Say Cheese!

Can you remind me which one is pregnant again? Good god, what an awful picture. Next time you complain about not being photogenic, just remember this photo. Also, check out that camera angle. How low to the ground do you have to be to get this angle on the "5 feet, 7 inch" tall Tom Cruise? It has to have been taken by a paparazzi with his head barely sticking out of a manhole cover.

Quote of the Year

I really, REALLY hope this quote is true. If so, huge props to Charlie Rangel for being brave enough to state the obvious. Thanks for sending, JP.

Sharon Stone's iPod

As I was browsing iTunes the other day looking for the “Best of Foghat” anthology, I came across the “Celebrity Playlist” section where, as the name suggests, various musicians, actors, etc. compile a list of their favorite music. What caught my attention was not the great compilations of Chuck D or George Clinton. It wasn’t even William Shatner, who had the audacity to add 5 of his own songs to his 13-song playlist, which I’m pretty sure is the definition of chutzpah. This is the same person who described Ben Fold as, “my personal genius,” and whose liner note for Eminem was simply, “he’s different.” Ahh, you always had a way with words, Bill.

Rather, it was Sharon Stone’s collection caught my eye. When I saw her writhing around naked in “Basic Instinct,” the only thing I could think was -- “wow, I wonder what time type of music does she like?” And lo and behold, my question was finally answered. Below is her playlist, which includes some fantastic “celebrity notes” in addition to the list of actual songs:

Track 1. “Change,” Tracy Chapman - “I guess I love this song because God made me change.”

You would think that parents, family and friends would play a larger role than some God, but what do I know.

Track 2. “I Won’t Dance,” Blossom Dearie - “This song has real old school verve.”

She’s already seems to be running out of descriptions, and she’s only on song #2.

Track 3. “Just Like a Woman,” Bob Dylan - From the time I was a young girl, this song made me feel in touch with my woman-ness.”

Nothing like an overrated, gravely voiced folk musician to make one feel more like a blossoming young woman.

Track 4. “Spirit in the Dark,” Aretha Franklin - “Aretha came from church, so she knows how to sing from her soul for real.”

Thank you for the statement in the damned obvious. God, you are retarded.

Track 5. “Und Wenn Eid Lied,” Sohne Mannheims - “These guys’ voices are alluring and sexy and eerie in a way that’s almost scary to me.”

I guess you have to throw in a song from an artsy, Hun musical group to show how diverse your musical tastes. Personally, I would have opted for Kraftwerk or, perhaps, Rammstein, but oh well.

Track 6. “Hold On,” Tom Waits - “Tom Waits is the Humphrey Bogart of music.”

I can’t believe she’s actually writing this stuff. Or that anyone is.

Track 7. “Guess Who I Saw Today,” Nancy Wilson - “This is the quintessential song of all time sung by the quintessential singer.”

Most experts usually cite this song as the most quintessential song of all time. I know I do.

Tack 8. “Fucking You Tonight,” The Notorious B.I.G. (featuring R. Kelly) - “For me, Biggie Smalls was the most talented rap musician/composer ever. That’s it.”

Okay, I have to call bullshit here. There’s no way that she’s ever listened to Biggie Smalls in her life. And I’m pretty sure that Sharon Stone would rather listen to the death rattle of her favorite pet than listen to rap music.

Track 9. “I’d Rather Go Blind,” Etta James - “This is the way I feel the blues.”

Honestly, I cannot think of a woman who’s whiter and is more lacking of soul than Sharon Stone.

Track 10. “Goin’ Back,” Dusty Springfield - “What a voice.”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen -- THE Dusty Springfield. Seriously, since I had no idea who this was, I looked her up in Wikipedia, which had the following entry: “In all aspects of her career, but especially in the studio, Dusty was emotionally rigid - a notorious perfectionist and, rightly or wrongly, she was soon labeled as "difficult" a "prima donna." Clearly a case of being attracted to you opposite personality.

Track 11. “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” Aretha Franklin - “To me, Aretha singing this Simon and Garfunkel song was the voice of what was lost when we lost the Kennedys and King.”

This sounds like an eighth grader wrote this. Again, I refuse to believe she’s writing this stuff.

Track 12. “Because of You,” Kelly Clarkson - “I love that this girl had the guts to take her talent and fame and give the world a song that says it’s okay to say openly, “I will not be the subject of domestic violence.’”

You know, I seem to have forgotten all the songs that say it’s okay to say that “I am the subject of domestic violence.” I really don’t recall that the message of Prodigy’s cheerful “Smack My Bitch Up” was wildly embraced by the general public. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that that there are no songs that say domestic violence is cool.

Track 13. “What’s Going On,” Marvin Gaye - “This is the most healing song I know.”

Great song … great singer … asinine comment.

Tomorrow ~ Don Knotts' favorite funk songs of all time.

Single White Male

Glad to see that Brad has an identity and look of of his own. I wonder if he wears their clothes, too.

Monkey News

Smart Monkey ~ Gun-Mo, an 8-year-old monkey, has learned to iceskate, as seen during a promotional event for the 2006 Animal Academy Show in Seoul, South Korea.


















