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Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Yo. Dude. Beer.

When I lost my job last spring, I was forced to relinquish the company supplied Blackberry and laptop from which I derived my (false) identity as a "Road Warrier Executive."  Because I'm cheap, I replaced the Blackberry with a basic cell phone that came with nothing but a phone number.

And that phone number used to belong to a guy named Darren.

I know this because the minute I activated my phone, I began to receive text messages addressed to Darren.  Often the messages contained obscenities.   They invariably contained at least one of the following  words:  Yo.  Dude.  Beer.  (And sometimes all three).


The texts often arrive in the wee hours of the morning and I don't see them until I wake up - which means that I'm missing out on an awful lot of keg parties somewhere.

Last month, my phone rang while I was standing at the edge of the Hoover Dam.  It was for Darren and the caller wanted to wish him a happy birthday.  I explained that Darren no longer had this number, but asked his friend to send along my very best wishes for an awesomely rad day. 
 
I like to fantasize that when Darren's friends hear my voice on the other end of the line, they can't help but think that Darren is one lucky dude.

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