Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Flying Bazaar
I recently took a plane trip - not an unusual occurrence in my current occupation - and I have to comment on the state of our airlines. Now, I realize I am not blazing new trails by ranting about airlines, I mean, how many "tiny bags of peanuts" jokes have you heard from comedians over the years? I have no proof, but I am quite sure that right after the Wright Brothers invented the airplane, stand up comedians stampeded to Kitty Hawk, NC to be the first one to complain about airline food. By the way, Mr. and Mrs. Wright, where were you going with naming your sons Orville and Wilbur? I don't want to offend all of you Orvilles and Wilburs reading this blog - of which there must be hundreds - but, seriously Orville and Wilbur? What was the thought process in the hospital when they were born? Mrs. Wright: "Oh honey, its a boy - what a beautiful, wonderful boy!" Mr. Wright: "He sure is a perfect, handsome boy - let's name him Wilbur!" Mrs. Wright: "OK, but promise me our next son will be Orville - we have to grab that name before someone else in the family does!" I like to think the parents were conspiring for a lifetime of inside jokes. They would just sit in the audience at school plays and recitals and science fairs and crack up when their kids' names were read out loud: "I cannot believe we named them Orville and Wilbur" (wiping tears of laughter from their eyes) "man, that never gets old!" Even today some of the names parents come up with sound like they lost some sort of bet and the punishment was naming their kid after a J Crew color or an organic vegetable: "Fennel, Shallot, come down for supper - and make sure your brother Loden washes his hands!" But I digress.
I am not one who generally complains to the customer-facing airline representatives - the counter people, the flight attendants. First of all, they have little to nothing to do with whatever my complaint happens to be - weather delays, mechanical problems, annoying person cutting his nails in the seat next to me. Second, they are not paid well enough to deal with all of the whining and complaining they already get (if I were in their shoes, I would be punching people left and right every time they tried to fit a full-sized suitcase into the overhead bin and then yelling at me when it won't fit, or asking to switch seats with fourteen people so they can sit next to their spouse, or having one last inane cell phone conversation ten minutes after they were politely asked to turn it off so we can take off). Third, I feel sorry for them because they are the face of a corporation and take all of the abuse, while the decision-makers get off Scot-free (and by the way, how did that expression start? Who is Scott and why was he freed, and why was his freedom so noteworthy that a saying was coined to memorialize said freedom?) So, unless a customer-facing person is directly responsible for my complaint, I prefer to remain silent and then write a scathing letter to the powers-that-be, who then throw my scathing letter in the circular file and have their secretary send me a form letter. But at least I have you to complain to.
Food. I understand that every airline on the planet is either in bankruptcy, fighting to avoid bankruptcy, or just emerging from bankruptcy protection, so they are all cutting corners where they can. Food service seems like the #1 choice to cut, and I am quite ok with that. If I want microwaved chicken-like glob, overcooked vegetables and a stale roll I'll stay home and eat my wife's cooking (cue the rim shot - ba-ching!) Just kidding honey - you are a wonderful cook! (she really is an incredibly good cook, but that joke was just begging to be written. Man, now I'm in trouble; I'll be eating microwave popcorn for dinner for a month! The sacrifices I make for my art...) But, now that the airlines have announced that they are no longer serving food, it has somehow given carte blanche to every idiot traveler to bring any food they want onto the plane. And a turkey sub is apparently well down of the list of these folks' culinary choices, because now, at best, the inside of the airline smells like the foodcourt at a mall and at worst it smells like the open air bazaar of some third world city. Really sir, a turkey sandwich and bag of chips wasn't going to tide you over for a few hours? You really had to get the muchu pork, fried rice, baked stuffed goat head and cabbage stew? I have to go straight to a meeting when I get off the plane and I smell like I just did a double shift on the fry-o-lator at Arby's. And everyone who brings this picnic basket-sized feast is somehow shocked - shocked - when they spill curry mustard sauce all over themselves and their carry on! Yeah buddy, the picnic table that was available to you on the last flight has somehow, inexplicably been replaced with a pulldown tray table the size of a cereal box, go figure.
Seats: Now, I'm 6' 4" (hi Meg!), so I don't have a lot of room on planes to begin with, but we are seriously at the point of airplane seats the size of my kids' car seats. I have no idea how fat people fly, because I can barely squeeze into the seat as it is and my knees are so wedged into the seat in front of me that the muchu pork guy is using my thighs to hold his drink and dessert. And the person in front of me (who is a little 5' 2" weasel and has room to stick his feet straight out in front of him and still not touch the seatback) invariably thinks there is something wrong with his recliner button, so he jams backward four hundred times giving me a total knee replacement sans anaesthetic. But that seatback had better be in the full upright position on takeoff and landing! Cause you know, if the plane is going down or up that 2 inches of angle difference really matters to your safety and well-being.
Bathrooms: I think they should be smaller. It is a tad too roomy in there, what with the 4' height and 2' width - they are a little too comfortable. I mean, I can still get in there if I bend over while leaning back and slightly to the side, while resting one foot gently upon the sink and an arm on the mirror. Which easily frees one hand at a 90 degree angle, pinned to my side to unzip, aim, control the flow and re-zip. No complaints there.
