The Impossible Dream



Try sleeping in this position. Good luck with that.

Being a man in my early forties, the cadence of holidays during my childhood always included some type of "Peanuts" special. Charles Schultz, the genius that he was, hit a home run when creating the Peanuts universe. With characters as recognizable today as they were fresh in the 50s, Schultz was able to track the evolution America's societal changes using the comic strip's three black and white frames by following the antics of a silent beagle and a host of odd looking (and acting) children.

In the 1965, CBS aired the first Peanuts animimated television holiday special, "A Charlie Brown Christmas." Though other holiday themed specials followed, the Christmas show is universally hailed as the most beloved (with "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" taking a close second). Featuring Charlie Brown's search for the meaning of Christmas amid the orgy of holiday commericalism touted by all his classmates, the show created some iconic images that are recognized instantly by those growing up watching this show every December it aired on CBS. A short list:

• The Charlie Brown Christmas tree, so sad and droopy, representing the simplicity of hope and purity.
• The Christmas play dancing scenes, featuring each character moving to the beat of their own drummer, repeating their moves over and over.
• The cool jazz soundtrack of Vince Guaraldi, especially the classic track "Linus & Lucy."
• Adult voices portrayed by the plunger mute of a trombone instead of human actors, isolating the Peanuts world to kids and silent animals.
• Linus' telling of the Christmas story taken directly from Luke chapter 2, verses 8-14

When the show airs these days (now on ABC after CBS sold the rights upon Schultz's death in 2000), 36DD and I get so excited, our memories from the days of sitting in front of (in my case) a 13in B&W television waiting for the show to begin driving us to get our kids just as excited. They could care less. The only one slightly interested is my six year old son, but if he's balancing on that fine line separating the hyper and the weary, he'll be hypnotized by the colors and the voices.

Anyway, back to the point of my post. In any Peanuts special - and in many other instances of animation and cartoon stills (such as the clipart introducing this post) - when the kids go to bed and are tucked in, their hands are always shown holding the comforter/blanket, each set of grasping fingers parallel with the other.

C'mon. Have you ever tried this? Sadly, I have. I learned early on that this was impossible. As a kid, I tried to emulate exactly the manner of sleeping soundly during a long winter's night as portrayed on "A Charlie Brown Christmas." I learned that it is not only extremely uncomfortable and unnatural, but nearly impossible to acheive and then only for a few moments before the stress on the elbow joints forces the more ergonomic position of elbows out, with both arms outside and on top of the blanket, with hands nearly touching.

From my research, it appears that this unnatural portrait of peaceful sleep is widely used in the cartoon and drawing world.

So, that's my post. It's something I have thought of now and again, and have finally been able to articulate and hopefully bring attention to this impossible dream of peaceful sleep.

When Pigs Fly: The Story of An Unbelievable Hand of Poker




You've got a much better chance of getting hit by lightning than seeing this again.

For those of you who play poker, or at the very least, understand the odds related to poker and other card games, you'll appreciate the photo above, taken after the seven of us playing dealer's choice cash games ($40 buy-in with $0.50 & $1 chips in play) last night finished whooping, screaming, laughing and generally gasping in disbelief at how this hand ended.

The game was two card guts. It's a fairly simple game. Each player antes $1, creating a pot of $7. Two cards are dealt to each player (whorehouse style, meaning the cards can be dealt in any order chosen by the dealer) with two cards set aside in the middle of the table, which is called 'the Bitch (most definitely capitalized).'

The goal of the game is to beat whatever hand the bitch is hiding. The decisions are made individually clockwise starting with the player to the left of the dealer, and ending with the dealer 'in position' to make his decision last. The basic strategy of this game is based on two concepts - position and strength of hand. Since the bitch is a random hand, if a player finds himself with a pair in his hand, the odds are that this will be higher than the Bitch. However, position also comes into play. If I am first to act, and I have a pair of deuces, I have to consider the possibility of someone with position on me having a better hand than me. The size of the pot would also influence my decision (with only $7 in the middle I may consider it, with $100 in the middle, I would immediately fold out of position).

Hand One

If two or more players decide to 'stay in' and challenge the random hand, the Bitch is taken out of play, and the game becomes a heads up game between whomever decided to play. Each player shows his hand. Whomever has the best hand wins an amount of money equal to that in the pot (up to $20 maximum), but that money is paid directly from the losing hand's chip stack. The $7 stays in the center of the pot, and each player contributes another $1 contribution, increasing the pot to $14.

All cards are shuffled, save the two random cards that remain in the Bitch, and dealt by the person to the left of the previous hand's dealer. This way, position (remember, it's advantageous to be able to decide last after everyone else has, for example, folded their hands) moves to someone new as long as there is a pot to play for in the center.

