Road Warrior Diary IX

10:57 A.M. TETERBORO AIRPORT
Our rag tag band of travelers assemble on the I-Jet awaiting the arrival of our beloved leader. Among us aboard "Gulfstream 4"are the Usual Suspects: Charles, our stalwart standards bearer who is busily hammering out a piece of comedy material for tomorrow morning on his Apple Powerbook; Mark, the Program Director, whose nervousness about the upcoming remote has manifested itself as a series of facial tics that are, even for him, disturbingly intense; Bernard, our producer and ‘the glue’ that holds the show together, (at least that’s what he told me the sticky substance was on his hand), and Larry, man of a thousand voices and official Imus Goodwill Ambassador.

However, this trip, we are also joined by two of the most notorious ‘Empty Suits’ in the radio business. Lee Davis, our General Manager at WFAN, a man whose many qualifications for the position include getting coffee for Soupy Sales, and Joel Hollander, the man who once had Lee’s job, but has since moved up the corporate ladder to the rank of President of Westwood One, the Syndication Conglomerate responsible for the national distribution of such broadcast legends as Tom Leykis. They are kindred spirits, in that they are extremely pleasant to be with, however, never having traveled with ‘The I-Man’ before, they sadly, are under the misconception that this is going to be a ‘Fun’ trip.

The Captain comes back to inform us that Imus is to be 30 minutes late. Apparently, there were a few more people whose lives needed ruining before he could get in the limo and head toward the airport. We settle back in our seats, knowing that these will be among the last few minutes of peace that we will have for the next few days.

11:36 A.M TETERBORO AIRPORT
The sound of squealing tires and random gunfire on the tarmac announce the arrival of the I-Man, and within seconds, he is pistol whipping his limo driver Brant for taking too long as he unloads the seventeen pieces of luggage from the trunk. Apparently, Imus in a better mood than usual, as on the way to New Jersey, they were able to run over a dog. Thankfully, the animal escaped injury. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the guy walking him. The reverie is broken, however, when Imus discovers the man’s white cane sticking out of the front grill of the limo. He fires a few rounds at Brant, ‘Just to teach him a lesson’. The bullets miss the earnest chaueffeur by inches. Wow. He really MUST be in a good mood.

11:47 A.M. TETERBORO AIRPORT
Imus boards the plane, and immediately complains about the temperature. He jerks the thermostat up to a level at which turkeys may be slow roasted, and settles in on the couch for a nap. He asks, rather commands, Ariana, our eager flight attendant, to bring him more blankets. I offer to bring him a pillow, which he declines politely, by firing a few shots from his Magnum over my head. I decide to wait until later to bring it to him...and then hold it over his face while he sleeps. The cabin falls silent as we all wait for him to lose consciousness. Moments later he is asleep. We take off. I resist the urge to shoot him as he sleeps, for fear I will put a hole in one of the cabin windows, which will depressurize the plane, and I will be sucked out like Goldfinger from the James Bond movie. I forgo the pillow idea, and instead, retrieve a bowl of warm water to dip the I-Man’s hand in. It worked on Charles a couple of trips ago.

3:21 P.M. : ST. PETERSBURGH / CLEARWATER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
We land, with Imus still confused as to why the couch, as well as his trousers, are so damp. The two white ‘prom’ limos are there to greet us, and we are whisked away to the Westin Innisbrook Resort, which is approximately 18 miles from the airport, a drive which, apparently, will take approximately ten minutes longer than the flight down from New York. The Tampa Bay area is not known for it’s moving traffic, a fact which has considerably less to do with the size of State Road 19, and the number of cars traveling on it, than it does with all the antediluvian ‘Snowbirds’ doing about 12 miles an hour in the left lane with their flashers on. The road to the resort resembles every major artery in every major mecca in the country, albeit with a considerably larger number of Topless Bars and Adult Bookstores. Evidently, the ‘Six Foot Law’ refers not to the distance patrons are required to maintain between themselves and exotic dancers, but how far apart these establishments must be. Bernard has a hard time figuring out whether to spend the night at ‘Mugs N’ Jugs’, where ‘Gent’ Covergirl Miss Maxi Mounds (72 DDDD) will be displaying her terpsichorean talents, or ‘Titters & Wisecracks’ Topless Comedy Club, where Miss Nude Florida 2000, Tammy Tetons, is doing a guest set. I fall asleep in the limo, asking the driver to wake me when we arrive at the Innisbrook.

