Day: Second, in my brief re-entry to temp world.
Time: Middle of the goddamned night, because I downed about three hundred cups of coffee today and thus won't sleep until Wednesday.

Today's temp assignment was much like yesterday's, except that it was a lot less interesting. Sort of. It was another one of these seminar thingies, but it lasted all day. This meant that I spent an hour in the morning running around like the iconic beheaded chicken, another half-hour in the afternoon playing Efficient Secretary Boy, and the intervening seven hours drinking coffee, sneaking smoke breaks and staring at walls.

I finally finished "Forever Amber," about which I blogged about a year ago before dumping it as hopeless. It still is--has been since 1946--but I was in the mood for a read of the heaving-bosom variety. I also spent a good bit of time talking to the various guys who work catering and security and today's hotel, the Wyndham.

The Wyndham is sort of point-counterpoint to the Tremont. The Tremont is a giant, ugly block of a building with no redeeming or interesting features in its 36 stories. (To give you an idea of the thing, picture a beige shoebox on end. Baltimore's landmark skyscraper, the Baltimore Trust building, is technically only 32 stories, but towers a good two hundred feet above the Tremont.) The Wyndham, on the other hand, has had about seven different names since I've been alive. It started life as Baltimore's first Hilton hotel. It has since been a Hyatt and a couple of other things before its current trademark-hotel-du-jour. It was built in the early '70s and was obviously designed with that era's misguided idea of what might make a landmark structure. It has two towers, which only connect on the first three floors. It has some seven hundred rooms, but no grace or style whatsoever. Even so, it's a couple of notches above the Tremont--excepting that Masonic temple bit that I mentioned yesterday, and which will be addressed in a separate post to follow.

Since today's seminar was ensconced in a meeting room just off the main lobby of the Wyndham (wait, they haven't changed the name since this afternoon, have they?) I got to watch the foot-traffic parade as I sat at my station, alternately falling asleep and following Amber's endlessly coital exploits.

There is one significant thing that kept the day entertaining. This weekend, the City of Baltimore is playing host to a Firemen's convention, and a good chunk of them are staying at the Wyndham (it's not the Radisson, now, is it? oh, no! That's what they're calling the old Hotel Lord Baltimore this week.)

There are firemen from all over the country holed up in that hotel. I saw guys with shirts from Elizabeth City (NC, I assume), Ronkonkoma (which I believe is somewhere in New Jersey), Oklahoma City, Seattle, our own Hagerstown, and the rather unfortunately-named Hicksville (not sure which state is claiming that one) in addition to the better-known Philadelphia and New York City.

Before I say anything else, I want to state that I have nothing against firemen. These guys are the salt of the earth; their daily jobs require a significant amount of risk and the work they do ensures the safety of us all. I admire these men (and women, though it seems they're a distinct minority) because they have, bluntly, bigger balls than I do. They think nothing of entering a building consumed in flame to rescue people they don't know. I would make an effort to rescue my own cats and silver service, but that's about the extent of my bravery.

When it gets down to personality, though, firemen are the little boys who never quite grew up. All little boys want to be firemen. Real firemen are the men who never grew out of wanting to be one. And, when you get several thousand of them in the same place, it's like being in a city full of fourth graders. (Several of them are big, muscly, tattooed fourth graders, but fourth-graders nonetheless.)

Most of Middle America is terrorized by the idea of a hotel full of college fraternity boys, but as your friendly neighborhood Sig Ep, let me tell you, we ain't got shit on the firemen. These dudes hadn't even had a chance to get wasted yet and they were already trashing the hotel, stealing potted palms and booby-trapping the elevators. A lot of them had their girlfriends and wives along for the ride, most of whom walked around with an air of annoyed resignation.

I understand that on Sunday there is to be a parade of antique and modern fire equipment downtown somewhere. I think I should go to see it. Then, I can revert to fourth-grade too--and if I'm lucky one of the guys from Ronkonkoma will let me ride on the back of the truck.