Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic

I’m a nerd.  Actually, I think I’m more of a geek.  I think nerds are supposed to be smart.  Basically, I’m whichever one really likes gadgets. 

For the record, I generally keep to myself while traveling.  My head is not on a constant swivel looking for someone to engage in conversation with, but when it comes my way I try to make the most of it.  I’ve been asked this question over 20 times in the last two months while traveling...how do you like your iPad?  For the most part I smile and politely share my feedback because I truly do like it, but at some point…and I don’t really know how to put this…I don’t reach my bubbling over point or get fed up or anything like that…but at a certain point I decided to have a little fun.

I’ve changed the names to protect the innocent, but here are a few of my conversations:

Montgomery:  “How do you like your iPad?”

Me:  “I can’t stand it.  It’s hard to type on and there is no camera”  (As if I would ever hold up an 8X10 rectangular object to snap a photo.  Might as well give me one of the old timey accordion looking cameras with the hood/cape dealy.)  “I can’t make phone calls and they don’t have a Words with Friends iPad app so I have to use the stupid iPhone one.  Do you want it?”

Montgomery:  “Really?”

Me:  “No, I’m just kidding.  I’ll probably just use it as one of those digital picture frames.  Have a nice flight.”

-

Timothy:  “How do you like your iPad?”

Me:  “Oh, this isn’t an iPad, it’s just one of those digital picture frames.”

Timothy:  “But I saw you checking your email.”

Me:  “Are you spying on me?  How dare you.”  (And I wrapped my arms around my iPad to hide it in a similar fashion as a fat kid with a pile of candy after Halloween).

-

Alfred:  “How do you like your iPad?”

Me:  “It’s great.  I really like…oh, hold on, I gotta take this.”  And I stand pretending to take a call.  I pace around the guy for a bit and a lot of “uh huh’s” and “no way’s” and then I sit back down and continue to my sentence…”I really like traveling with it.  The battery lasts forever.”

Alfred:  “I didn’t know you could receive phone calls on it.”

Me:  “You can’t, I was just messing with you.”

Alfred:  “What are you, some kind of nut job?”

Me:  “Yes.  Hey can I get your picture for my blog?”

-

Mary:  “How do you like your iPad?”

Me:  “Oh, it’s not an iPad.  It’s the new version of an Etch-a-Sketch.”

Mary:  “Really?”

Geoff:  “Yes.”

-

In addition to the iPad I also travel with a little Bluetooth keyboard that is flexible and actually rolls up so it’s easy to travel with.  It’s a little harder to have fun with people, but I give it a whirl.

Shirly:  “Is that a little keyboard?”

Me:  “No.”  And I got up and went to the bathroom.  She gave me the death stare when I got back.  When we landed I asked her if she wanted to grab a drink.  She said no.

-

Matty:  “Is that a little keyboard?”

Me:  “Yes, it’s the coolest thing every.”

-

Cords.  Can’t stand them.  Never have so I found a pair of Bluetooth headphones.  They are fantastic.  They hook up to my iPad and iPhone without wires and from time to time I get questions about them.  The real problem I have though is not the questions about the headphones themselves, but that the questions come in while I’m wearing them.  I realize this makes me sound anti-social and I don’t disagree, but if someone has headphones on they clearly aren’t interested in chit chatting or giving you their opinion of their iPad, however important that question seems to be.  At first I thought it might the size of the earphones.  I used to travel with the little white apple ones.  I thought that maybe people didn’t see them.  I’m a benefit of the doubt guy.  So I got a pair of those big ear muff Princess Leah sized ones.  Like I’m a DJ.  Like I’ve got two Big Macs covering my ears.  Like I’m…I got nothing else.  But even these, clearly noticeable from space, headphones didn’t deter the onslaught.  I tried ignoring their questions by pretending I couldn’t hear them.  I’d start nodding to the song I was listening to, but I’ll give it to my fellow Americans…they are tenacious.  Next up always comes the shoulder tap.  If it comes to that I generally pull my headphones off, politely answer their question, and bide my time. 