Yes, what a privilege it is to be alive in this golden age of air travel.
I am not one who generally complains to the customer-facing airline representatives - the counter people, the flight attendants. First of all, they have little to nothing to do with whatever my complaint happens to be - weather delays, mechanical problems, annoying person cutting his nails in the seat next to me. Second, they are not paid well enough to deal with all of the whining and complaining they already get (if I were in their shoes, I would be punching people left and right every time they tried to fit a full-sized suitcase into the overhead bin and then yelling at me when it won't fit, or asking to switch seats with fourteen people so they can sit next to their spouse, or having one last inane cell phone conversation ten minutes after they were politely asked to turn it off so we can take off). Third, I feel sorry for them because they are the face of a corporation and take all of the abuse, while the decision-makers get off Scot-free (and by the way, how did that expression start? Who is Scott and why was he freed, and why was his freedom so noteworthy that a saying was coined to memorialize said freedom?) So, unless a customer-facing person is directly responsible for my complaint, I prefer to remain silent and then write a scathing letter to the powers-that-be, who then throw my scathing letter in the circular file and have their secretary send me a form letter. But at least I have you to complain to.
Food. I understand that every airline on the planet is either in bankruptcy, fighting to avoid bankruptcy, or just emerging from bankruptcy protection, so they are all cutting corners where they can. Food service seems like the #1 choice to cut, and I am quite ok with that. If I want microwaved chicken-like glob, overcooked vegetables and a stale roll I'll stay home and eat my wife's cooking (cue the rim shot - ba-ching!) Just kidding honey - you are a wonderful cook! (she really is an incredibly good cook, but that joke was just begging to be written. Man, now I'm in trouble; I'll be eating microwave popcorn for dinner for a month! The sacrifices I make for my art...) But, now that the airlines have announced that they are no longer serving food, it has somehow given carte blanche to every idiot traveler to bring any food they want onto the plane. And a turkey sub is apparently well down of the list of these folks' culinary choices, because now, at best, the inside of the airline smells like the foodcourt at a mall and at worst it smells like the open air bazaar of some third world city. Really sir, a turkey sandwich and bag of chips wasn't going to tide you over for a few hours? You really had to get the muchu pork, fried rice, baked stuffed goat head and cabbage stew? I have to go straight to a meeting when I get off the plane and I smell like I just did a double shift on the fry-o-lator at Arby's. And everyone who brings this picnic basket-sized feast is somehow shocked - shocked - when they spill curry mustard sauce all over themselves and their carry on! Yeah buddy, the picnic table that was available to you on the last flight has somehow, inexplicably been replaced with a pulldown tray table the size of a cereal box, go figure.
Seats: Now, I'm 6' 4" (hi Meg!), so I don't have a lot of room on planes to begin with, but we are seriously at the point of airplane seats the size of my kids' car seats. I have no idea how fat people fly, because I can barely squeeze into the seat as it is and my knees are so wedged into the seat in front of me that the muchu pork guy is using my thighs to hold his drink and dessert. And the person in front of me (who is a little 5' 2" weasel and has room to stick his feet straight out in front of him and still not touch the seatback) invariably thinks there is something wrong with his recliner button, so he jams backward four hundred times giving me a total knee replacement sans anaesthetic. But that seatback had better be in the full upright position on takeoff and landing! Cause you know, if the plane is going down or up that 2 inches of angle difference really matters to your safety and well-being.
Bathrooms: I think they should be smaller. It is a tad too roomy in there, what with the 4' height and 2' width - they are a little too comfortable. I mean, I can still get in there if I bend over while leaning back and slightly to the side, while resting one foot gently upon the sink and an arm on the mirror. Which easily frees one hand at a 90 degree angle, pinned to my side to unzip, aim, control the flow and re-zip. No complaints there.
Yes, what a privilege it is to be alive in this golden age of air travel.
Friday, September 7, 2007
I'm a Wimp
There, I said it. Hi, I'm Paul and I am have Wimpy Tendencies (WT). (You respond, "Hi, Paul"). I have had WTs for as long as I can remember, but I think they first manifest themselves when I got braces and as they began to work, I was in debilitating, eat nothing but pudding and milkshakes for a week pain. Phew, what a relief to finally be able to say it. (Of course, for those who know me, this is akin to announcing the sky is blue). And I'm not a total wimp mind you - I mean, I played all of the hit and get hit sports as a youth - ice hockey, football, baseball, rugby (and I still play ice hockey, so there). And I have become quite the do-it-yourselfer around the house I don't mind telling you, so I know my way around a tool chest and a tool shed. So, I am quite comfortable with my masculinity, thank you very much. But, I do have wimp tendencies, of that let there be no doubt. For example, I usually cry when my daughters make me a card. And I have been known to well up while watching poignant commercials, or the end of a chick flick I have been dragged to, or after one of those Olympic retrospectives (those always get me). And ok, I may have sort of cried when my wife and I were watching the finale of the Biggest Loser, when all of the fatties revealed how much weight they lost and how it had changed their lives. Well, it was touching all right, shoot me! So, honestly, I have no problem with that side of me (and my wife thinks its cute). But the problem is that, as a husband, father and even as a 30-something male, I exist in a world where I'm not allowed to show that side of me. Our society looks down upon the sensitive male in most circumstances.
