As I have mentioned previously in this space, I am a movie lover (actually, I just mentioned it in the column below, penned only yesterday, but I kind of like how this sentence starts; I'm intrigued to find out what I write next). I happened to run across Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory the other day - not the most recent one starring Johnny Depp (who is a tremendous actor, loved him in The Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, but he seems like he's trying a bit too hard as his version of Willy), but the classic version starring the immortal Gene Wilder (quick true story - I was hitting golf balls at a local public course this Fall and who should walk over and set up right next to me...yes, Gene Wilder! Apparently he lives close by, but, I mean, come on! Blazing Saddles!!!!, Young Frankenstein!!!!, Stir Crazy!!!!, The Producers!!!!!, Willy Wonka!!! standing right next to me hitting golf balls! I was speechless. He must be pushing 70 by now, and he was a little thin, but he hit the ball pretty straight, and he was nice enough to offer me the rest of his basket of balls when he was done hitting. Which, of course I accepted if only to have the chance to speak to him for a few minutes and thank him for all of the laughter he brought me for my entire life. Very nice guy.)
Anyhoo, I have few rules in life, but one of them is that if Gene Wilder is in a movie I have just run across - especially if that movie appears on the short list above - I am watching it. So, a few nights ago when Willy Wonka came on, I was in. And maybe it was because I was overtired, or maybe I just finally saw things as they really are, but I'm pretty sure Grandpa Joe was a drug addict who manipulated Charlie into taking him to the Chocolate factory to satisfy his drug jones. Think about it, the man exhibits all of the classic signs of a drug abuser - let's take them in order:
1. He was rail thin and pasty white - the fashion industry doesn't call this look "heroin-chic" for nothing.
2. He had no job, no money, and he was a freeloader who lied in bed all day, every day. How selfish is that? When the movie starts Charlie comes home from school, and his Mother comes home from her 14-hour day doing other peoples' laundry, while these four deadbeats are lying in the only bed in the house which sits right in the middle of the biggest room. Tell me that's not exactly what a crack den looks like. Grandpa Joe freely admits that he hasn't been out of bed in twenty years, so that means that Mom is emptying bedpans as well, which must be a great job when all they eat every day is cabbage soup. And how ripe does that crew smell? I hope Mom hits them with a hose every few weeks or the smell would be unbearable!
3. he has a willing enabler in his daughter (Charlie's Mom). I used to feel sorry for Charlie's Mom because she busts her ass all day, everyday, and when whiny Charlie hits the freaking candy lotto, he goes right for Grandpa Joe to share the prize! I'd have gone bullsh_t on him if he tried that! (And while we're on the subject, people talk about Veruka Salt's sense of entitlement, but what about Charlie's? The entire first half of the movie he's whining at whoever will listen that he deserves one of the five golden tickets because it would mean more to him. Well, la-di-freaking-da, don't we have a high opinion of our self!? Four billion people in the world, but he thinks he is top 5 most deserving! Jees, Veruka got a bad wrap, in my opinion). But back to Mom, I used to feel bad for her, but she's just an enabler at this point - another clear sign of Grandpa Joe's drug abuse. I mean, what person working 14-hour days, doing all of the cooking and housework, and eating nothing but cabbage soup while trying to raise a teenager wouldn't lose it on the four grandparents after a couple of weeks, never mind twenty years! Get off your asses and go get jobs as WalMart greeters you deadbeats!
4. Grandpa exhibited clear signs of hoarding. When everyone else was asleep (and went to sleep starving, by the way), Grandpa Joe pulls another Wonka Bar out from behind his pillow for he and Charlie. Way to plot with the kid while the rest of the family starves Grandpa Joe. Classic drug-seeking behavior.
5. Grandpa Joe always had a little money stashed for "tobacco" (he tells Charlie that he used his tobacco money to get Charlie the first chocolate bar). Yeah, pull this one Joe, it plays jingle bells. A little "medicinal marijuana" is more like it.