Dumb Monkey ~ Easily the stupidest President ever. I would choose Gun-Mo to beat the president in a Scrabble game every time.

And in today's obscene, right-wing news of the day, the White House is hindering Congress' investigation of Hurricane Katrina by refusing to make certain officials and documents available by citing "separation of powers issues." http://abcnews.go.com/WNT/story?id=1540626.

I like that. When asked to explain next time why I fucked up something at work, perhaps I'll just shrug my shoulders and drop the lame "separation of powers" excuse as well.

I Guess It's Not 1985 Any More

So last night my brain was kind of fried, so I started flipping through the channels until I came across something that required very little gray matter. It took, oh, all of three seconds before I stumbled across “Celebrity Fit Club 3,” or as I like to call it “What The Fuck Happened To You In The Past Decade”?

[ Note: And as an aside, I am not someone that’s cares what I or anyone else weighs. I am not a weight/body shape snob at all, so please no angry comments. ]

I joined the show half way in, so I’m trying to figure out how many “celebrities” I can identify. Okay, there’s Chastity Bono, Tempesst Bledsoe (“Cosby Show”), and Jeff Conaway ( “Taxi” and “Grease”), who it should be pointed out was high as a kite on the show. I kept looking … and then all of a sudden I recognize one more celebrity … Kelly LeBrock.

THE Kelly LeBrock from “Weird Science.” Remember?



Holy shit, what is she doing here?

I loved Kelly LeBrock in “Weird Science,” as did every other pubescent teen who saw that movie. She was the 80’s version of Angelina Jolie. Smoking hot. And then she married Steven Seagal -- that pony-tailed karate freak that has “acted” in dozens of utterly forgettable action films -- and everything went downhill for her after that.

Despite her presence on the show, I still think Kelly looks good and I’m wondering why she’s even on there. Sure she’s put on a few pounds, but who doesn’t as they age? And then at the end of the show, she jumps on the scale and I was shocked to see she was 175 lbs. at the start of the show (down to 165 by the time I tuned in). I was totally shocked because I honestly didn’t think she looked that big. Perhaps it’s the 10 lbs. collagen that she had put into her already Mick Jagger-like mouth.

My shock then turned to anger, as I started thinking about how Steven Seagal ruined her. God, I wish they never met. I had a huge crush on her. What did she ever see in him anyway? I guess chicks dig martial arts dudes with ponytails. Go figure.

Anyway, Kelly -- I still love you ... call me. Steven - I hope you get raped by a bear.

Where's Michael?

Can you spot Michael Jackson in this picture?

Hint: He's the tall one wearing the dark veil, robe and gloves, which I understand are traditionally worn by conservative women in the Gulf. I'm guessing that the men's and women's sections in the Bahrain Gap store are really confusing. Either that or he's going for some sort of ninja look, who knows.

No More Travel News

I haven't had to travel in the past week, so I don't have much to rant about there. Even if I did, it would be hard to complain in light of the awful story involving a delayed flight out of Ft. Lauderdale. It appears that one of the passengers on the flight took exception to the 30 minute delay and started to get antsy. And by "get antsy" I mean he: (a) started freaking out and banging on the cockpit door, (b) bit another passenger who tried to help restrain him, and (c) then jumped from the depressurized plane onto the tarmac and ran towards the terminal.

Look my man, I'm not a huge fan of flying either, but nut up. We're talking about a 3 hour flight, plus you're getting out of Florida. What's the problem?

On a separate note, I somehow stumbled across this website that presented its list of the 50 most loathsome people in America for 2005.

I've never heard of the "Beast" website, but found their list to be pretty spot on. The main problem I had, though, was that I found myself with at least 20 people that deserved to be in the Top 10 and I simply couldn't narrow it down. I agree with their Top 3 (Pat Robertson, Dick Cheney, GW Bush), but there's now way that Karl Rove and Paris Hilton get excluded from my Top 10. Rove is simply evil incarnate and deserves multiple spots on the list. And Paris Hilton is, to put it bluntly, a worthless piece of skin. Why we even pay attention to this lazy-eyed harpy is beyond me.

No Need To Pass Around The Hat For Gas

Thanks to my full on sprint, I was able to make my flight after inhaling some delicious Denver airport cuisine. Yum!! However, the second leg of my journey from Denver to St. Louis did not go as swimmingly as my flight from California to Colorado did.

It started when I got on the plane (heard this one before, eh?), I discovered that my mad dash was for naught. While boarding, it was announced that ice had formed on the plane’s wings and that the flight would be delayed. Now personally, I am always more than willing to forego a hasty departure in order ensure that the wings are not going to snap off like they’re made out of balsa wood. And evidently the United maintenance crew agreed with me, so we were treated to extra wait time, thereby enabling me to become better acquainted with my fellow passengers. Hurray.

I should point out that with the plane effectively grounded, the fans are not working. I should also point out it’s extremely hot and stuffy on the plane and I just got done sprinting to the gate. As a result, I’m sweating like a hooker in church.