I wait until a movie comes on and hope they start listening to it.  I’ll wait until there’s about 10-15 minutes left and I strike up a conversation about the movie in question.  I can idly chit chat with the best of them.  “What do you think of the movie so far?”  “I think it’s really good, but it’s kind of hard to follow.”  Who’s that guy?”  “Oh, and why is he [insert on screen action here].”  “You know, I saw him/her in another movie.”  “Did you see that one?”  “What did you think of it.”  “I thought it was”…and I can easily keep it up for ten minutes.  And when they try to answer my first question abruptly and quickly try to put their headphones back on.  I give them about 30 seconds to get back in it and then give them a tap on the ole shoulder. 

But my favorite is when they fall asleep.  I wait for their head to start a noddin and then politely tap them on the shoulder and ask them “how they like their nap”.  It’s fun for me.  It annoys the crap out them.  And I’ve yet to have someone put two and two together.  That makes 4.

Usain Bolt and Mohamed Atta

A while back I wrote about the conditioned Pavlovian response to the ding you hear when a plane arrives at the gate alerting the passengers that it is now safe to retrieve their bags…I’ve subsequently dubbed this the HUAW factor…well, I feel like I’ve seen it all until a recent trip to Boston.  I’m sitting towards the back of the plane, in an aisle seat, and upon touching down the plane taxis.  As many of you know a plane may pause a time or two on the way to the gate to yield to service vehicles or other planes or maybe just to piss off travelers.  As mentioned, many of you are aware of this and you wait for the familiar “ding”, but on this particular day, on this particular flight, there was a fine young gentleman sitting somewhere behind me who wasn’t aware of these pauses.  Actually, he wasn’t really that young and probably not that fine.  He was probably closing in on forty.  Save your comments oldies. 

Anywho…at the first plane pause he makes a break for it.  Apparently determined to be the first one off the plane so he’s sprinting as fast as he can down the aisle with this big Jansport backpack swinging to and fro and smacking the seats and passengers as he passes.  The reaction of the passengers reminded of that moment when a bride enters the church…the audience hushes and everyone turns their heads in progressive order starting from the back of the church to the front.  A sort of wave of adulation and astonishment.  A collective “she looks beautiful, but is she really wearing white”.  Well, it was sort of like that in that it started from the back of the plane and moved forward, but in this case the heads swiveled the opposite way.  And everyone had the same thought, although in this case it was, “what the fuck?”  Everyone except me that is…I’m convinced this guy is Al Qaeda, but I’m thinking he might have that narcosleepy disease and he slept through the whole flight until the landing jarred him awake.  And suddenly he’s panicking because he’s going to fail his mission, burn in hell or wherever, and become Osama’s bitch boy.  Bin Laden that is, not Barrack.  So now I’m off flying down the aisle chasing this maniac with a plastic fork.  I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with the plastic fork unless he has a fruit cup or something, but I’m chugging down the…just kidding…I didn’t really chase him down.   

So this jabroni is almost to first class and the plane starts moving towards the gate again.  Everyone is looking on wide mouthed in wonder…will he come back to his seat, will they let him sit in an open stewardess seat or maybe first class, or will they just stop the plane until he comes back to his seat.  No movement.  Just an announcement over the intercom reminding passengers to remain seated until the plane has come to a complete stop and the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign.  A little passive aggressive, but maybe it will have the desired effect.  Still, no movement and then a second pause of the plane.  This time I’m sure the guy will be sent back to his seat, but after a few moments we start rolling again.  Finally, we pull up to the gate and I’m thinking this guy is on to something…and then we hear the captains voice…ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at our gate, but do to FAA regulations the jetway cannot deployed until every passenger is in their seat.  Still, no movement.  Then, one of the stews from the back hurriedly moves down the aisle to collect this wayward passenger.  As he makes his way back down the aisle the same bride entering the church head swivel is happening only this time it’s starting from the front to the back and instead of happy, joyful thoughts everyone looks on with disdain and contempt.  “How dare you cost me 45 extra seconds.”  It should be noted we arrived 15 minutes ahead of schedule, but not being one to stray away from the herd I let out a boisterous, “Thanks Jerk” as he passed and stuck my foot out causing him to fall on his face, much to the delight of my fellow passengers.  There was laughter, cheers, and applause. 