Hand Two

This round, the dealer (who is 'in position') decides to challenge the Bitch. Everyone else folds, so this becomes a heads up decision between the remaining player and the cards in the Bitch. Both the player's hand and the Bitch is exposed. In this scenario, the dealer flips over an AJ and the Bitch reveals (slowly and with as much drama as can be mustered) AK. Everyone but the losing player screams and cheers because this means that the loser must match the amount of money in the pot (up to a max of $20 - this can be any amount or unlimited, but we use $20 to limit any single player's exposure). The shocked player pulls together the $14 from their stack and slides it into the center of the pot, which now equals $28.

That's a lot of money ready to be won by someone, but it also presents a lot of risk if you make the wrong call.

Hand Three

Now we arrive at our specific, unbelievable third hand in this game of guts. The dealer has moved one player to the left, giving everyone a new decision making position. Cards are dealt to all players, as well as two cards to create a new Bitch (which is required since it was revealed the last hand). As long as there is money in the pot, the game continues.

No $1 ante per person is required for this round; whenever a loser contributes to the pot, all other players are given a free pass from adding the ante.

Player one folds, player two folds, and player three decides to challenge. All other players fold.

It's back to a single player vs. the Bitch. The player happily turns over AA - the absolutely strongest hand that cannot be beat by any other two card hand. He is ready to scoop the $28 pot for a nice profit.

The rest of us have all but conceded any future shot at that big pot. But, per tradition, the Bitch is revealed one card at a time. 

First card - Ace.

Everyone reacted in their own way, but the net result was that everyone was paying attention to that second card. Only one card out of 52 - a 1.9% chance - would result in a tie.

The second card is flipped, and for a split second, complete silence reigns as everyone's jaws drop and hit the floor.

The Bitch had pocket aces.

The Agony of Defeat

A beat later, the room erupts as described (quite accurately, I might add) at the beginning of this post.

Here's the kicker - the player only avoids paying in the size of the pot if they win the showdown with the Bitch. This player tied the random hand, and therefore had to match the pot as if he lost. Fortunately for him, given our $20 max pot match rule, he only had to contribute an additional $20 instead of the $28 in the pot.

The odds of this specific showdown in 2 card guts seems so unlikely (talking about AA vs. AA specifically), that everyone with a camera phone took a photo of the board to capture the event. We'll be talking about this hand for a long time.

Epilogue

The son of a bitch who lost heads up with AA got QQ on the next hand, happily challenged the Bitch (which held a measly J3), and won all his money back and then some.

Disclosure

I fictionalized portions of this narrative in order to better describe the full range of scenarios possible with two card guts. This is why the chips in the photo don't seem to add up to $28. This game can last one hand (boring) all the way up to lots of hands and $100s of dollars in the pot. However, the description of Hand Three is accurately described.

Seven Days to Africa

Next Friday, December 3, I'm off on a trip to Johannesburg for a 24 hour stay. Why, you ask? Is Tall Travel Dude an international man of intrigue? A high level, internationally strategic business meeting? A carnal rendez-vous with a beautiful mistress?

Sorry, none of the above. I am simply trying to earn the necessary number of qualifying miles so that I'll reach Alaska Airlines (AS) MVP Gold 75 elite frequent flyer level. I'll be taking AS partner Delta Airlines (DL)  from Seattle to Atlanta (ATL), connecting to a long ass flight to South Africa on one of DL's newest jets - the 777-200LR (Long Range).  I've flown it round trip to Dubai (DXB), but that was in Delta's business elite class (lie flat seats, ability to sleep hours on end comfortably). This trip? I'm booked in coach. I may get upgraded between SEA & ATL due to my Alaska MVP Gold status, due to recent reciprocity in upgrades between the partner airlines. However, on the long haul legs, I'm stuck in coach. This is creating a certain amount of anxiety. I'm 6'6" (2 meters) tall, and most coach seats lack the bare necessity of legroom to sit comfortably. Fortunately, I've secured bulkhead/emergency exit row seats which give me unlimited room to stretch my legs out.

Here's the long shot for which I'm holding out. My dad worked for Delta (Western before the merger) for 35 years. I'm hoping he has some connections to get me into Business Elite on the long hauls between ATL & Johannesburg (JNB). The return flight time is listed as 17 hours and 5 minutes! Granted, that's what is referred to as block time, which is designed to include taxi time, congestion back up, etc. However, the flight has been averaging a good 16.5 hours.