6. When Grandpa does finally get to his feet, it is to score some quick and easy cash and prizes. Yeah, you're too sick to get out of bed for twenty years, but as soon as the kid is throwing freebies in your face, you miraculously get better?! (another example of Mom's enabling by the way).
7. As soon as he stands up, Grandpa is staggering around like he is drunk.
8. When they get into Wonka's factory, he encourages Charlie to sign his life away, just so he (Grandpa) can get into the factory: "sign away Charlie, we've got nothing to lose." Yeah, maybe you don't Grandpa, you drug addled old coot, but Charlie has his whole life in front of him.
9. As soon as the coast is clear, he convinces Charlie to steal some Fizzy Lifting Drink so Grandpa Joe could get "high". Two signs of drug seeking here: encouraging others to commit crimes on your behalf, and using the stolen substance for your own pleasure. Man, they can write drug abuser textbooks on this guy.
10. Encourages Charlie to take the everlasting gobstopper to Slugworth - or, in drug parlance - switching dealers and double-crossing your first dealer when you think he has screwed you.
And you know what? Grandpa Joe played everyone perfectly because he scored the biggest prize in the end - the factory and all its contents. I wonder how long it took for him to sell the Oompa Loompas into slavery and bankrupt the company to support his drug habit? If they did a Willy Wonka 2, Grandpa Joe would have have looked like Al Pacino at the end of Scarface.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Do you go to the movies?
I am a movie lover. With three kids, we hardly ever actually go to the movies anymore but with 1800 channels on our cable system now, plus pay-per-view, Netflicks, and a DVR (digital video recorder for the uninformed - kind of a built in TiVo. And if you don't know what TiVo is, well, I don't know what to tell you), we can have our choice of movies right at home. In fact, I'm pretty sure going to the movies will soon go the way of the drive-in. I still manage to see every movie I want to, and I don't have to take out a home equity loan for two tickets, a medium popcorn and two bottles of water. (But, I really need to buy a fake movie theatre butter machine, because that is the only reason to go to the movies in a theatre anymore. A few pumps of that stuff and you have enough processed fat and chemicals to kill a horse and, of course, you need the equivalent of two Bounty rolls of napkins to get the grease off of your hands, and most of it sticks to the first few handfuls of popcorn on the top, so eating those couple of handfuls is like cramming a butter-soaked sponge into your mouth, while the rest of the bag tastes like chalk and sand balls because its been sitting in the popcorn-display-window-thingy since the first Jaws movie came out, but I defy you to find me something quite so delicious. But I digress.) Nor do I have to listen to five cell phone conversations as I try to watch the movie. Or stand up nine times because the idiot in the middle of the row feels the need to leave the theatre every five seconds. Or miss a key part of the movie because idiot #2 can't remember where he was sitting and stands in the aisle (right in my line of sight) for twenty minutes while he looks around. Or, the newborn the idiot couple (we'll call them #3 and #4 and give the kid a pass) brought asleep in a car seat baby bucket decides to wake up and scream (and idiots 3 and 4 are somehow shocked by this). Or if (read: when) my lovely wife (if you think for one second I'm calling her an idiot, you haven't been paying attention) has a question about the plot, I can pause the movie so we can chat while not missing any of the action. Yes, watching at home is a much more enjoyable experience. And I used to lament not seeing the next big blockbuster right away, so as not to be behind the times or out of the loop on the next great movie discussion, but I have found that pretty much all of our friends have young kids and they are in the same boat as we are. In fact, just last weekend we were talking about "Knocked Up" (very, very funny by the way), and all of us were talking about it as if the movie had just come out. But, it had been in the movie theatre six months before - we were only talking about it now because it was finally on cable, so we all finally saw it. So, if you can deal with the six month lag (and the aforementioned lack of movie popcorn butter, watching movies at home is quite a pleasant experience. The only downside to at home is finding the time to watch.
