Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign…

Quick question – would you rather walk around Washington DC all day with a broken toe, or answer a thousand questions in a crowded ballroom when you have an acute case of laryngitis? Well, last night, I didn’t have to choose! Thanks to an unfortunate collision between the leg of a coffee table and the middle toe on my right foot, the former has been achieved. And thanks to a lifetime of talking loudly, singing loudly, staying up all hours, and treating my larynx like a speed bag, my vocal cords are currently on strike. Consequently, I’ve been limping around DC for the last 36 hours with a sign pinned to my lapel that says, “Sorry, I lost my voice!”

What’s extraordinary, is the number of people who read my sign, offered their sympathies, and then proceeded to chat me up anyway. Not that I’m complaining – most people just wanted to say hello, grab a selfie, and say something nice about Dirty Jobs or mikeroweWORKS. I’ve been humbled of late, by the number of people who know someone who received one of our scholarships, and more than a little amused by the number of elected officials in this city who want to tell me that theirs is the dirtiest job of all. Last night though, I ran into a Senator who asked me to describe my dirtiest job in detail. I pointed to my sign and smiled apologetically, but he still seemed to want an answer. So, I pantomimed the business of coaxing the semen out of a large bull and then manually reinserting it into the uterus of a cow. This went on for over a minute and drew a large crowd. Eventually, the Senator’s wife enthusiastically yelled, “Artificial insemination!!”

She yelled it like she was in a game of charades, which I guess she was. I gave her a big thumbs up and turned for the bar, but the Senator stopped me. He had more questions. He wanted to know why I had declined Bobby Kennedy’s invitation to be his vice-president. Smiling like Mickey Mouse at Disneyland, I shrugged and pointed again to the sign on my lapel.

“You two would have made for a very interesting ticket,” he said.

I nodded, held up my empty glass, and turned back for the bar. At which point the Senator asked me about my recent podcast appearance on Joe Rogan.

“What was Rogan like? Do you think he helped get Trump elected? Does anybody really listen to a three-hour podcast?”
I shrugged some more and assumed my most perplexed expression.

“Beats me,” I mouthed.

“What do you think about the fires in LA?” he asked. “Think this is the end for Bass and Newsom? You live out that way, right?”

This time, I pointed to my throat, shook my head slowly from side to side, and made a sad face.

“Hey! Why don’t you bring back Dirty Jobs?” he asked. “People really loved that show!”

I sighed, gave him the finger, and walked away.

Over at the bar, a Mexican gentleman was pouring drinks. There was no Knobel on hand, so I pointed to a bottle of Basil Haden.
“Rocks?” he asked.

I held up one finger. Then he read my sign and frowned.

“No rocks for you,” he said.

I cocked my head, as if to say “I beg your pardon?“

“Un momento,” he said.

I watched the bartender pour a generous snort of bourbon into a shaker, along with a few ounces of hot water. Then he squeezed in some lemon and added some honey. Then he shook it hard for thirty seconds, before pouring it back into the glass.

I sipped it, and nodded thanks.

“Es un trabajo sucio” he said, “but somebody’s gotta do it.”

Ain’t that the truth…
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