spackler tie-in (you know, Caddyshack). Thompson made me look sensible and temperate. He will be sorely missed.

For Christmas, I got Carlos a little trinket at Tiffany. Unfortunately, over the weekend he broke it (it was user error, not poor craftsmanship). I stopped by the downtown Tiffany today to get it fixed, and they just gave me a new one. I've always considered Tiffany to be over-priced and over-hyped, a “you’re paying for the name and the blue box” sort of thing. But I’ve got to say that I’m impressed that they didn’t even quibble. The nice young man (even the staff at Tiffany is new and extremely pretty), just said “we’ll get you another one, sir” and then told me the replacement was complimentary. It made my day.

Matty and I were talking this morning, and he told me that Mackenzie wants to get a tattoo. Of a bluebird. It’s a bit unexpected; generally tall, blond 20-something Abercrombie types want to get some kind of tribal thing tattooed somewhere. Matty’s question, naturally, was what is the significance of the bluebird? “It’s the bluebird of happiness,” Mack replied. Well then. I told Matty he should get the Red Bird of Rage, but he insists he wants the Raven of Justice. Personally, I think we all should get the Cuckoo of Unhinged Queens and be done with it.

On a related note, Matty and I decided that if Mack and his (str8) twin brother ever want to, we’re more than happy to take them and get them thoroughly tattooed and pierced. And then strip them to their underwear, put dog collars on them and take them to get drunk at the Eagle. That’s what we did for JPK, and a good time was had by all. True story, and for 6 months afterward the bartenders bought my drinks every time I walked into the place. If that’s what I got for JPK, the twins should be good for free drinks for at least a year.