I'll be sharing stories from that trip, as well as photos. With only 24 hours, I plan to avoid getting killed as my top priority, but hope to make it to a casino to play some poker, South African style. If I had more time, I'd fly down to Cape Town (CPT), but I just don't have the time.

Thanksgiving: A Contact Sport



My wife loves the holidays. She loves the thousands of lights that I risk life and limb to string (60ft above the ground in places), the scent of fresh pine (though we have an artificial tree), and all the opportunities she has to showcase her cooking and baking skills (which are veritably good). Our home has become the center of gravity for (mostly) my wife's side of the family on Thanksgiving, that starting gun of the holiday season, where a celebration of the appreciation for America's bounty quickly gives way to the four to six week period of retail consumption.

Thanksgiving provides more proof as to why I'll never understand women.  My wife claims to love the holiday - and she puts a lot of effort into preparing for the big day. My wife (34DD is another psuedonym my wife will carry - and she does carry a couple of big ones - in order to avoid writing 'my wife' over and over) looks forward to baking the turkey, making pies, creating several variations of stuffings, gelled cranberry sauce (a point of contention - I strongly prefer the whole berry variety), mashed and scalloped potatoes, buttered peas, rolls, and glazed hams. Also, she creates several beautiful flower arrangements placed throughout the house, and sets up no less than three 'serving stations' where her finished cooking will be staged for buffet style eating. 

However, she always forgets how stressful and the amount of drama that actually happens on Thanksgiving Day. Of course, I bear the brunt of 34DD's frustration, anger, stress; I'm the one who's never helping when I'm needed, always doing something less important (you know, manly things like folding laundry, vacuuming the bedroom, etc.) when I should be in the kitchen doing something else.

Our Thanksgiving Day is really like a two-part very special episode of your favorite Fox sitcom. After she runs ragged throughout the morning, my parents (my dad and stepmom) who we told to come at 2pm, naturally show up at 1pm. I'm downstairs, watching a movie with my best friend (who is also in the middle of a deep depression, and begins crying at any time for no apparent reason at all....more on that later. Maybe.), and through the deep pounding bass of the seven channel surround sound home theatre system, I can just make out my name being called from upstairs. The fact that I can hear it at all warrants an immediate reaction, but that 34DD is using my christian name vs. 'honey' or 'baby' tells me that I'm in the doghouse. Taking the stairs two at a time, with only the new arrival of my friend's sobs in my wake, I find my parents already in the house, noting any changes since their last visit, and hugging the kids (who really don't see them often, resulting in awkward and less than heartfelt reunions).

About my parents. My dad is deeply religious, and not in a cool, "go-to-mass-every-sunday-and-get-Irish-drunk-every-saturday" way.  I was raised in a very evangelically religious environment - I'm talking hands in the air, and pressure to babble in made up languages so others would think the Holy Spirit was speaking through me in tongues. My dad connected with something in this branch of Christianity. So did my mom. Kneeling and standing, singing hymn #206, repeating back what the priest says - this wasn't their bag of tea. I think they felt that by going all-in as they did, they felt like they were connecting with the real Jesus. However, the deeper down the evangelical rabbit hole they went, the more stark was the contrast with any hypocricy that bubbled to the surface.

This is how I grew up (well except for the being Indian part)

None of this helped my mom. She died of cancer when I was 16 years old. My dad remarried a couple of years later (and has been married to my stepmom for 23 years now) to a nice lady, but a Roman Catholic one. They found a separate peace, with her going to mass, and he doing whatever it is he does these days. I can remember the first time he saw a photo of me from one of my fraternity dances. I was so wasted, and it was so obvious. The disappointment in his face, and the guilt that arose in me - no matter how irrational the feeling was - led me to never live at home again. I lived at the fraternity and then with roommates after college.

Now, contrast my parents and their very conservative beliefs with 34DD's family.

My in-laws got divorced right around the time 34DD and I got married. They were a co-dependent mess together. But notwithstanding their personal relationship issues, my wife's family were free spirits. My father-in-law is an atheist, thinks religion is nuts and has quoted Marx several times referencing it as the 'opiate of the masses.' When my wife was a kid, her parents used to grow pot in the basement, were heavy partiers, and whose beliefs and behaviors shaped 34DD for a lifetime. My wife cusses and swears all the time, but she does it almost as a dialect unique to our household. Our kids hear it all the time, which used to really bother me and drive me nuts, due to my own upbringing. However, her cursing doesn't even bug me anymore. Our kids don't flinch at hearing the 'fucks' and 'shits' and 'assholes' and 'jesus christs' around the house. Someone like my dad would cringe if he knew this were our daily speaking language. The kids are so used to hearing it, but also understand that it isn't generally accepted in their daily, public lives.