Fortunately for me, I don't sleep much. Actually, that is rather problematic because I love sleep, or, at least I used to love sleep when I got it. In college - once we were Juniors and had some schedule flexibility - my roommate Mark and I would schedule all of our classes in the afternoon just so we could go out late, and sleep in, and still make all (and by all, I mean, of course most. and by most, of course I mean many. and by many, of course I mean some.) of our classes. The other guys in our apartment started calling our room the Bat Cave because we were rarely seen before noon. And it was great, but I wish I could have seen myself 20 years later (I can't believe I was in college 20 years ago, but that is a whole other column) because I would have soaked it up and enjoyed that sleep so much more. Because once you have a job and kids, the very first thing to go is sleep and, near as I can tell, you never get it back.
I am very jealous of a person who can pop right up in the morning, wide awake, ready to tackle the day. I am not that person. If it were up to me, the day would start at, oh, 11:30ish. This lack of sleep is made worse (compounded, if you will) by the fact that I have always been a night owl. I have no problem at all staying up until 1 or 2 in the morning, even if I have to drag myself out of bed at 7:30 the next morning. And its not like I have a choice - I cannot for the life of me fall asleep until 11:30-midnight even if I turned off the light and went into complete shutdown mode. I used to do this and it would compound (exacerbate, if you will) the problem because I would toss and turn and watch the time tick by wondering when I would fall asleep. So, finally, I gave up and just went with the fact that I am a night owl; that's just how I'm wired.
But, one of the advantages to being a night owl is the chance to watch a good movie - and trust me, there is always a good, cheesy, or bad but so bad its good movie somewhere on tv (I think its a law). Last night, for example, I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid which happens to be one of the top 10 greatest movies of all time (along with the two Godfather movies - yes, there are only two, despite what you may have seen or heard, Caddyshack, Animal House, The Quiet Man, the Indiana Jones trilogy, The Sting, any James Bond film and the Star Wars movies. OK, some of the 10 have more than one film in the series, but you get the idea.) And what's great is I can't go five days without one of these movies being shown somewhere, especially Star Wars lately.
I have been on a Star Wars roll the last six months and I'm such a junkie, I can't turn them off no matter how often I've seen them. Maybe it has something to do with the Force as a concept that fascinates me. These guys are using a mystical power to move objects, knock people/things down, speak to the dead (or at least the no-longer-with-us-but-glowing-apparition-guys). Do you remember that scene in the first (well, third, well, original) Star Wars movie when Obi Wan is speaking to Luke from beyond the grave or wherever he is? (actually, you are probably not a geek, so you likely do not remember it) Anyway, Obi Wan is telling Luke to "trust his feelings" and "use the Force". Meanwhile, he's been "dead" for days, so this is a pretty neat trick - and Obi Wan showed remarkable restraint waiting so long to speak to Luke. If I had the powers of the Force, I'd be waaay to tempted to constantly interrupt people's lives. [At the deli counter just before ordering] "Luke, have the ham and cheese, the roast beef isn't good today." [On the highway] "Luke, take the Merritt Parkway, there's an accident on 95." [On the golf course] "Luke, there's a little wind up here, I'd hit the five iron." Do you think there is an on/off switch for this sort of conversation, because it would probably get pretty annoying after a while to have some old dead guy giving you advice from the great beyond: "Paul, its 1:30 in the morning, go to sleep already."
Fortunately for me, I don't sleep much. Actually, that is rather problematic because I love sleep, or, at least I used to love sleep when I got it. In college - once we were Juniors and had some schedule flexibility - my roommate Mark and I would schedule all of our classes in the afternoon just so we could go out late, and sleep in, and still make all (and by all, I mean, of course most. and by most, of course I mean many. and by many, of course I mean some.) of our classes. The other guys in our apartment started calling our room the Bat Cave because we were rarely seen before noon. And it was great, but I wish I could have seen myself 20 years later (I can't believe I was in college 20 years ago, but that is a whole other column) because I would have soaked it up and enjoyed that sleep so much more. Because once you have a job and kids, the very first thing to go is sleep and, near as I can tell, you never get it back.
