Enjoy the ride

If you only had seven days to live, what would you be doing right now? No really, I'm asking.

We're one week away from having the most mentally, intellectually, temperamentally, morally and experientially unqualified person inaugurated as President of the United States.

As you know, besides the big plane, freeway closings, a 24/7 kitchen and great seats at the Kennedy Center (well, maybe not this time), one of the perks of the job is he's the keeper of the nuclear codes, and can launch those suckers anytime he wants at anyone he wants completely unchecked.

He doesn't need congressional approval.

Doesn't have to consult with anyone.

He doesn't even need a witness in the room when he turns the key, or presses the button, or puts his hand on the scanner, or pulls the string or whatever the fuck he does to make it happen.

What could possibly go wrong?

Put the codes together with a thin-skinned, temperamental, vengeful, eighth-grade bully like the one we somehow find ourselves with, and soon every day is going to feel like the fourth of July. Or at least the last one will.

Just want to remind everyone, especially the people who voted for him, that your candidate is someone who's asked several times why, if we have nuclear weapons, can't we use them. It was explained to him each time he asked, but he still kept asking.

I'm not a scientist, but I know for a fact all the people who put on their "I'm with stupid" t-shirts, shitkicker shoes and hopped in their pickups to drive to the polling place and vote for him will vaporize just as quickly as the rest of us.

Maybe faster if you take the moonshine into consideration.

But don't let any of that worry you. In fact, let me give you the same advice about the incoming administration I'd give you about the Matterhorn at Disneyland.

Enjoy the ride. It won't last long.

Blowin' in the wind

There are some experiences in life you reflect back on fondly, through the flattering haze of nostalgia, wishing you could go back and re-live them. Then there are those other experiences, like my high school girlfriend, that you'd never go through again even if someone paid you a million dollars in 1962 money.

For me, the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway is one of the second ones.

I'd actually managed to forget I ever went on what I like to call the Tram O'Terror until this afternoon, when I was enjoying a brief respite and chocolate donut with my good friend Lori, who I'm working with at my current gig. I asked her if she had any big plans for the weekend, and she told me she was going to be in Palm Springs.

That's when it all came rushing back.

Years ago, in a galaxy far, far away before I even knew my wife, I used to go out with a girl named Anne Siegel (not my high school girlfriend). Her parents owned a condo in Palm Springs, and every few weekends we'd hop in her brown Camaro, head out there and enjoy the weather, the restaurants and the pool.

On one of our visits, we decided to ride the Tram O'Terror.

Here's something you should know about me: I'm not afraid of heights. I like flying, tall buildings and standing on top of hills looking down at the city. I took helicopter lessons for awhile, although I never flew enough hours to get my license. Altitude doesn't phase me.

What does phase me is riding in a little death cart hanging by a thread, while traveling 8500 feet up a ridiculously steep hill, swinging in the breeze all the way up.

I don't remember how long the ride actually was, but it seemed like an eternity. It was also thirty-five degrees cooler at the top than at the desert floor where we started (fortunately at the top there was a gift shop selling souvenir sweatshirts - what're the odds).

I know I took the tram back down, but I don't actually remember that either. I might've been passed out, hyperventilating too much or honing my spot on impression of a little girl screaming to really pay much attention.

At any rate I'm pretty sure that somehow, someway, that tram trip and the raw, crippling fear it sent coursing through me had something to do with the fact that now there are only two mountains I'm comfortable riding all the way to the top of.

Space Mountain and the Matterhorn.