After suffocating for a good twenty minutes, the plane turns its engines back on and the germ-ridden, recycled air finally turns back on. Thank god. As they de-ice (un-ice?) the wings, they announce that the plane will depart “shortly.” To me, shortly means “five minutes or so.” To United, shortly means “some time between right this moment and tomorrow.” After thirty more minutes of conjecture as to the true meaning of the word “shortly,” the plane slowly lurches forward and we are on our merry way to Missouri.

The departure was smooth enough, but I have this nagging feeling that something is going to go dreadfully wrong with this flight. Given the frosted wings, I would gladly settle for “extreme annoyance” as opposed to “horrific death,” but it’s out of my hands now.

My premonition would turn out to be correct. It built slowly, starting with the flight attendant that nearly dislocated my shoulder as she collided with me with her granite hips. How about simple “oops” or even a “hey, sorry about that”? What makes it worse is that I think she did it on purpose. Karma is a bitch, lady.

Little did I know that the karma would come back to bite every one of us on the plane. About halfway through the flight, one of the twenty+ college students sitting in my area unleashed a noxious fart that figured to kill half the people on the plane. Words do not describe it, but I’ll do my best. Let’s see. Rancid flank steak … rotting garbage … curried cabbage … and two-week old road kill. I would say that about describes it. Each time it happens -- and by my count, it occurred over a half dozen times -- I resist the urge to (a) wretch uncontrollably, and (b) locate the unfortunate lad with the case of chronic gas and choke the living shit out of him.

If there’s a sliver lining here at all, it’s that the skunky perpetrator is three rows or so ahead of me so I have the benefit of about 3-5 seconds advance warning before each gaseous cloud collides with me. It’s very similar to “the wave” which crowds at sporting events still insist on trotting out. In both instances, (a) you know you have a few moments to ready yourself before it gets to you, and (b) both groups are screaming and flailing their arms, although I’m not sure that toxic gas is quite as entertaining. Hopefully if I bang on the overhead compartment hard enough, perhaps the air breathing device will fall and deliver me fresh, sanitary air. Yeah, not so much.

The early detection system, however, does nothing to mitigate the odor which periodically wafts throughout the plane. Mercifully, the flight attendant announces that we will be landing “shortly,” but not before he belches out one final mushroom cloud which again quickly fills the cabin. What a generous soul.

We end up landing almost an hour late, but I couldn’t care less at this point in time. I never thought I would be excited to arrive in St. Louis and breathe that sweet St. Louis air. Mmmmm. But as I did, I couldn’t help but wonder what similar fun awaited me on my return flights, scheduled for just 36 hours from now.

It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again

Here we go again. No sooner have I recovered from last week’s travel debacle and crammed one week’s worth of work into 2 games, I am headed back to St. Louis. On a airplane. And you know what this means. More tortured stories and nonsensical observations for you the reader!

Somehow, I managed to park, walk (check that, sprint) to the airport, check in, proceed through security, and locate my gate -- all in the span of about 20 minutes. I contrast this with last week’s fiasco and I it gives me hope for a normal flight.

So everything is proceeding relatively normally (i.e., I haven’t lost my bag/phone/ticket yet) as we begin to board, when all of a sudden some asshole runs over my heel with his bag in his mad rush to get in line to board the plane.

Now I know I’ve mentioned this before, but can someone please remind me when it was that grown men become incapable of carrying their fucking luggage? Seriously, what normal, adult male is incapable of carrying a 30 pound bag and instead has to rely upon on one of those rolling luggage devices? And when has it suddenly become acceptable to crash into someone without some sort of acknowledgement or apology? (I will later discover that it has become relatively vogue to do so, but let’s not jump ahead of ourselves).

Given that I’m not in first class, I no longer have the fortuitous luck of avoiding the lines and boarding the plane first. No big deal, I’m in no rush to fly.

But being among the last people to board, I look to see who else is similarly situation and decide to play the little game “who in Seating Area 4 is going to be my seatmate?” Will it be the hot blonde in the tight jeans? Or will it be the odd looking fellow who keeps mumbling to himself? I’d guess there are approximately twenty people left that are waiting to board, the rest of which appear like relatively normal and nondescript. Standard statistics suggests that I have an equal, five percent (1 in 20) chance of getting either the Blonde or Golum. However, my luck does not follow standard statistical norms, so I put the odds at Blonde - 0.009%, Troglodyte - 64.3%.

And as destiny would have it, I end up next to the Danny Devito look-alike. Fortunately, he is only sitting across the aisle from me so I fortunately don’t have to arm-wrestle him for the arm rest. Whew, I dodged that bullet.

Aside from the invariable ten minutes of turbulence, the only downside of this flight is the gabby woman sitting in the window seat who won’t stop making small conversation. I have one earphone in and am holding the other one 3 inches away from my ear and she still keeps talking. Fortunately, I catch myself before I say something abrupt like, “hey lady, can you shut your cakehole? I’m trying to arrange my songs in iTunes.” I know that might sound rude, but I am really not in the mood for explaining what I’m watching on my laptop (BBC’s “The Office” for those that are curious), nor do I care for detailed description as to how bad winters are in Detroit.