And then it happened, the fine young fellow struggled to his feet with tears in his eyes and I realized he was a retard.  At this same time my fellow passengers realized the same thing and there were boos, hisses, and thumbs down signs.  How quickly the rabble turns.  Retard trumps everything I guess.  Defiant, I pushed him down again and called him Mary…just kidding.  He wasn’t a retard…well, I guess someone that makes a mad dash for the front of the plane at the first sign of stoppage has to have a bit of retard in him, but he seemed fairly normal and was oblivious to fact that he was tripped.  He made his way to his seat and bided his time. 

Ding, goes the seat belt sign and up flies everyone due to the HUAW factor including the track star behind me.  But now his path is impeded.  I’ll give him this, it did not deter him.  He did his best Bode Miller slalom impression and weaved his way through the crowd at a fairly rapid pace knocking people around with his massive backpack, undoubtedly filled with organ transplants of some sort. 

I shrug it off and figure he has some tight connection he’s trying to make…that is until I’m making my way through baggage claim to catch a taxi and see him calmly standing there waiting for his bag.  It was actually a pretty funny scene.  He had about a fifteen foot radius between him and the next closest passenger.

So now I’m figuring he has that fear of enclosed places phobia, nutzophobia.  So I head over to him and politely ask him if he has ever been to Carlsbad Caverns?  He quizzically peers at me and says “huh?”  Honestly, I didn’t have the energy to wind this guy up so I just ask him flat out, “What the fuck is wrong with you?  Why did you sprint to the front of the plane like that?”  He said, “Oh, I have claustrophobia.”  “They can give you penicillin for that”, I replied and walked off.

you want mint for pillow

What to write about, what to write about…I think I could spend a month on O’Hare International Airport…or my brother suggested investigating the invasion of personal space epidemic ripping across the country…but I decided to write about an odd phenomenon I’ve noticed lately…when did maids start getting so aggressive?

I haven’t been traveling routinely for a few years so I’m not really sure how this came about but I was staying someplace a while back and at 8:15am I heard the familiar key card knock on the door followed by the “housekeeping” call.  Really, 8:15am in the morning?  I’m not exactly a morning person, but that seemed a bit aggressive.  When I asked my traveling companions about it at lunch they said this was becoming more and more the norm and to combat this phenomenon it was suggested that as soon as you check in you hang the ole do not disturb sign up.  This seems like a reasonable work around but just like the immortal Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City, who looks oddly like a foot by the way, “I wondered, why are maids so eager to clean these days.”

To get to the answer I was looking for I needed to do some firsthand research.  And so on my next trip I inquired during check in as to whether there were any maid jobs available?  “They are called housekeepers, and no” was the reply.  I made it all the way to webelo in scouts so I was prepared for such a setback.  So the next morning I donned this little number and set about knocking on doors at 8:00am.  I’ll be the first to admit that while I was prepared I had not entirely thought this through.  I was in San Francisco.  If you’ve ever wondered what you thought your face would look like if you found out you won the lottery…I’ve seen it eight times.

So that was a bust.  Next up I thought I’d conduct some interviews. 

I started walking the halls in the morning trying to chat up the cleaning ladies as they were busily working away.  I can’t be sure, but it seemed like they were in some sort of indentured servant arrangement because they kept looking over my shoulder or behind them and would not answer any of my questions.  Frustration got the better of me and so started stealing the little conditioners, but not the shampoos.  My hair is silky smooth.   

Now what?

Perhaps hallway cameras were a concern and they didn’t want to be caught chatting it up in hallways with guests.  So the next morning I lay in wait…hold on, that sounds creepy.  I awoke early and waited for the familiar knock.  Still sounds creepy but I was hoping they would be more eager to talk while they were working in the room instead of out in the hallway.  No dice.  Perhaps clothes were the problem. 

So the next morning I got dressed and waited.  Again, no interest in talking. 

I was getting nowhere so on my next trip I made a horrendous mess of my room.  I used every towel, set my alarm for the middle of the night so I would switch beds.  I threw my clothes around like a monkey throwing his own feces.  I threw my own feces around.  I moved the furniture.  I hid the shower curtain under the bed and I used one of the window curtains as a bedspread.  I thought that if there was a lot to clean it would take her a while and I could break her down and get her to talk.  Instead I’m no longer welcome at that hotel.

