Backwards Tined Salad Torque

Being the recollections of slightly less than a week spent in California on the Company's dime.

BWI - DFW - SJC... Fractionally less than 11 total hours of sitting in either a cramped economy class seat in a steel tube being hurled through the sky, or in equally cramped seats in an airport (alternately wishing for the arrival of boarding time or a swift, merciful death) found me delivered mostly safe and sound to the other coast of our fair country. A charter bus ferried us the remainder of the way to Chaminade Resort (at least partly owned by George Zimmer, and locale of the yearly management meetings of Men's Warehouse).

Of the meetings there is little to tell. They were about company policy and changes to be made to the structure of things in the current economy. Pretty standard fare for a company management seminar outing. I will say I learned a few things though... I will say that.

The evenings were far more entertaining. Having been given a small allotment of drink tickets and having come bearing an amount of cash who's specific purpose was to be spent in the bar, having a good time was far from difficult. The people were (for the most part) engaging and easy to get to know. There were activities and a variable selection of locales in the resort to park between dances/drinks.

Addressing rumors that I've already heard surrounding anyone I may have met at this shindig who has been allotted a bit more consideration than the average new acquaintance might be worthy of: She knows who she is and what was said. The future will hold what it may, and I'll live with that.

The food was consistently amazing. The rooms were posh and fluffy. The amenities were complete and unstinting.

Truly a relaxing experience.

Sitting on the runway for an additional 2 hours on the way home was less pleasant, but I arrived back in Maryland having suffered nothing more serious than a wicked case of Jet lag the next morning.

I'd love to be able to say 'Be it ever so humble blah blah blah', but if I did that I'd be forced to admit myself to the nearest trauma center and demand a brain CT to check for a tumor at the very least.

However, I AM home. That means what it means to those of you that it means something to.

Alas, poor Hojo. I knew him Horatio.. A fellow of infinite jest... of most excellent fancy.