First stop, Union Station...

The nineteen seventies were an awful time to be a DonKay. And even worse for DonKay punch-clockers. They had to field the chaotic, slipshod filings of operatives like Conrad Baltimore, who submitted mainly by way of napkin. Consider yourself lucky, as coherent scribblings from this era are rare, though period archives are currently under assiduous restoration. This, no different except for a lingering acridity that reeked of bile, gin, and tartar sauce, was the self-professed "Connie's" penultimate contribution. Stricter standards and practices, not seen since the late forties, came back with conservatism and crack during the Reagan-Thatcher-Mitterand years.

I told Robertson not to wear the pink tie to the Space Shuttle Suppliers Convention. He looks ridiculous. Nothing against neckflair, but straight pink reads 'prick' more swiftly and accurately than other hues. Then again, anyone at a Space Shuttle Suppliers Convention is bound to skew prickish anyway.

Everyone is wearing the same trenchcoat. At the check-in desk, we all got blue folders with flaming rockets on them. I feel sorry for the housewives doling them out at the door. Especially the blonde with the gimpy left stem and the floppy Sunday hat that she hopes is distracting. They've got to search for shuttle-shaped name tags while leery sextuagenarians peruse their cleavage.

"No, our complimentary bar starts at 12:30, Sir. No, that's still twenty minutes away. Sorry."

"Oh, thank you Sir, but I've actually been told that before. What? What you just told me. That I look like an angel. Thanks though."

"Lovely tie, Sir."

"Welcome to the 2006 Triple Ess Con! Fish? Let me check on that for you, Sirs. We'll be serving whiting this year. Enjoy!"

"12:30, Sir."

So what are we hawking this year? Robertson's set on gold leaf reflectors. "New for '72." That cherub-cheeked sonofabitch is pressing flesh this time around. Me, I'm packing a fifth of Old Crow in my breastpocket and am headed straight for the beer nuts. Nothing says 'sloppy lecher' like a whiskey grin with peanut salt in the crinkles of your lips. I am an honest man.