I am very jealous of a person who can pop right up in the morning, wide awake, ready to tackle the day. I am not that person. If it were up to me, the day would start at, oh, 11:30ish. This lack of sleep is made worse (compounded, if you will) by the fact that I have always been a night owl. I have no problem at all staying up until 1 or 2 in the morning, even if I have to drag myself out of bed at 7:30 the next morning. And its not like I have a choice - I cannot for the life of me fall asleep until 11:30-midnight even if I turned off the light and went into complete shutdown mode. I used to do this and it would compound (exacerbate, if you will) the problem because I would toss and turn and watch the time tick by wondering when I would fall asleep. So, finally, I gave up and just went with the fact that I am a night owl; that's just how I'm wired.
But, one of the advantages to being a night owl is the chance to watch a good movie - and trust me, there is always a good, cheesy, or bad but so bad its good movie somewhere on tv (I think its a law). Last night, for example, I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid which happens to be one of the top 10 greatest movies of all time (along with the two Godfather movies - yes, there are only two, despite what you may have seen or heard, Caddyshack, Animal House, The Quiet Man, the Indiana Jones trilogy, The Sting, any James Bond film and the Star Wars movies. OK, some of the 10 have more than one film in the series, but you get the idea.) And what's great is I can't go five days without one of these movies being shown somewhere, especially Star Wars lately.
I have been on a Star Wars roll the last six months and I'm such a junkie, I can't turn them off no matter how often I've seen them. Maybe it has something to do with the Force as a concept that fascinates me. These guys are using a mystical power to move objects, knock people/things down, speak to the dead (or at least the no-longer-with-us-but-glowing-apparition-guys). Do you remember that scene in the first (well, third, well, original) Star Wars movie when Obi Wan is speaking to Luke from beyond the grave or wherever he is? (actually, you are probably not a geek, so you likely do not remember it) Anyway, Obi Wan is telling Luke to "trust his feelings" and "use the Force". Meanwhile, he's been "dead" for days, so this is a pretty neat trick - and Obi Wan showed remarkable restraint waiting so long to speak to Luke. If I had the powers of the Force, I'd be waaay to tempted to constantly interrupt people's lives. [At the deli counter just before ordering] "Luke, have the ham and cheese, the roast beef isn't good today." [On the highway] "Luke, take the Merritt Parkway, there's an accident on 95." [On the golf course] "Luke, there's a little wind up here, I'd hit the five iron." Do you think there is an on/off switch for this sort of conversation, because it would probably get pretty annoying after a while to have some old dead guy giving you advice from the great beyond: "Paul, its 1:30 in the morning, go to sleep already."
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Organic Guilt
From the home office in Tallulah, Georgia, I present the Top Ten Reasons I haven't blogged in a month:
1. I was attempting to honor the Hollywood writers' strike.
2. I forgot my log in ID and password.
3. After almost a year posting, I'm fresh out of original ideas.
4. I was caught up in the passion of Hillary's ideas and I've been on the campaign trail for a month.
5. Lost the will to write after witnessing another Red Sox World Series victory.
6. The guy I'm plagiarizing my stuff from hasn't posted in a while.
7. Recovering from breast-reduction surgery.
8. Mistakenly believed the story that the Internet was passe and everyone went back to communicating face-to-face.
9. Trying to catch up on my Oprah's Book Club list.
10. I have been traveling almost constantly for the past month and this is the first time I have found time to post since my journeys began. My apologies to the four people who read this blog.
But, since I'm here, I might as well write.