For example, I got my haircut today. And I'm terrified of scissors. Ok, that's not really true. But I go to a barber who has a woman (not unattractive) who does the pre-haircut hair washing. And my barber is pretty old school - that's part of the reason I like going there (another reason is that I like the way he cuts my hair). And part of that old school haircut experience I like is that he uses a straight razor to cut the hair on the back of my neck and my sideburn area - very cool. Also, he has the hair-washing person do the hot-towel-on-face-while-my-hair-is-being-washed-thing - and herein lies the problem. While I really like the feeling of the hot towel thing (eventually), sometimes that towel comes out of the steamer thing quite hot. Really, really hot. Like 'a layer of skin was just stripped from my face' hot. And the attractive hair wash woman always asks "Does that feel ok?" Now, for a guy like me with wimpy tendencies, I ask you what kind of impossible position does that question put me in? I will submit that this is a must lie situation. I mean, what I really want to tell the woman is to take that thing off my face immediately because my face is melting. But, how would I look to this woman, and to the other guys that are in their for their haircuts? That towel could literally be on fire when it is applied to my face and I don't think I could say anything.
And what about at the doctor's office? I am terrified of needles. But what am I supposed to tell the nurse (99 times out of 100, a woman) when she asks for an arm to jab? That I need another nurse in the room who's hand I can hold? Because that's what I'm thinking. But no, I have to hold my arm out there like the masculine dude I am even though I'm crying like a baby on the inside - again, a must lie situation.
And what about when my daughters are screaming because there is a big spider in their bedroom? Do I tell them that I'd rather be diving under the covers with them than killing this gigantic, hairy, freaky, leggy thing? Or do I tell them in a calm, fatherly voice that I'll handle it (and then pray the thing doesn't move while I shut my eyes and whack at it with a shoe, because if it moves and I miss it, I am running for the hills). Lie. Lie. Lie.
I think that's why I hate horror movies so much - getting the shi..stuff scared out of my is not my idea of a good time - and exposes my wimpy tendency to scream like a five year old every time something scares me.
So, I guess I'm trapped until society recognizes the error of its ways. Maybe I can start a support group for other guys with WT (wimpy tendencies). Maybe we can one day walk through the world without this Scarlett WT on our chests. But until that day comes...kill your own spiders cause they freak me out.
For example, I got my haircut today. And I'm terrified of scissors. Ok, that's not really true. But I go to a barber who has a woman (not unattractive) who does the pre-haircut hair washing. And my barber is pretty old school - that's part of the reason I like going there (another reason is that I like the way he cuts my hair). And part of that old school haircut experience I like is that he uses a straight razor to cut the hair on the back of my neck and my sideburn area - very cool. Also, he has the hair-washing person do the hot-towel-on-face-while-my-hair-is-being-washed-thing - and herein lies the problem. While I really like the feeling of the hot towel thing (eventually), sometimes that towel comes out of the steamer thing quite hot. Really, really hot. Like 'a layer of skin was just stripped from my face' hot. And the attractive hair wash woman always asks "Does that feel ok?" Now, for a guy like me with wimpy tendencies, I ask you what kind of impossible position does that question put me in? I will submit that this is a must lie situation. I mean, what I really want to tell the woman is to take that thing off my face immediately because my face is melting. But, how would I look to this woman, and to the other guys that are in their for their haircuts? That towel could literally be on fire when it is applied to my face and I don't think I could say anything.
And what about at the doctor's office? I am terrified of needles. But what am I supposed to tell the nurse (99 times out of 100, a woman) when she asks for an arm to jab? That I need another nurse in the room who's hand I can hold? Because that's what I'm thinking. But no, I have to hold my arm out there like the masculine dude I am even though I'm crying like a baby on the inside - again, a must lie situation.
And what about when my daughters are screaming because there is a big spider in their bedroom? Do I tell them that I'd rather be diving under the covers with them than killing this gigantic, hairy, freaky, leggy thing? Or do I tell them in a calm, fatherly voice that I'll handle it (and then pray the thing doesn't move while I shut my eyes and whack at it with a shoe, because if it moves and I miss it, I am running for the hills). Lie. Lie. Lie.
I think that's why I hate horror movies so much - getting the shi..stuff scared out of my is not my idea of a good time - and exposes my wimpy tendency to scream like a five year old every time something scares me.
So, I guess I'm trapped until society recognizes the error of its ways. Maybe I can start a support group for other guys with WT (wimpy tendencies). Maybe we can one day walk through the world without this Scarlett WT on our chests. But until that day comes...kill your own spiders cause they freak me out.
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