Bitch Kitty Racing

Sleep Is for the Weak

Photographer’s Note: please give the photos a click, they do indeed enlarge themselves.

Day 0, Thursday

The airport freeway was a crowded mess of Frankenstein surfaces and lanes. The blaring Xenon construction lights shone through the construction dust, mercilessly exposing every paint flaw in the traffic surrounding me as we milled towards the parking garages and pick up lanes of the airport. I was here to pick up Keith. He had flown in for a photo shoot that I hadn’t the nerve to tell him had never really congealed, never really worked out, fell at a bad time, occurred under a bad sign, whatever.

I was late, but so was the plane. I stood in the seven square feet of waiting area, all that is allowed by the anti-terrorist, jingoistic McCarthyites that have overrun the country, those who seem to have completely missed the fact that while massive inconvenience is certainly preferable to being bombed, it is a kind victory for those we are trying to defeat; we live in fear. We’re Americans, though, and we forget every five minutes what it is we’re supposed to be afraid of, until another byte of video sends shivers down our outraged spines.

Mr. Bingman emerged from the tunnel. Greetings were voiced, the requisite and uncomfortable man-hug exchanged. What is it about the man-hug that is so odd? Even among old friends, it can be a social nightmare. Especially among old friends. With anyone not known for at least twenty years, a handshake conveys all the meaning that is required, but with close friends and long absences, the immediate reaction upon recognition is a bear hug. Alas, anything other than the handshake is simply awkward. It’s not homophobia that ruins the man-hug; it’s the rigid social code of white, middle class, university-educated America.

Always sensitive to necessary niceties, I welcomed my old friend back to the Empire in the warmest way that men can: “Beer?”

“Beer.”

Day 1, Friday

I woke up a bit surprised, perhaps at the slight loss of memory as to the actual events of the evening. One pint had turned into two at the first pub, then there were two more at the bar with the really cute cocktail waitress down the street, then there was this restaurant had no food but did have this weird Italian beer, then there was that place that was doing karaoke so we had only had a quick one before running screaming out into the night, then there was this sidewalk hotdog stand that served cans of domestic lager under the sunny warmth of an overhead heat lamp…

So much for my promise to Keith’s wife to make sure he didn’t drink too much.

Keith’s stupid jet-lagged ass woke up way too fucking early, and so of course I had to get up, too. I got on the IM while the coffee brewed and chatted with Marie, our production manager. Friday means only one thing: Friday Afternoon Happy Hour, the finest of Bitch Kitty traditions. Every Friday afternoon Marie and I find a new place to watch people, be bourgeois, munch on plates petit, and gossip over something deliciously alcoholic between the hours of 5 and 7.

“Where to?” asked Marie onscreen.

“Keith! Wanna do Le Pichet?” I asked.

“Sure. What’s Le Pichet?”

“Fucking tourists!” I chided Keith. I let Marie know and then IMed Kevin.

“Le Pichet 4” It’s all I have to write. Kevin knows what I’m talking about.

“K,” confirmed Kevin.

God, I love the modern world. How the bloody hell did we get anything done when we had to go through all that ridiculous phone voice-to-voice crap?! It’s so much easier these days!

“Well gee, Jim. Sally and I were thinking of having a quick martooni after work today. Would you like to join us?”

“That’d be great, Frank! Where are you two meeting?”

“I’ll ring Sally and call you back.”

“That sounds great, Frank. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“Bye, Jim.”

“Bye, Frank.”

As the kids say, what the fuck? Now call Sally, if she’s even available, then call Frank back. Countless wasted minutes, not seconds, bloodily torn from the bottom line of our company, my company, while merely trying to plan a after hours social function. The older generation always bitches that we waste so much time online, emailing, or IMing. Jesus, Grandpa, we can accomplish more in five minutes than you can all day. Get with the program. The bosses and accountants of the world should allot every worker ten minutes an hour for electronic personal time. Hiding e-time from employers wastes more time than it takes to have it. Trying to prevent e-time wastes more time than it takes to allow it. Why lie anymore? Join the modern world. It’d boost morale and the firm would save millions in the costs accrued in trying to make sure no one gets on MySpace at work.

Bitch Kitty Racing is founded on e-time. Keith and I live ten thousand miles apart. Kevin joined the company at the beginning of this year and has never met Keith in person, yet we have all managed to get along an do what needs to be done. Face time is great for salespeople, but I think it makes everyone else nervous. In brick-and-mortar reality, everyone who wants to see your actual face rather than your avatar wants something from you, like your boss who wants to yell at you in person, or someone you met online who wants to have sex with you. Scary.

Eventually, after the coffee balanced out our hangovers, we wandered down the hill to the Pike Place Market and Le Pichet. After the usual spiel from the hostess about leaving soon to make room for the reservations (they’re not in Paris, but sometimes they do cop the attitude), Keith and I ordered a pichet of Bourgogne Blanc and waited for Kevin and Marie.

By the time Kevin showed up we were well on our way… So it came to pass that the first social meeting of the Bitch Kitty hivemind took place in a pretentious French cafe while high on wine. I love my fledgling company, so much I think I’ll buy another logo t-shirt.

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