Rather that the pointed approach, I take the diplomatic route and retreat to the bathroom, which I am hoping will politely signal to her that the conversation is over. I return to my seat two minutes later and -- ta da! -- I find that she’s covered herself up completely in one of those mite-infested airplane blankets, trying to fall asleep. While I am gladdened by the silence that greets me upon my return, I am also horrified that anyone would voluntarily touch their skin to one of those woolen louse farms. Disgusting, but perhaps she’s hoping to get rid of some extra dead skin while she sleeps.

Tomorrow: Denver to St. Louis (a/k/a “What The Hell Crawled Up Your Ass and Died?”

Thank You, Mr. Wolf

Jules: “You sendin' the Wolf?”
Marsellus: “Oh, you feel better, motherfucker?”
Jules: [ relieved ] “Well, shit, negro, that's all you had to say.”


The Wolf came to the rescue for me -- and in a much needed way. And in this case, “the Wolf” was an upgrade to first class from Denver to St. Louis that the nice United ticket agent provided me in St. Louis.

I am a long-standing coach man who clearly don’t belong in first class. I keep inspecting the seat in order to make sense of the various buttons and compartments (oh, that’s where the tray is!). It’s patently clear I don’t belong and in the back of my mind, I worry that someone will come to me say that there’s been a mistake and ask me to sit between some guy who won’t stop making conversation about NASCAR and another guy who has problem flatulence.

My worries are never realized as I somehow remain in first class. Fantastic. I had always heard stories and seen -- from afar -- how the people live their first class lives. And now I was going to experience it for myself. I’m finally one of the special people!

I soon discover that first class is much different than coach. There are free drinks (thank you baby Jesus) and actual food. I call it food, but it's really nothing more than your basic cheese plate: Swiss and Camembert cheeses, crackers, mango and red grapes. Now I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but honestly, who would choose to eat this stuff on a plane if they could? How about a turkey sandwich or some sushi instead?

They also provide cloth napkins and utensils in first class: two forks, a spoon, and a plastic knife. Now let’s think about that. Why do I need two forks? Is there an entrée and a salad being served? Or am I supposed to use one fork for the mango and another one for the grapes? I always forget which identical fork is used for which fruit. And why do I need a spoon? I can mix my vodka drink just fine by using my spare fork, thank you very much.

The presence of the plastic knife, although practical, was the most perplexing. I understand there’s some cause for concern about providing inebriated, first class passengers with a knife, but is it really that great a risk? I could just as easily kill someone with either of the forks they provided me. Plus anyone that reads this blog knows that plastic knives really aren’t all that safe.

I’m so comfortable, not even the 10 minutes of rocky turbulence bothers me. In fact, there’s only a few slightly negative thing that I can say about the flight.

One of them is the flight attendant. Specifically, there are two things bother me. First, my flight attendant is a guy and not some Scarlett Johannson look-alike who’s easily charmed by guys with rugby scars.

The second is that “Russell” hovers over you like a fucking buzzard over a dead carcass. Jesus, can’t a guy eat a cheese plate in peace? I feel like I’m in one of those popular restaurant where the wait staff is pressuring you to finish your dessert as quickly as possible so that they can move on to their next 20% gratuity.

I also notice that the other people in first class have a distinct attitude. I notice them glancing up disapprovingly as the coach passengers board, while they are already enjoying the comfort of their extra-wide, super-adjustable chairs. My level of self-consciousness rises every time I say “thank you” to Russell when he supplies me with more vodka. I don't see anyone else in first class saying thank you for anything.

Instead, they sit silently, with their smug sense of entitlement and elitism. You can almost hear them thinking, “Hey pal, you can’t use our bathroom. You’re sitting in coach!” They acquire this sense of privilege by virtue of the fact that they spent three times as much on their ticket as the person sitting 2 rows behind them, by why would anyone do that? Is it for the mostly stainless steel cutlery and a cheese plate? I’d rather keep the $900 and sit in coach (provided, however, I don’t have to sit next to Bigfoot again).

But those are minor complaints. All in all, this flight was very enjoyable. You know, I could get used to this first class thing. And despite my 12-hour travel ordeal today, I still got me home before 5:00, only 4 hours after my earlier scheduled arrival. Not bad, although it was hell getting here. And to think, I get to do this again next week when I fly to St. Louis.

The only question I have now is whether Russell will give me a road beer or not.

I’m In The Red, Jules

Jules: “Oh, you're gettin' ready to blow?
Vincent: “I could blow.”
Jules: “Well I'm a mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucker, motherfucker! Every time my fingers touch brain I'm Superfly T.N.T. …. I'm the Guns of the Navarone. In fact, what the fuck am I doin' in the back? You're the motherfucker should be on brain detail. We're fuckin' switchin' right now. I'm washin' the windows and you're pickin' up this n******’s skull.”


As I catch my breath, I ponder what other curveball will fate throw me as I prepare to board the plane. Whatever it is, my stress is behind me and I can count on sleeping on the plane and forgetting about my worries. Or so I thought.

As I prepare to board the plane, the bitter agent at the gate informs me that I won’t be able to carry on my bag and tags it for checking.