Taking the opposite approach I cleaned the next hotel room I stayed in spotless thinking that if they had nothing to clean they would have time to talk, but I just got one of those looks people probably gave Howard Hughes when they saw his many jars of urine and Kleenex boxes for shoes.

Thinking it might be a language issue I pulled out my best high school Spanish for the next housekeeper I came across:

Me:  “Por qué son usted trabajando tan temprano?”

Maid:  “I’m Ethiopian, jerk.”

I decided to be more selective.  One more time…

Me:   “Por qué son usted trabajando tan temprano?”

Maid Two:  “Chinga Tu Madre”

This was not the response I was hoping for.  For the record I punched that maid in the ding ding.  I’m no longer welcome at that hotel.

So after an exhaustive effort that actually wasn’t that tiring I’ve decided to give up.  Plus, after chronically my epic quest for the truth I’ve actually given it a half second of thought instead of scheming to find the answer and have found the answer.  It’s not some new found initiative to rid the hotels of the world of dirty bed sheets or bath tub rings…they start cleaning that early because that’s when their boss tells them to start.  I never said I had the swiftest of minds.  Or maybe they are just trying for a real life version of “Maid in Manhatten” staring the sublimely talented Jennifer Lopez.

seattle slew

Seattle to Boston to Washington DC to New York to Seattle…

I had a meeting in Boston on Tuesday and instead of wasting a Monday flying across the country I decided to fly out the Saturday prior.  I figured that way I could just work remote on Monday.  Plus, I saved the company $150 bucks by flying on a Saturday vs. a Monday.  I know, I’m a model employee.  Okay, so my cousin lives in Boston and got tickets to the Bruins game on Saturday night.And alright, my aunt and uncle were going to   be in town on Sunday and invited me to lunch.  And oh yeah, my uncle was working a ski show that day.  And okay, it meant two and a half days in one of my most favorite cities in the world, but really it was about the cost savings and recouping the lost downtime.

Flight from Seattle to Boston – One of the bumpiest I’ve been on for a long time…it was awesome. 

I landed around 5:30pm, checked in around 6:00pm, and was at the hotel bar to wait for my cousin at 6:05pm for a 7:00pm game.  So there I was having a beer and an elderly gentleman struck up a conversation.  I’ll spare the details, but at one point he mentioned that he used to train horses.  Having little to no knowledge of horses I said the one horse’s name that popped in to my

head, “Seattle Slew”.  An odd comeback to his stated occupation, I know, but he didn’t seem fazed.  I subsequently found out he had been drinking since noon so that might have helped.  His reply to my attempt at conversation was, “now there was a horse that was gay”.  “I’m sorry, what?”, was my reply.  “Gay…Seattle Slew was gay.”  “Did you just say that horse was gay?”  “No, game.  That horse was game.”  “Oh, that makes more sense.”  And this was the clincher…with a sly, creepy, Clay Aikenesk smile he asked, “Are you gay?”  And there was a little lilt to the end of the question.  Thank god my cousin showed up at just that instant.  I gave her a hug and we exchanged pleasantries, much to my new suitors chagrin.  He slinked, or should I say stumbled, off.  Not the greatest way to start a weekend, but an amusing one. 

At the ski show the ski show the next day I met Glen Plake.  That is all.

Flight from Boston to Washington DC – A super quick and easy flight. 

Upon landing at Dulles International Airport I made my way to the taxi stand.  The line was huge.  I asked the attendant if this was the only stand or if there was another…he said “no” and handed me a pamphlet about the taxi service.  I crumpled it up and threw it on the ground.  He gave me another.  After twenty minutes and very little movement I started looking through the pamphlet and found the number to reserve a cab. 