Hi. How have you been? I've been well, thank you - a bit haggard after my traveling schedule, but no worse for the wear. I don't really mind travel too much - I mean, being away from my wife and kids sucks, and the work piles up on my desk, but the actual travel never really bugged me...until now. And that is because the Green Guilt Police are making it so less fun to travel. And I know, it is very un-PC to say anything against the environmental movement these days, what with Al Gore quickly becoming more influential than the Pope, but the Green Guilt Police are starting to annoy me. And don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to doing my share to help save the planet from whatever ails her - after all, I now only bathe in rainwater I collect from my gutters - sure there is all manner of sticks, mud, dirt, dead flies, and disease-carrying muck, but I am all about doing my part. But what gets me is the all-consuming, I'm-going-to-influence-every-second-of-your-life theme to this latest environmental movement that has me annoyed.
For example, I was in the San Francisco airport the other day and I was washing my hands in the men's room, and when I went to get a paper towel, the towel dispenser had the following sign on it: "Take only as many paper towels as you need - do your part to help the environment." And I read this and I was thinking a couple of things: first, what if I have really big hands, or I got them extra wet and sudsy? Are people monitoring paper towel usage to gauge the effectiveness of the sign? But mostly, I was thinking, "Damn it!!!! How did they figure us out??? What kind of geniuses are these environmentalists??? For years, I have been recruiting a counter-environmental movement with only one purpose: to slowly kill the planet by using two to three (depending on size and thickness) extra paper towels that we didn't really need. It was the perfect plan - for years I had painstakingly convinced 1/2 to 3/4 of the six billion people on the planet (hard numbers are difficult to come by, what with the birth and death rates being so varied) that the earth was becoming uninhabitable, and that paradise awaited us beyond the grave. Well, that took a lot of convincing, I don't mind telling you - the language barrier alone was positively maddening at times. Just getting the first billion took like six months. And then there were the doubting Thomases of the bunch who kept asking me if I was committed to the movement, that they had seen me using the automatic hand-dry thing on several occasions (you know, to try to throw the environmentalists off my trail), and did I really have what it took to get this done. And trying to recruit three billion people to join my fiendish plot without word leaking out? Well, let's just say that I spent more than a few nervous nights scouring the Internet for word. And then there was the training - how to surreptitiously take two to three extra paper towels (depending on ...well, you know) without being scene; when to abort a mission; how to lose a suspected tail; what to do in upscale restaurants and hotels that had linen towels (three words: toilet paper rolls). But, in the end, it was all worth it. I had successfully recruited the (approximate) number needed to destroy the world using only extra (two to three, depending on size and thickness) paper towels. Our training was impeccable. Our mission clear. In only a matter of hundreds of thousands of years (well, possibly millions, but hey, I'm an optimist) we would use two to three (again, depending on size and thickness) extra paper towels each time we used a public rest room, and I WOULD DESTROY THE WORLD, HA HA HA HA (fiendish laughter)!!!! But, damn those environmentalists, damn them to hell. How could they have learned of my plan? How could they know? Well, they may have won the battle, but we'll win the war! (in fact - and don't tell anyone you've read this - what the environmentalists don't know is that I have a back-up plan to destroy the world in only several million years: taking an extra Kleenex and throwing it away without using it - they'll never suspect it - HA, HA, HA!!!!!! Take that Al Gore!!!
1. I was attempting to honor the Hollywood writers' strike.
2. I forgot my log in ID and password.
3. After almost a year posting, I'm fresh out of original ideas.
4. I was caught up in the passion of Hillary's ideas and I've been on the campaign trail for a month.
5. Lost the will to write after witnessing another Red Sox World Series victory.
6. The guy I'm plagiarizing my stuff from hasn't posted in a while.
7. Recovering from breast-reduction surgery.
8. Mistakenly believed the story that the Internet was passe and everyone went back to communicating face-to-face.
9. Trying to catch up on my Oprah's Book Club list.
10. I have been traveling almost constantly for the past month and this is the first time I have found time to post since my journeys began. My apologies to the four people who read this blog.
But, since I'm here, I might as well write.