Now yesterday, I described the harrowing nightmare I experienced in trying to fly from St. Louis to Denver. I am really trying to block it out, so if you haven’t read it yet please scroll down and read the entire thing. But it’s helpful to understand what happened and to understand my mental state is right now as I prepare to fly.

So at this point in time, I’m a “mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucker” and in no mood for any further shit. Trying not to take it out on her, however, I try to explain the situation.

“I need to carry on my bag because my connecting flight is 45 minutes after we land and it won’t make it if I check it,” I say calmly.

“You need to check your bag, we have a full plane and it won’t fit” she responds sternly.

“My bag is not going to make it. I really need to carry it on,” I plead.

“You need to check your bag,” she replies robotically.

God, it’s like negotiating with a terrorist.

“Fuck it, I’ll let you figure out how to get it there then,” I reply and then I turn and walk away. I am really at my wit’s end at this point.

Before I can get ten feet down the walkway, she immediately calls me back.

Oh shit. I am immediately regretting my decision to drop the F bomb. What happens if they don’t let me board the plane? I start to prepare my explanation and wonder how serious an offense it is to curse out an airline employee.

“You forgot your ticket stub,” she says curtly.

Whew, thank god.

I make it to my “plane” and am surprised to find that evidently American has chosen to reduce costs by replacing its jet fleet with gliders. The flying machine (I’m not sure it can rightfully be called a plane) sat three people per row (single seat and two seats), for about 18 rows or so. I check my bag (it turns out that they immediately produce it for you at the end of the flight when you get off the plane, so it turned out not to be an issue) and proceed to my seat.

Good news! I have the aisle seat, which I can fit into relatively comfortably so long as lean in towards the aisle. The seats are tiny and I am pretty good sized (it’s all muscle ladies), but it shouldn’t be too bad so long as person is normal sized. Who knows, perhaps Jessica Alba will sit next to me and I’ll be able share an armrest with her and tell her how fond I was of her work in “The Fantastic Four.”

Fate, however, is still fucking with me today. After settling in, I look up and standing there is one of the biggest men I have ever seen. At least I presume it was a man. It could have been a Sasquatch that was captured, shaved down and released back into civilization for all I know.

The only think I do know is that he dwarfed me. I weigh about 200 pounds and this guy had at least 150 pounds on me. He wasn’t obese, but instead would be described as “solid,” having the look of a former football lineman that replaced working out with entering eating contests. His head his huge, easily the size of an oversized pumpkin.

He lifts the arm rest and sort of settles down. I really can’t tell if he came to a complete seated position or if he merely wedged himself in as best he could before coming to a stop. He then pulls the armrest down as far as it could go before it came to a rest on his thigh at about 30 degree angle.

In order to avoid too much physical contact, I contort my body so that my torso overhangs into the aisle. My spine looks like a question mark. But because his legs are so big, they spill into my seat and we end up squishing thigh-to-thigh the entire trip. The heat his left thigh generates could slow roast a chicken. As a result, my right leg is cooking inside my jeans. I’m guessing the temperature is that of a piping hot McDonald’s apple pie.

The good news (if there is any) is that if our glider we struck by another plane, my seatmate would fully absorb the impact of the blow. So I need to be grateful for small things.

Halfway through the flight, I notice him talking to the guy sitting behind him and then passing a magazine to the guy sitting in front of him. I wanted to say to those two guys, “hey motherfuckers, do you know this guy? If so, how about we swap seats so you can spoon with Bigfoot here while I try to properly realign my spine?”

As I contemplate strangling my fellow passengers who should be on “brain detail” instead of me, Sasquatch let out a silent belch. It was one of those awful burps where you can smell and literally taste food they just eat. In this case, it was an Italian sub sandwich he must have just inhaled prior to getting on the plane. Fantastic.

That’s the last straw. I can’t take it any more, so I decide to take a quick trip to the bathroom to give each of us a well-deserved break. Sad to say, but I'm starting to think that the time spent in the bathroom will probably be the most relaxing part of my flight. I can’t believe I actually typed that.

In addition to the miniature seats, the aisle way appears to be built for 8-year olds and the Lollipop Guild. In order to avoid bumping folks endlessly, I need to walk at an angle down the aisle. There’s no room for one, let alone two. Just as I get there, someone emerges from the bathroom and starts to head back to her seat. Oh great.

I quickly assess the situation and come up with the following options:

(1) Return to my seat next to Shrek.
(2) Say fuck it, and keep going.

I opt for number 2. Given the certain collision with the oncoming passenger, I then ask the famous Tyler Durden question from Fight Club, “Now, a question of etiquette - as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?” Since it was a woman, I opt for the latter and blurt out “hey, it’s good getting to know you” as I squeeze past. I recall dry humping episode as a teen that involved less physical contact.

After finishing in the loo (number one, if you must know), I go to wash my hands at which point I discover that the bathroom sink does not have any running water. What the fuck?! Instead, they’ve put two containers of baby wipe towels, figuring that that would do the job. How unsanitary is that? Can you imagine the collection of germs which reside on that door handle? Ewwww.

The rest of the flight was relatively uneventful, with the exception of the continued scorching of my leg. We land safely and early at Denver International Airport and it actually looks like I will make my connecting flight. Given that it’s in first class (hello free booze), I optimistically depart the plane for what I have to believe will be the enjoyable part of the trip.

