So I’m back in beautiful, blessedly cicada-free Virginia at the concrete labyrinth of the National Conference Center. Another week of training to make me a better salesperson in a job I desperately hope to quit in order to pusure my dream of becoming an international playboy. I managed to upgrade to first class en route to Dallas during this little trek across fly-over country. I don’t know if you are familiar with DFW International Airport, the largest airport in America, but they gave me thirtyfive minutes to get from terminal A22 to terminal C32. Let’s just say I’m real glad I keep in shape. I ran it. Backpack on and suitcase in tow. Managed to get there with fifteen minutes to spare, just enough time to spend $14 on a dry green salad and a bagel. This of course made me wonder about that movie “The Terminal.” I haven’t seen the flick yet, but I kinda figure if you were going to live in the airport you would need to clear a good 200 G’s a year just to afford food and the occasional latte grande.

Speaking of latte grande, does it make me a prick if I demand a refund because my $4 iced chai tea tasted like ass? Cause really, I’m totally OK with that.

Regardless, I’m in the DC area. Although I fully expect that my schedule and my luck with the weather on the east coast will prevent me from successfully socializing with any of either my digital or analog friends, if you know me or want to meet me, and if I do get a day to play, let’s get a meal or at least get drunk and moon the white house. I know a certain lady in Oakland has specifically requested pictures of a joint Jimbo make-out session, but despite how flattered I am at the thousands off hits I have received from his site and his approval of what I consider to be too much fur, I can promise that this isn’t going to happen.

Sorry brother.

As my Sunday was spent either unconscious or shaking with barely controlled outrage while reading Krakauer’s excellent albeit terribly disturbing “Under the Banner of Heaven” at roughly 30,000 feet, my weekend was for the most part shot to hell when I had to motor on out to Hemet on Saturday in order to cut the lawn on one of my investment properties. What should have been a sixty minute project turned into a six hour ordeal when I couldn’t for the life of me get the goddam mower to start. I grew up in Tucson, Arizona and have not lived in a house with a lawn since I was nine years old, so I hadn’t actually used a lawnmower for about fifteen years. It was only after literally hundreds of pulls in virtually every combination of prime and throttle and pull, resulting in two bleeding blisters on the fingers of my right hand that I received a call from my partner informing me that I needed to forcefully push the lever that engages the engine with my foot before attempting to start the mower. Just using the hand lever wasn’t enough. Dammit. Where is migrant labor when you need them?

Of course as I was finishing up the back yard I would have to destroy one of my control valves for the sprinkler system, requiring yet another trip to Home Depot and another hour of wasted afternoon.

I can’t bitch too loudly. A day of hard work, if you consider pushing around a lawnmower to be "hard," is remarkably satisfying, especially when you spend most every day dissatisfied with the professional fraud that has become your career. I did manage to get a tan out of the deal and racked up another three hours on the VFR, motoring out there and back via the voluptuous and picturesque Ortega Highway – a trip surprisingly unmolested either by slow-moving SUV’s or predatory CHPs. And I had perhaps the best Mediterranean salad at a little local pizza joint around the corner from my house. It sucks when you can get better Italian food in Hemet than you can in Newport.

On Friday, however, I had dinner with Todd from AZ, and then arrived home to find that three hot women had sent me unsolicited (OK maybe a LITTLE solicited) nude photos, and you know that’s never a bad thing. So I suppose my weekend wasn't a total loss. Sometimes being The Mighty Jimbo (or just an unrepentant internet slut) has its advantages.

Speaking of advantages, with a little good luck and some decent fares from Alaska Airlines, my all-time favorite internet slut will be making a brief pilgrimage to Newport Beach one week from tomorrow.

As I’m out of town all week, that gives me precious little time to hang the swing-set, reinforce the foundation, stock up on Cool Whip and Captain Morgan, install the video cameras, and figure out what the hell I did with that prom dress. And the ball-gag. Remind me to shop for Gatorade and Advil while I’m at it too. I’m probably gonna need it.