Hi. How have you been? I've been well, thank you - a bit haggard after my traveling schedule, but no worse for the wear. I don't really mind travel too much - I mean, being away from my wife and kids sucks, and the work piles up on my desk, but the actual travel never really bugged me...until now. And that is because the Green Guilt Police are making it so less fun to travel. And I know, it is very un-PC to say anything against the environmental movement these days, what with Al Gore quickly becoming more influential than the Pope, but the Green Guilt Police are starting to annoy me. And don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to doing my share to help save the planet from whatever ails her - after all, I now only bathe in rainwater I collect from my gutters - sure there is all manner of sticks, mud, dirt, dead flies, and disease-carrying muck, but I am all about doing my part. But what gets me is the all-consuming, I'm-going-to-influence-every-second-of-your-life theme to this latest environmental movement that has me annoyed.
For example, I was in the San Francisco airport the other day and I was washing my hands in the men's room, and when I went to get a paper towel, the towel dispenser had the following sign on it: "Take only as many paper towels as you need - do your part to help the environment." And I read this and I was thinking a couple of things: first, what if I have really big hands, or I got them extra wet and sudsy? Are people monitoring paper towel usage to gauge the effectiveness of the sign? But mostly, I was thinking, "Damn it!!!! How did they figure us out??? What kind of geniuses are these environmentalists??? For years, I have been recruiting a counter-environmental movement with only one purpose: to slowly kill the planet by using two to three (depending on size and thickness) extra paper towels that we didn't really need. It was the perfect plan - for years I had painstakingly convinced 1/2 to 3/4 of the six billion people on the planet (hard numbers are difficult to come by, what with the birth and death rates being so varied) that the earth was becoming uninhabitable, and that paradise awaited us beyond the grave. Well, that took a lot of convincing, I don't mind telling you - the language barrier alone was positively maddening at times. Just getting the first billion took like six months. And then there were the doubting Thomases of the bunch who kept asking me if I was committed to the movement, that they had seen me using the automatic hand-dry thing on several occasions (you know, to try to throw the environmentalists off my trail), and did I really have what it took to get this done. And trying to recruit three billion people to join my fiendish plot without word leaking out? Well, let's just say that I spent more than a few nervous nights scouring the Internet for word. And then there was the training - how to surreptitiously take two to three extra paper towels (depending on ...well, you know) without being scene; when to abort a mission; how to lose a suspected tail; what to do in upscale restaurants and hotels that had linen towels (three words: toilet paper rolls). But, in the end, it was all worth it. I had successfully recruited the (approximate) number needed to destroy the world using only extra (two to three, depending on size and thickness) paper towels. Our training was impeccable. Our mission clear. In only a matter of hundreds of thousands of years (well, possibly millions, but hey, I'm an optimist) we would use two to three (again, depending on size and thickness) extra paper towels each time we used a public rest room, and I WOULD DESTROY THE WORLD, HA HA HA HA (fiendish laughter)!!!! But, damn those environmentalists, damn them to hell. How could they have learned of my plan? How could they know? Well, they may have won the battle, but we'll win the war! (in fact - and don't tell anyone you've read this - what the environmentalists don't know is that I have a back-up plan to destroy the world in only several million years: taking an extra Kleenex and throwing it away without using it - they'll never suspect it - HA, HA, HA!!!!!! Take that Al Gore!!!