A brief exchange between me and the dispatcher:

Me – “I’d like to dispatch a cab”

Dispatch – “What is the pickup address”

Me – “Well, I don’t know the exact address, but I’m at Dulles International Airport”

Dispatch – “Oh, we don’t pickup at the airport”

Me – “Then why am I standing in a line for your taxi service”

Dispatch – “Oh, no we don’t make appointments for pickups at the airport, we have cabs on site”

Me – “Well, that doesn’t seem to be the case.  I’ve been standing in line for twenty five minutes”

Dispatch – “Oh, well I’m showing cabs on site”

Me – “That’s weird because there are a ton of people in front of me waiting for cabs.  I hope they aren’t a group waiting for one big ass cab.  You guys don’t have U-Haul taxis do you”

 Dispatch – “I’m sorry for the delay, but I’m showing a lot of taxis are on their way so it should be too much longer”

Me – “Okay, well at least I have this nice pamphlet to read.” 

The shitty thing is that is the only taxi cab company that can pick up at the airport.  Upon arriving at the hotel I made the cabby come in for a beer, which he gladly did, but I had to pay.  I called it his tip.

Wednesday, I was in meetings all day, but I got out a bit early and got a jog in around the capital.  What a wonderful city…so full of history and it really is a great place to run.  I took my camera along and snapped some photos en route.

Flight from Washington DC to New York – the actual flight time was forty minutes…I still had to get up to pee.

I flew in to JFK and was staying downtown.  The flight might have only been 40 minutes, but the cab took a good hour and a half.  Well, there goes walking around the city for a bit.  Instead, I checked in and made my way in search of a bar that was playing the UW v UCLA game.  I found 5, but none had sound…they were either blasting rap or top 40 pop.  I finally gave up and settled at the fifth bar.  I found a somewhat quiet corner upstairs and settled in to watch the Bruins roll.  After the first quarter a group of eight to ten ladies rolled up, sat in front of me, and started doing shots.  At the half I was doing shots.  And the end of the third I had lost all interest in the game…plus, the Huskies were winning so I kinda gave up.  Thank god my meeting wasn’t until 1:00pm the next day.

Exhausted and tired I awoke Friday and checked in for my flight home…a middle seat was the only one available.  The idea of sitting middle for 6 hours was too depressing.  My meeting ended and I made my way to Newark on the train.  At check in I had some time so I thought I’d see about an upgrade.  Sadley, first class was full, but the guy found me an aisle…hooray.  The security line was massive, but for whatever reason the boarding pass checked guy pointed to the first line…hooray part duex.  At the gate the only restaurant had a line.  After waiting for ten minutes and not moving an inch I remembered a Delta Skyclub Lounge.  What the hell?  It was worth a shot.  I still had my suit on so I decided to big time them.  I opened the door and strolled in nodding and throwing a little wave of acknowledgement to some elderly woman in the back corner of the lounge.  I didn’t even get a second look from the people at the desk…hooray to the third power.  I settled in and set about putting a dent in their keg of Heineken.  I gave the old woman a high five on my way out.

Flight New York to Seattle – on an absolutely packed flight the only empty seat happened to be between and my compatriot next to me at the window.

i pee

For those that know me know that I’ve got the bladder of a pygmy goat.  It actually was a ground breaking triumph in the world of bladder transplants, but while it’s a great accomplishment in the medical community, it means I have to pee early and often.  In college I went to one of those “bladder buster” nights at the local bar where beer is half price until the first person has to pee…I lasted half a beer.  And even after I explained my miraculous goat bladder transplant story I still got my ass kicked.

Also, for those that know me know that I have a hankering for beer.  I’m quite fond of it actually.

So a proclivity toward beer and a pygmy goats bladder is not a good combination and has led to some interesting plane rides being confined to my seat during take offs and landings by that god damned illuminated seatbelt indicator and the actual nineteen fifty two Buick seat belt.  Desperate times call for desperate measures though.  Two such incidents come to mind.  Don’t worry; they are more funny than gross or anything like that.

