The firms Patton, Boggs & Blow and Parks, Franz, & Cox

[swag]

should have merged, I always thought, when I was a telephone guy at Metro Messenger in Washington, DC (2327 Champlain St. NW) from 1993 - 1998, talking to secretaries and receptionists from both firms daily.

At least Blow and Cox could have been gratified by the union. Of course the firms were in entirely different businesses.

This inane post inspired by the Jason Leopold threads referencing Patton Boggs. Leopold's News Junkie is a good transcontinental flight book, by the way. Certainly gives insight into Leopold's methods, and what motivates Leopold.

Speaking of all that, one time (mid-1990s) I answered the phone at Metro Messenger when George Fucking Will called (this was before GFW had, according to some reports, fucked Lally Weymouth ((some say repeatedly - I dont know - I wasn't there)), prompting Mrs. Will to put all of George's office shit out on the lawn near Chevy Chase Circle for all Washington Post readers from Chevy Chase, Bethesda, Kensington, etc., to see on their morning commute into town) asking where his column was (because George was too stupid to learn how to use a fax machine ((drug-addled Hunter Thompson had no problem with a mojo-wire, as I recall)) or a computer with a modem to transmit his column all the way down to 1150 15th St. NW, he had a scheduled motorcyle call with us, whereby one of our motorcyclist, proudly astride a hefty BMW painted like a yellowjacket, would pick up the sealed column from George's office-dragon Dusa, and run the column straight down to the Washington Post with a noon deadline that Metro Messenger had not blown for years on end).

"This is George Will. Where's my column?" said the priggish, pious, pinched voice at the other end of the line that happy, capital morning. At that point, George's column was about 50 minutes late getting to the Post.

"Wait a minute. I'll find out."

I found out. That morning, Metro's motorcycle messenger Rob (who, last time I saw him, had kicked everything he was on and was quite handsome, healthy, and rosy-cheeked ) found himself shitting his guts out at that Exxon station near UDC on upper Connecticut Ave. He had laid into some heavily corrupted junk or coke the night before and was paying a price, along with George Will's column, in the Exxon toilet, for a long hour.

I explained to George Will, after a discussion with dispatcher Dave Watson (RIP) who raised shitting Rob on the radio, that the dashing, if wasted, motorcycle courier had unfortunately taken ill, that the column would be delivered to the Post shortly, and that George F. Will's account would be credited for the missed deadline. Setting the standard for service.

That morning in the Exxon restroom, George F. Will's column came so close to finding its true purpose.