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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Vacation
You may or may not have noticed that I haven't posted in a while. We've had several trips in the last month (including two family reunions - hi relatives!) and with summer in full swing, my time to blog has been limited. But, we're back and better than ever! And speaking of back, I was driving back from upstate NY the other day (and just to clear up a popular misconception, I was north of Albany so I really was in upstate NY. I hate to get regional on you the blog viewer, but as an upstate New York native (Syracuse by birth, lived in Vorheesville, Lake Placid and Albany), one of my pet peeves is people in the New York City area who consider anything above the Bronx as "upstate". For example, I had a conversation at a party this summer with a woman who told me she was from upstate NY. And I got all excited because I love playing the name game and trying to find out if we've ever lived near one another. So I asked her where she was from and she said, 'Katonah'. After I finished laughing and fought off the urge to pour my beer on her, I regained my composure and politely informed her that unless there is a Kotonah that is a suburb of Rochester, Katonah is nowhere near upstate NY. Now, for those of you not from around here, let me put this in perspective: Katonah is in Westchester County. Roughly 25 miles northeast of New York City. From Katonah, you could drive to Connecticut in about 10 minutes. A commuter line to New York City runs through Katonah. Katonah is where Martha Stewart lives and she would last five minutes in upstate NY. There is nary a gun rack, domestic canned beer, snowblower, snowmobile, or pick up truck (with a crack in the windshield) within 120 miles of Katonah. So this woman is placing herself in the same 'upstate NY' category as say, a woman who lives in Messina, NY where it is so close to Canada you can spit across the boarder, or a person in Buffalo, NY who has to shovel 300 feet of snow off of their driveway - and then winter comes. So, for the record, let me establish that if you live close enough to New York City that you can say "the City" and people know you are talking about New York City, you do not live "upstate". My minimum upstate NY claimant: Albany, NY - and I will not argue about this, it is simply fact.)
Anyhoo, I was driving back from upstate NY and I pulled behind a minivan that had two Jesus fish on it. Even if you are not Christian, you can probably recognize a Jesus fish, basically an oval and triangle stick figure drawing of a fish. And because its been a while since you were in school, a little history lesson: during the time of Roman persecution, early Christians used the symbol to indicate that a Mass was being held at a particular location (the neon signs that they first favored often led them to a date with a lion or two in the Colosseum). But, even if I didn't recognize this particular symbol, the name of Jesus was written inside each of the ovals. And all of this is fine - if you are an avid reader of my blog you know my feelings about bumper stickers, but whatever, to each their own. But why two? I would think that one Jesus fish, especially if it included the name Jesus within it, would be enough to convey the message you are trying to convey. So does the first one establish your gravitas and the second one drives the point home? So you see the first one and think, "OK, this guy is a fan of Jesus, that's cool." And then you see the second one and I suppose you're meant to think, "Wow, now here is a driver of a 1988 Toyota Sierra that really, really, really, loves Jesus, because any idiot can have one Jesus fish, but when you have two, well, forget it, the guy is a walking saint. But where does it end? What if a guy in his neighborhood sees the two Jesus fish, but thinks that he is more devout that the owner of the Dos Jesus Minivan, so he runs out and puts a third Jesus fish. So now, Dos sees Tres and all of a sudden he can't see out his back window because he has a school of Jesus fish on it. Where does it end? (Actually, come to think of it, I bet that's how the Cold War started, but with missiles instead of Jesus fish). Can we just agree that one Jesus fish establishes your bona fides as a Christian? Can I get a ruling on this?
And speaking of unnecessary build-ups, I watched a lot of local weather lately due to the fact that I was hoping for good weather for our various trips (and by the way, isn't it a little redundant to call yourself the eyewitness news? We all know what newspeople do, so we don't have to spell it out do we? I don't hear anyone clamoring for a local, hearsay newscast. "Good evening, I'm Paul Curtin and here is what I heard a bunch of other news stations reporting..." Yes, I get it, you have cute news bunnies in Channel 5 windbreakers on the scene. Eyewitness - I understand).
Can we also settle on a Doppler number that all weathermen can agree on? I was watching more than one station and we got a Doppler 5000, a Doppler 7000, and something called an Accu-Weather Doppler (I think it was turbo charged with the premium leather heated seats, but I'm not sure). But despite what I am sure are huge Doppler Differences, they all seemed to come up with the same forecast, and remarkably, they were all almost right! I'm pretty sure the Doppler-makers are the same guys who manufacture razor blades because I keep getting bigger numbers of those too. It seems like only yesterday I was shaving with a single blade. Now, I have so many freaking blades on my razor that it looks like I'm shaving with a house shutter. I mean, how close a shave do you really need? ("Well, sure, I can get a pretty close shave with seven blades, but what if I want to take two or three layers of skin too?") Any more blades and I'll need to register it as a weapon! And thankfully it is usually a smooth shave, but have you ever cut yourself with one of those five blade puppies? It looks like a suicide attempt! There have to be overtired, or hungover, or jittery guys all over the world who are being hauled off to the psych ward by their fearful wives because they have to use a roll of toilet paper to staunch the bleeding from a razor nick! Enough! We need legislation! I'm thinking three blades have to give you a sufficiently close shave, any thing after that, I'm calling the police - or better yet, the local eyewitness news.