Tomorrow - “What A Difference A Leg Makes” (or “Uhh, Do You Have Any More Vodka Left?”)

Goodbye, Shit Louis

“I got a threshold, Jules. I got a threshold for the abuse I'll take. And right now I'm a race car and you got me in the red. I'm just saying that it's fuckin' dangerous to have a racecar in the fuckin' red. It could blow.” Vincent Vega, “Pulp Fiction”


Today, boys and girls, I enjoyed what might be the worst travel day of my life. And, surprisingly, it had nothing to do with the flight. At least not so far.

I groggily awoke at 4:30 PST (6:30 MST) in order to meet the car that was going to take me to the St. Louis airport. The driver’s running late, so I call him. It turns out that he thought I was flying out tomorrow. Not too worry, he’ll be there in 15 minutes he says.

Anyone knowing me knows full well I get stressed out before I fly and get stressed out when I run late in order to catch a plane. Simply put, my psyche gets thrown off and I get frazzled. Knowing this makes the rest of the story far better (i.e., miserable).

I get to the airport about an hour before my scheduled departure (note the use of the word “scheduled” as opposed to actual). I get all the way inside before I realize I left my phone in the car. Thankfully, Sam the Driver discovered this as well and he fortunately delivered my phone before I got much further. This would be the end of my run of luck this day.

Phone in hand, I check in and, after a quick trip through security, arrive at my gate about 25 minutes early. Shit, this just might be my day.

After a few minutes, I notice that there seems to be no effort to board people on the plane. And then the boarding agent announces that the maintenance crew discovered some “issues” with the plane but we should be boarding in about 10 minutes.

I have a bad feeling about flying on this plane. But rather than focus on the fact that I have about 40 minutes to hop off my plane and do the O.J. Simpson sprint through DIA, I’m thinking the opposite. “Take as much time as you need, fellas and do a thorough job,” I say to myself.

After 40 minutes, the crew decides that we aren’t going to fly that plane and they give us the choice of waiting for the new plane which is scheduled to depart at 11:30 (it’s now 10:00) or go back to the ticket counter to make different arrangements. I decide to try my luck and see what else they might be able to do.

After a 30 minute wait, I explain my situation to a very nice and helpful United staff person who puts me on the same flight from St. Louis to Denver (now leaving at noon) and changes the Denver - Oakland leg of my trip and, in doing so, puts me in first class for my troubles. Hello free alcohol. You know, this might actually be my day, I start to think to myself. This will be the last positive thought I have while in St. Louis.

Before heading back through security and to the gate, I decide to grab a quick bite from the local fast food burger place. I am greeted by the manager, a nice woman named Verlinda who is missing half of her teeth. I am swear to god. The rest of her teeth look like corn niblets and are brown and rotting out. When she talks, her mouth reminds me of a jack-o-lantern that just ate a large tootsie roll (assuming a jack-o-lantern could do so). This is the last time that anything strikes me as somewhat entertaining for the rest of the morning.

I hurry back to the gate just in case the replacement plane shows up and find, not surprisingly, that nothing has changed. After 10 minutes of waiting and shooting annoying glances at the TV screen which is broadcasting the Alito hearings, they announce that the 12:00 plane to Denver has been postponed indefinitely. I am starting to have another bad feeling about this.

I rush back to the ticket counter, explaining that the plane was cancelled and inquiring whether there were any other carriers that I could fly on that would allow me to make my connecting flight in Denver. Another very helpful woman makes this change and, as I prepare to head out, I notice one of my bags is missing. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I scream in my mind. How the fuck did I lose my bag?

After several minutes of panic, I decide to quickly retrace my steps and hope that I find where I might have left it. I only have 40 minutes to catch my new flight, so I’d better make it snappy. So I run back to the same gate and go through the same security line for the THIRD TIME in order to find my missing bag.

I duck my head into every bathroom looking for my bag, hoping no one mistakes me for some sort of peeping Tom. It’s nowhere to be found and my heart is really racing now. I am in full blown panic mode right now. What’s in my bag? What happens if I can’t find it? Can I live without its contents? As I brace myself for the reality that I will never see my bag and travel clothes again, I end up at my original gate when I see it standing there where I last remember seeing it. So much for the vigilant St. Louis airport security. Nice work folks. My bag was sitting there for about half an hour and no one from security came and removed it. What’s wrong? Doesn’t it look suspicious enough for you?

As I start to head back to the main terminal, I notice I have about 30 minutes to get to the correct terminal, make my way through security, find my gate, and get on my plane which departs at 12:40. I do a quick inventory and then I discover that I’ve lost my ticket. Goddammit, what the fuck did I do to deserve this day? Trying to think quickly, I deduce that I had to have left it on my third trip through the security line. I am now sprinting through the airport, before I arrive at the security gate. Bingo, I was right.

I get my ticket conduct another quick inventory (which I am now doing every 3 minutes, or so). Phone and earpiece, iPod, laptop, wallet, carry on bag, jacket? Check. Time to head to the gates that serve American, hop on my plane and relax.

