damonjustisntfunny.com

Crescent City was, to us, merely a glorified internet café sans beautiful waitress. We pulled in, spent our money, surfed the ‘net, grabbed some snacks, entertained ourselves technologically, and then we left and forgot about it entirely and it was just as well. It was foggy and damp and the campsite residents smelled of fish and beer and although we were excited about the forty-two channels of free cable access allowed every camper, we were horrified by the realization that even with all our hours of careful planning we had forgotten to pack a television. It was not the California we had anticipated. We had finally made it to the Pacific ocean and the best it could offer was a ratty low tide and a swell of stale fog.

The next morning, Ben woke up in a foul mood. It might have been because he had re-injured his ankle the night before during our mundane Frisbee toss; it might have been that the tent reeked of poorly digested Indian food and he was suffering from a lack of oxygen; it might have been because the campsite warden had turned out to be a psychotic and unstable man who took out his insecurities on us and our laundry; but, most likely, it was due to the fact that the fog had still not lifted and it was all my fault.

Though, just a day or two prior, Ben had uttered an unforgivably jinxing and prophetic statement (that he could “pedal like this all day”) and I had, for hours on end, chided him and cursed him and sent away for instruction in sorcery from a Wicca Warlock to punish him, I still, apparently, had learned little from his mistake. When we had woken up on our first cloudy day in over a week just outside of Crescent City the day prior with parched lips and an empty bottle of sunscreen, I was relieved that the sun had taken a vacation. Without thinking, I rejoiced:

“Finally! A cloudy day! I could do with some good old fashioned cloud cover for a while. Give my melanoma a chance to regain its strength.”

Ben, who had been eating breakfast and reading his section of Umberto Eco from a boulder a few paces from the tent, choked on his oatmeal, threw down his book, leapt on top of me and forced my head under water screaming to the heavens:

“He didn’t mean it! He was kidding! Please! Believe he was kidding! Please!”

But it was late. The next day, there was still no sun. And the day after that. Just clouds, and cool breeze, and a heavy fog in the morning. Ben never forgot that it was me, this time, who had caused us such strife. But, I can understand: I blame myself.

Neither Ben nor I truly want to continue down our respective career paths any further than necessary; sure they are noble and good and earn us money but, we can’t help feeling things would just be better if we both had more funding and freedom to do whatever it was we pleased without ever having to work another honest day in our lives. It has been a long held belief of Ben’s that I will one day be in business and make a fortune — this probably stems from the fact that everyone in my family is in business and that I understand the workings of money and savings and loans and how to yell at incompetent underlings and strut about importantly holding a pencil. I don’t have any money currently, Ben reasoned, but if I did, I would figure out a way to make a lot more of it.

The only problem is that I haven’t a clue what to go into business for; I have nothing to offer; there is little I want to sell and no skill I posses that someone would want to market; I have no business plan or even an idea or an inkling of what I would like to do. Sure I could manufacture widgets or write articles for the local newspaper but really what good is that? What purpose does it serve above and beyond making money? None. And I can already make money doing other things so why start a widget company or a Dear Damon column?

One of the downsides to vacationing and, specifically, bike touring, is that it gives the vacationer more than ample opportunity to think about his or her life choices and the immediate and distant future. And this thinking usually causes much strife and many perfectly good people are tarnished and end up on the street addicted to Sudafed because they thought it would be a good idea to try something different with their lives when they returned home from vacation, which is never the case. You should never change anything about yourself — especially after spending weeks on the beach in California. Ben and my thinking brought us to the conclusion that we needed a business plan and after some brainstorming we came upon a gem of an idea and, with a half a billion dollars in capital investments from the foolishly rich people at Google, we believe it will get off the ground shortly.

There was once a company in Boston (and maybe there still is) that offered an online selection of items for purchase that would be delivered within a certain timeframe. For example, one could order soda, a candy bar, a magazine, a movie, and a pack of condoms and expect them all to arrive within a couple of hours. This was an agreeable concept, Ben and I rationalized, but the problem was the customer base. This delivery service was dealing with lazy, indolent, dingbats who couldn’t walk out their apartment door and go to the nearest 7-11 to buy a candy bar. And if there is one thing I know about business it is that there is no money to be made in indolence. You can’t make a fortune off of someone who needs you to hand them their own remote control, telephone, and checkbook. We needed to cater to a richer audience; one with a more lucrative funding stream. But what does this one percent of one percent of one percent of the population care for candy bars and condoms? Why would they need someone to hand them the remote control?

The answer is: they wouldn’t. But they would care about other things and that is what we would offer. We would offer what they couldn’t get when they needed it most. Our company motto would be: anything, anytime, anywhere — for a price. A ridiculously high price, of course, but that wouldn’t be part of the motto. Want a bottle of Champaign and a Thai foot massage within the hour on your private yacht located somewhere off the coast of Borneo? Delivered. Had a hankering for a New York Style sausage while you were exploiting the mineral rights of South Africans? Delivered. Feeling a little homesick and want that sweet smell of Washington, DC subway? Delivered. Anything you want; we can get it.

This plan of ours, to develop the Netflix for the Rich and Famous, would require a terrific technological network; one akin to what you might see on a television show, only better. Better than a high-budget movie even with those really big monitors that can track stuff moving in underground pipes. Our giant control center would be filled with buttons and computers and maps monitoring our client’s positions around the world. If you were a member, you would be given a special GPS tracking device that would be implanted into your wallet and would allow us to be available for your every whim. We would have employees stationed around the globe waiting for that phone call: “Here is your mission: Paris Hilton needs a tampon, a new set of Gucci underwear, a douche, and some anti-bacterial hand soap; she is in the bathroom of a small bar just outside of Toyko’s red light district. You have fifteen minutes. Go.”

As with any great plan there were downsides; namely, being at the beck and call of rich people. However, Ben and I figured after a few miles of our business-meeting-on-wheels that we would run the company, not the errands. Plus, having such an intricate network available to us would allow us to be catered to when necessary and, obviously, it would be necessary quite often. To give an example of when this would be most appropriate: at 9:15 in the morning, on our second day of riding, when we found that the facilities at Mount Rainier were closed, both of us could have done well to have had a Spanish Omelet with hash browns and a warm cup of soy hot chocolate catered by beautiful Swedes who spoke no English whatsoever but used an intricate series of hip thrusts to communicate their desires to us.

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