Anyhoo, I was driving back from upstate NY and I pulled behind a minivan that had two Jesus fish on it. Even if you are not Christian, you can probably recognize a Jesus fish, basically an oval and triangle stick figure drawing of a fish. And because its been a while since you were in school, a little history lesson: during the time of Roman persecution, early Christians used the symbol to indicate that a Mass was being held at a particular location (the neon signs that they first favored often led them to a date with a lion or two in the Colosseum). But, even if I didn't recognize this particular symbol, the name of Jesus was written inside each of the ovals. And all of this is fine - if you are an avid reader of my blog you know my feelings about bumper stickers, but whatever, to each their own. But why two? I would think that one Jesus fish, especially if it included the name Jesus within it, would be enough to convey the message you are trying to convey. So does the first one establish your gravitas and the second one drives the point home? So you see the first one and think, "OK, this guy is a fan of Jesus, that's cool." And then you see the second one and I suppose you're meant to think, "Wow, now here is a driver of a 1988 Toyota Sierra that really, really, really, loves Jesus, because any idiot can have one Jesus fish, but when you have two, well, forget it, the guy is a walking saint. But where does it end? What if a guy in his neighborhood sees the two Jesus fish, but thinks that he is more devout that the owner of the Dos Jesus Minivan, so he runs out and puts a third Jesus fish. So now, Dos sees Tres and all of a sudden he can't see out his back window because he has a school of Jesus fish on it. Where does it end? (Actually, come to think of it, I bet that's how the Cold War started, but with missiles instead of Jesus fish). Can we just agree that one Jesus fish establishes your bona fides as a Christian? Can I get a ruling on this?
And speaking of unnecessary build-ups, I watched a lot of local weather lately due to the fact that I was hoping for good weather for our various trips (and by the way, isn't it a little redundant to call yourself the eyewitness news? We all know what newspeople do, so we don't have to spell it out do we? I don't hear anyone clamoring for a local, hearsay newscast. "Good evening, I'm Paul Curtin and here is what I heard a bunch of other news stations reporting..." Yes, I get it, you have cute news bunnies in Channel 5 windbreakers on the scene. Eyewitness - I understand).
Can we also settle on a Doppler number that all weathermen can agree on? I was watching more than one station and we got a Doppler 5000, a Doppler 7000, and something called an Accu-Weather Doppler (I think it was turbo charged with the premium leather heated seats, but I'm not sure). But despite what I am sure are huge Doppler Differences, they all seemed to come up with the same forecast, and remarkably, they were all almost right! I'm pretty sure the Doppler-makers are the same guys who manufacture razor blades because I keep getting bigger numbers of those too. It seems like only yesterday I was shaving with a single blade. Now, I have so many freaking blades on my razor that it looks like I'm shaving with a house shutter. I mean, how close a shave do you really need? ("Well, sure, I can get a pretty close shave with seven blades, but what if I want to take two or three layers of skin too?") Any more blades and I'll need to register it as a weapon! And thankfully it is usually a smooth shave, but have you ever cut yourself with one of those five blade puppies? It looks like a suicide attempt! There have to be overtired, or hungover, or jittery guys all over the world who are being hauled off to the psych ward by their fearful wives because they have to use a roll of toilet paper to staunch the bleeding from a razor nick! Enough! We need legislation! I'm thinking three blades have to give you a sufficiently close shave, any thing after that, I'm calling the police - or better yet, the local eyewitness news.
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