Toronto to Seattle:

A snowy, blustery, bitter cold winter evening.  Of course it would be “winter” I suppose.  I wouldn’t expect it to be snowy in the summertime.  Sorry about that whole winter thing.  Anyways, I was traveling with my boss at the time, a good ol boy from the South who liked to throw one or two or eight back.  Thankfully, he traveled a fair amount and had status with Air Canada, whose flagship lounge happened to be in the Toronto airport.  We settled in to the cushy leather chairs and noticed the tap of Molson Canadian dripping with condensation from the ice cold liquid goodness that was housed inside.  For those that don’t know, everything in most lounges is gratis so the first round was on me.  So there we sat lamenting the weather and doing our damndest to convince each other that we weren’t getting out of there anytime soon.  It seemed with each snowflake that past or gust of wind that rattled the windows our conviction grew and naturally so did our thought process in relation to the beer on hand, “well, one more won’t hurt, we ain’t getting out of here anytime soon.” 

Much to my chagrin, about an hour and several beers later our flight was announced ready for departure.  “Shit.”  I knew I was in trouble.  So I waited until I was the very last person to be called.  They actually called for me over the loud speaker and then I went pee.  As I finally settled in to my seat I thought, “I can do this.”  In your best captains voice imagine hearing this over the loud speaker…”well folks, looks like we’re going to be a little delayed here as the plane gets de-iced.  Just sit back, relax, and we’ll be on our way soon.”  First off, relax?  Our plane, that’s about to defy gravity and soar in the air at several hundred tons and it needs to de-iced?  Comforting.  Second, if you’ve never seen a plane de-iced, it’s not something someone in my condition wants to see…a guy with a giant hose spraying a yellowish green liquid all over the plane.  I’m not making comparisons, but you can imagine the images it was conjuring up for me.  “Double shit”.  Somehow though, I got through it, but the pain and urgency was hurtling at me like a freight train. 

Again, in your best captains voice imagine this little nugget…”uh folks, because of the weather we’re currently nineteenth inline for takeoff, but we’ll be in the air shortly so sit back, relax, and we’ll be on our way soon.”  So now I’m doing the sit down pee pee dance on a packed plane of miserable, weary travelers.  Pinch, deep breath, deep breath, pinch, pinch, pinch and so forth.  Finally, we’re in the air.  I’m staring at that god damned little seat belt light trying with everything I could to channel…the force, wicca shit, telekinesis, voodoo, or whatever I could to get that little s.o.b. to turn off.  Ding goes the first bell…its working!  Ding goes the second bell…almost there…Ding…captains voice, ”uh folks”…I don’t even wait for the end of the announcement…I’m off for the bathroom…”the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt signal, but for your safety while seated, please ensure”…yeah, yeah, I get it…out of my way there’s a flood a comin!  Sadly, I was coming from the middle of the plane and two people in the back beat me to it.  Stand up pee pee dance time.  I hear the slide of the lock and I’m poised to pounce when suddenly this little kid slides from behind me in between the outgoing gentleman and myself and in to the bathroom, but before he closed the door he looked back with this sly little smile.  And that kids name was Shia LaBeouf.

Just when I was about to kick down the bathroom door the other person came out.  And thank god for that person timing because had they not come out at that exact time we might not have such cinematic masterpieces as Transformers II or Indiana Jones VIII.  Just kidding, it wasn’t really Shia.

More recently, I was traveling from Boston to Seattle.  I had been in meetings all day, was exhausted, thirsty, and hungry.  I had an hour or so before my flight so I stopped for a bite to eat and a couple beers at the airport bar dealy by the gate.  Honestly, just two beers.  As per usual, I wait until the last minute, take care of business, and get on the plane just as the doors are closing.  I guess I was more tired than I thought because just as I sat down I was out.  I awoke some two hours later (at least it felt like that) and we were still taxiing.  I asked the guy next to me if I missed the announcement that the pilot had decided to drive the plane to Seattle and he said “no”.  Uh oh, choo, choo…the freight train was coming!  Finally though, wheels up, first ding, second ding, but I can’t stand it anymore.  I’m going to burst.  We’re still climbing, but I don’t care.  I bolt out of my seat and as I get closer to the bathrooms I see that the stewardess’ are sitting with their backs facing the bathrooms.  Hazaah!  I’ll just slide in before they have a chance to stop me.  Closer, almost there…holy shit, the bathrooms are all locked.  Those bitches locked the doors for take off!  Now what?  Think, damin it, think.  I’m almost there and it hits me…okay…look panicked at the ladies and cover your mouth with both hands…when they notice you convulse slightly, but not too much so they freak out.  Success!  One of them springs up like a mother with a sick kid and shoulder checks the door like she was Cam Neely or Gordy Howe or some other hockey player.