On my way to the gates that serve American, I discover that I don’t have a boarding pass yet because the ticket was issued by United. So I have to go through yet another goddamned line. Fuck me. I basically jump to the front of the first class passenger line (fuck them, they can wait) and yet another nice ticket agent quickly helps me and I am back on my way towards what I hope will be a quick trip through the security line.

Not so fast there, David James. The security line is longer than the list of Courtney Love prescription meds. There’s no way I will make my plane now unless I impersonate a pilot or TSA agent. Pushing the envelope yet again, I jump into the first class line, plead for a favor and - to my surprise - they let me into the first class passenger line. There’s only 5 people before me. I’m almost home free.

Unfortunately, one of those people is a woman who I would best describe as a pedestrian, Midwest version of Paris Hilton (minus the lazy eye). She’s dressed to the hilt, wearing earrings, boots and a rhinestone belt -- all of which individually set off the metal detectors. “ Jesus Christ, have you never been to an airport before in your life you stupid twat?!” I ask myself as I put aside violent fantasies of strangling her with her metallic belt. Taking her free time, she finally manages to make it through.

It being my not-so-lucky day, though, I have been randomly selected to submit to an extensive search of my bags and, apparently, body cavity. I’m not sure if you’re enjoying copping a feel Mr. TSA Agent, but at least buy me a drink first. Or at least make it snappy. I have 15 minutes to spare and I have no idea how close the gate is. After 5 minutes of an ineffective and superficial search, I am free to head to my gate. During that search, I temporarily lose track of my laptop (which was removed from the bag but which the TSA agent failed to move to the special search area), which by my count is lost item number 4 of the day.

Fortunately, my gate is only 100 feet away and I finally make it to my plane with a whole 10 minutes to spare. My adrenalin pumping and heart still racing, I conduct another quick inventory of my possessions. Everything seems to be here, but wait … I cannot find the earpiece that goes with my phone. Oh well, back to the TSA security check area. Unfortunately, I get bad news this time as they cannot locate my missing phone device. I’m sure it must be back at the United ticket counter but, after some quick calculations, I figure there’s no way that I can make it there and back in time. Fuck, I just bought that thing. I wonder if I can expense it to Savvis? Oh well, I’ll just tell myself that it made me look like a wanker.

Oh well, at least I made it on to my plane. Assuming we don’t crash or run into any other delays, I might actually make my connecting flight in Denver. I figure that the worst has to be behind me. Right?

Tomorrow - “The Joys of American Flight 5502” (or “Let Me Introduce You To My Seatmate, Bigfoot”).

Pat Robertson Has Balls

Christian broadcaster Pat Robertson suggested Thursday that Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon's stroke was divine punishment for dividing God's land.

While describing Sharon as a "very tender-hearted man and a good friend," Robertson indicated that "God has enmity" against that same tender-hearted man and good friend. Robertson also said it was God's insistence that Israel not be divided, referring to the 1995 assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, who had sought to achieve peace by giving land to the Palestinians. "It was a terrible thing that happened, but nevertheless he was dead," Robertson said.

If Pat Robertson's New Year's Resolution was to avoid looking like a complete asshole, it looks like he might have already slipped up. Nice work, Pat! Oh well, there's always 2007.

Disney Postlude

Other than the bad weather, the only thing which irked me on Day 2 was something that happened during the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. As we're riding through the PotC, I noticed people started singing the "Yo, ho, ho, hum, a pirate's life for me" chorus .... but that was it. No one knew any of the rest of the words. Now I am not holding myself out there as a PotC music expert, but I do know there's nothing more annoying than hearing a boatload of off-tune people murmuring lyrics that they don't know. Jesus, if you don't know the song, please don't pretend that you do. Fuck, that irked me.

The rest of Day 2 was great. That is, until I left to head to the Santa Ana Airport. While waiting for my delayed flight, I did notice a few odd things:

1) There is actually flight which goes from Orange County to Los Angeles. I have no idea who would ever take this flight since the two airports are only 40 miles away. Even with horrible So Cal rush hour traffic, you can't tell me it's quicker to "park, check in, submit to security gate strip search, board plane, fly, land, get bags, exit airport, hail a cab." That's just absurd.

2) More absurd than that, though, was the dude standing in the middle of the airport videotaping the interior of Santa Ana Airport. He wasn't taping his wife getting off the plane or his rushing to see him. No, by all appearances, he was simply taping the walkway, the signs, gate information and the like. Who the fuck does that? Like he's going to get home and pop in the video and show his friend's back home the amazing flying machine building. What a rube.

As I've noted before, flying Southwest sucks. But flying on Southwest out of Orange County is even worse. If you've never done it before, it's hard to describe the harrowing take off that passengers have to endure in exchange for the privilege of flying out of the OC. You see, Orange County residents who decided to live near the long-standing airport evidently didn't realize that planes make noise. A lot of it. So in order to avoid disturbing those OC residents that chose to live there, each plane needs to undertake some crazy flying gymnastics.