5:32 P.M. WESTIN INNISBROOK RESORT
We pull into the property just as the sun is setting, and gasp at the beauty of the tropical surroundings. The resort is indeed, a spectacular place, 1000 acres of lush vegetation, dotted with four championship golf courses. Despite the size of the place, it is jammed with people, as it is the only five star accomodation within a 50 mile radius of the SuperBowl. Apparently, anybody who is anybody is staying at the Innisbrook, making me wonder why the hell we’re booked here. After freshening up a bit after the long sojourn, I head over to the DY Steakhouse for dinner. A hurried Bernard rushes past me in the hallway holding a fist full of singles. He’s headed out to ‘The Tampa Bay Triathalon’, or ‘33 Titty Bars in 3 Hours’.

7:13 P.M. WESTIN INNISBROOK RESORT
After a quick 'Lite Bite' at the DY, featuring a small (slightly under 8 pound) Porterhouse, cheese fries and a couple of 'short' 72 Oz. drafts, I stagger back to my room to check my cholesterol and blood sugar levels with the 'Do It Yourself Heart Surgeons'' kit that Imus gave me for my 40th Birthday, and am encouraged that the numbers are only a few hundred over what is listed as 'Life Threatening' on the handy chart. He's right. I do feel better now that I'm eating healthier.

7:20 P.M. WESTIN INNISBROOK RESORT
I turn on the television, hoping to find a decent pay per view, and fall asleep, despite the shooting pain down my left arm and the ever-present aroma of burnt toast.

5:13 A.M. WESTIN INNISBROOK RESORT
I'm awakened by the familiar taste of bile at the back of my throat, and surmise that I've missed my wake up call. I take a brief shower, (well, it's not technically a shower, as I'm late and can't afford the time, so I spray my naked body with sweet smell of Brut) I'm comfortable in the knowledge that not only will I not offend, but the burning sensation I experience when the cologne hits my testicles signifies that it's acting as an anti-bacterial as well. I walk over to the remote, located in the building next door to mine and enjoy the brisk 45 minutes it takes me to do the mile. It's a fun-filled show, with guest appearances by Sports Babe Leslie Visser; her amiable, yet follicly challenged husband Dick Stockton, (a man who appears to have gotten his last haircut during a power surge); Superstar Quarterback Phil Simms; the ruggedly handsome and glib Jim Nance; and legendary coach Mike Ditka, a quiet man, who tends to maintain control over a perpetual, seething anger, by crushing walnuts in the crack of his buttocks. The great bear of a man petrifies me, and I respond to his initial greeting grunt by losing all bladder control. I excuse myself.

9:56 A.M. WESTIN INNISBROOK RESORT
After a quick, light, backstage breakfast of 9 egg bacon, cheese and sausage omelette, short stack with syrup, grits, gravy and biscuits that I wash down with a couple caraffes of black coffee and a refreshing glass of buttermilk, I realize the show is over, and I've missed most of it. I decide to jog back to the room to pack for the ride home and about a quarter of the mile into the run, have difficulty seeing as perspiration keeps running into my eyes. At least I think it's perspiration, but as I pause for a second to catch my breath, I also catch a glimpse of my reflection in a puddle by the side of the road. I'm somewhat disturbed by the fact that it's not sweat, I'm merely bleeding from the eyes. A quick visit by a paramedic unit and a few shocks from the portable crash cart have me feeling tip top in no time, and as we head to the airport, I smile, knowing that my all too brief time here in Gasparilla Alley was well spent.