So there I am doing my business, faking puke sounds, and all the while that god damned fasten seat belt signal is shining brightly in my face.

And before you say anything I’m quite aware that this “condition” is probably half physical and half mental.  And yes, I have traced the mental part back to a bit of childhood trauma.  When I was seven years old I got up to go potty and there before the bathroom door was the ghost of Christopher Cross.  I was paralyzed.  Or maybe I was memorized by the melodic and dulcet tones as he sang Sailing over and over again.  Two hours later I had pissed my pants and my mom found me passed out on the hallway floor.  To this day I can’t listen to anything by that bastard without wetting my self.

Jammies

There is a group of people out there…you know who you are, that insist on wearing “jammies” whenever they fly.  Now I’ve seen this elsewhere in the world…out to get the morning coffee and paper or occasionally at the grocery store, but without question I always see it at the airport and more times than not there is someone on my flight with jammies on.  I’m not talking about the matching top / bottom combos with little duckies, although I have seen this, I’m talking about the sweatpants and baggy sweatshirt, the stocking or baseball cap, the velour jumpsuit, and the overall ‘I just rolled out of bed’ look.  A flight at the crack of dawn is one thing, but at two o’clock in the afternoon? Or a two hour flight to San Francisco…really?  How uncomfortable are your normal clothes?  Are your pants made of burlap or your shirt stuffed with insulation or angry badgers?  Did that little snuggle bear bastard come out with a fabric hardener?  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t travel in a suit and tie, usually, but I just don’t understand this need for comfort on an airplane.  Ok, I’ll admit I slightly understand if it’s a trip to Singapore or down under, but I’ve been there several times and have never felt compelled to “comfy up” for the flight.  

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging, it just strikes as odd so I’ve decided over the years to start asking some questions when I encounter jammie enthusiasts sitting next to me.

Here are a few:

Me:  Did you forget to set your alarm?

Me:  Are you traveling to a mattress convention?

Me:  Holy shit, is the Sand Man on this flight?

Me:  Are those duckies?

Me:  Would you like my pillow and blanket?

Me:  Do you have that narcosleepy condition?  

Me:  Is your nickname ‘Juicy’?

Me:  I miss my bed to.

Mostly people get a chuckle.  Some get offended.  Actually, the only gal that got offended was the ‘Juicy’ lady, but if you are going to billboard that on your ass you’ve kind of got it coming. 

Sadly, however, I’ve drawn no conclusions or had a grand epiphany behind the reasoning so for now I continue to be inquisitive hoping to figure out the great mystery.

If there are any of you out there that want to share some insight I’m all ears.  I actually am.  They are quite big.  Sometimes they block out the sun.  My ears that is.

seat belt extender

9/20/2010 – Seattle to San Jose

Early morning flight to San Jose and it’s packed.  I’m an aisle guy, always have been, but on this particular flight I was stuck with a window seat.  After settling in I could see the guy that would undoubtedly be in the middle seat next to me.  I’m not clairvoyant or psychic or vegan or anything like that, but it was one of those moments when I just knew it would be my luck to have this very large gentleman squishing me in to the window for the next two hours of my life.  Sure enough.   Now I didn’t even realize they made such a thing, but as soon as Charles sat down he rang for the stewardess for a seat belt extender.  It should be noted I have no idea what “Charles” real name was, but to protect the innocent sir largeness will henceforth be known as Charles.  Here is an excerpt of our conversation:

Me:  “Should you be traveling in your condition?”

Charles:  “What?”

Me:  “Should you be traveling in your condition?”

Charles:  “What condition is that?”

Me:  “I didn’t think you could travel while in your third trimester.”

Charles:  “Third trimester of what?”

Me:  “Third trimester of having a food baby.”

Charles:  “Don’t talk to me for the rest of the flight.”

Me:  “Okay.”

Sometime later after the stewardess had made her rounds with drinks and peanuts…

Me:  “Are you going to eat your peanuts?”

Charles:  “Yes.”

Me:  “Okay.”