In a nutshell, the plane takes off like a space shuttle, before quickly dropping the nose of the plane and cutting down on the engine throttle. After gliding for about 5 minutes, the pilot quickly turns on all the engines and we begin to soar higher. All so some right wing assholes who chose to live near the airport can do so with minimal noise disturbance.

My response (as you could probably guess) is "fuck them, they brought that shit on themselves" (See, "In re: BHug"). Seriously, why should I have to endure some crazy Apollo 13 takeoff just so they can live in their $800,000 track homes? Fuck, I just rode enough wild rides at Disneyland, why can't I have a simple flight for once?

Disneyland - Day 2

At 5:45, I am awoken by my son who is desperate to get back to Disneyland despite my repeated explanation that the park doesn't open for over 2 hours. Having failed that negotiation, I cannot go back to sleep but I manage to fill the time before the park opens before heading over to 7-11 to stock up on snacks. "Hey kids, who likes beef jerky? Oh, just me? Oh well."

Despite getting 5 hours of solid sleep, for some reason unbeknonst to me I am still exhausted. Go figure. So I scour the 7-11 for sources of caffeine that I can easily smuggle into the park. And then I discover it -- Mad Croc energy gum. The good news is that this little magic pill contains caffeine, taurine, B6 and B12, just what I need in order function. The bad news is that the flavor is what I imagine a partially chewed up cigarette would taste like. But despite the hideous aftertaste, I still consume five of them during Day 2.

On Day 2, it rained even worse in the morning than it did on Day 1. I don't have the actual soaking wet picture of me that I mentioned on yesterday, but I looked a little something like this:



Other highlights from Day 2:

* I somehow managed to cut my finger and draw blood with a plastic knife. I know what you're asking yourself and the answer is "No, I'm not retarded." I blamed this mishap on the poor product design (the knife was heavily serrated), although it could have been something to do with the fact that I was pretty groggy by lunch. Perhaps I should have kept my receipt for the Mad Croc energy gum.

* My favorite rides remain "The Pirates of the Caribbean" and "It's a Small World" (hmm, I wonder when that movie is coming out?). My favorite part during the PotC ride is the scene where the pirates are selling of women as brides (when did this enlightened practice stop?). If you time it right and listen carefully, you'll hear the auctioneer instruct one of the potential brides to "show 'em your best attribute," at which point one of the rubenesque women turned around and shook her robotic ass. The silence of my boat mates when I burst out laughing indicates, however, that I am the only one that heard this.

* Bad news - The Michael Jackson "Captain EO" ride is no longer at Disneyland. Good news - it's been replaced by the "Children's Heavy Petting Zoo," so we really don't have to miss a beat.

* Further bad news - The robotic (or was the technology called "animatronic?") Abraham Lincoln is on hiatus at Disneyland. Outstanding. I guess it was imperative to squeeze in the umpteenth Disneyland gift shop instead of Honest Abe. Does anyone else remember this attraction? I loved it. Now how will the children ever learn about history?

Tomorrow - final airport musings from the Santa Ana Airport.

Happy New Calendar Day!

A belated New Year's greetings to all. Since I generally dislike New Year's as a holiday (it's really simply a celebration of a new calendar, big shit) and as a celebration (it's amateur night, although I had a good time this year). So this year, I did something other than working out extensively on New Year's Day -- I went on a trip with the progeny to Disneyland. I was like "why not, I haven't been there in 15 years" and I've heard it's changed a bit during the interim.

Now this is normally a fun, although somewhat daunting, experience. Add to that a raging hangover, and you can sense how the trip started out. In hindsight, the combination of vodka, mai tais and champagne was probably not the wisest. Among the items I forgot in my foggy and hurried departure to the airport was my industrial strength rain jacket - a decision I will quickly regret on this trip.

The trip was far more challenging than normal because it was done during the extended New Year's Day holiday weekend and everyone else evidently had the same bright idea. Hello sea of humanity. The flight down was made memorable by the constant turbulence and the presence of some god-awful perfume that some inconsiderate woman doused herself with near the end of the flight. I guess it's imperative that she smell good as she exits the plane.

I arrive at Santa Ana airport around 1:00 (I refuse to call it "John Wayne Airport" just as I refuse to call DC-National "Reagan" airport. I am quickly reminded I am back in So Cal by the number of fake tits I see. Awesome. And by awesome, I really do mean awesome.

I quickly discover the closest Del Taco on my way to Mouseland and, I must say, I forgot how awesome Del Taco is. Far better than Taco Bell as completely unhealthy fast food chains go. I highly recommend the large chicken tacos.

After splurging on $4 worth of food, I headed to the park to meet up with the kids who were already there with family and friends. For those of you that have never been to Disneyland, let alone Southern California, let me dispel a popular myth - it is not always 80 degrees and sunny there. In fact, sometimes the weather is downright shitty. Take for example, ohhh, Sunday when I arrived. It was raining so hard when I got there, I think I saw an ark filled with two sets of animals floating down Main Street. I deeply regretted leaving my rain coat as I was left simply with a hooded sweatshirt and $5 umbrella I bought from a street vendor. By the end of the day, I looked like a wet cat (and I have a picture to prove it). And despite the crowds, the park is absolutely packed.

Tomorrow: Day 2.