I hope you understand why part one of Thanksgiving - my parents arrival - is so stressful to 34DD. After a couple of hours entertaining them, they announce their departure, heading off to another boring relative's dinner. Once they leave, the rest of the days' guests start arriving. Every single one of them - with the exception of my brother (and my depressed friend) - is from 34DD's side of the family.  Immediately, wine and champagne corks are popping, glasses of wine are being refilled time and time again, and conversation is getting louder and louder.

Guests include 34DD's mom and dad, arriving separately and finally getting along after 10 years of divorce. Her dad's girlfriend of seven years, who hails from New Jersey - with the accent to prove it - comes along (she's like a grandma to the kids). My wife's enormous and quiet brother and his ten year younger wife show up with their cute son, the smell of cigarette smoke all over them, and whose provenance is clearly country cousin. Rounding out the guests is the daughter of 34DD's dad's Jersey girlfriend, and a single mom and her son who are joined at the hip with my wife's brother's family. Got that?

After my folks left, I figured my job of exclusive entertainment was done, so I went back downstairs to my movie, while upstairs bottle after bottle of wine was consumed. At one point, I heard stomping and yelling. I knew something was going on - and knowing our Thanksgivings and the central role that wine plays - it could have been anything. Turns out the Jersey girlfriend and her daughter were completely drunk (from my wife's Champagne Kirs charged with high octane homemade liqueur), and yelling at each other over the man who is the daughter's dad, and the father-in-law's girlfriend's ex-husband (boy, this would be much easier if I hadn't committed to writing anonymously). The daughter went too far by criticizing my father-in-law for not treating her mom well. 34DD, already well into her umpteenth glass of wine, overreacted at the slight on family honor, confronted the daughter, who decided - rather yelled very loudly - that she was leaving. I offered to give her a ride home, as that I wasn't drinking (I'm sure you're surprised that all of this drama didn't drive me to drink). Her response?

"I'm not too fucking drunk to drive home!" Door slam.

Awkward. The turkey wasn't even out of the oven and the drama was in full force.



By the end of the night, I had someone vomiting out on our deck, someone sneaking away to avoid me trying to stay and sober up, and had to give my father-in-law and his girlfriend a 45 minute round trip ride home because she had lost her keys (which I found this morning on the driveway, finally melted of all its ice and snow).

I look at Facebook, and see all the nice photos and descriptions of traditional, seemingly perfect Thanksgiving gatherings. Though our gatherings are more Goya than Rockwell, the holiday spirit is just as real in our house, and even the annual drama represents a certain sense of family and home. I couldn't imagine sitting down to a formal Thanksgiving dinner, with conversation limited to non-offensive topics pandering to the lowest common denominator of the guests (most likely someone's stuffy aunt). Though I regret hosting the holiday's activities every year when the drama is at its worst, looking back at the memories, funny stories and the anecdotes that warrant retelling year after year, I think I got it pretty good.

My Vision of Thanksgiving Boredom

As the saying goes, the family that disfunctions together, stays together. My family and I don't lack in that department.

My Day from Hell: Nose Job followed by Faceplant

Eighteen months ago, I had some plastic surgery on my face. I had a implant to strengthen my chin, work around my eyes to freshen them, and a rhinoplasty to flatten out my humped dorsum that I never liked, and thin out the end of it as well. The procedures went well. I killed two birds with one stone by having a shoulder surgery done back to back with the facial work.

Fast forward to yesterday. I had scheduled a follow-up surgery for my nose. The end of the nose still appeared swollen, almost Ted Kennedy-ish. My surgeon was happy to make an adjustment at no charge. The only costs related to the procedure was the cost of the anesthesiologist (er...and the botox and juvederm I had added while I was out).

Last thing I remembered before the Versed took effect and killed my memory was the vista out the windows of large snowflakes falling gently down.

After being unconscious for two hours, and having gone through the post-op recovery, my wife picked me up and took me home. Snow everywhere, but the roads were pretty good. Arriving home, we parked at the top of our steep and icy driveway. I was still foggy from the anesthesia (but didn't realize it at the time), and made my way down the edge of the driveway, which had more snow which allowed me better footing. However, at the bottom, literally six feet from flat and navigable ground, I slipped, pirouetted a full 180 degrees, then fell forward uphill, slamming my face and forehead onto the pavement without my arms to break the fall.

My wife and kids were at the top of the driveway, and all heard the literal thud of my face making contact. Since I still some anasthesia on board (medical lingo for still in my blood), the full impact of the pain didn't register. My first thought? This is what it feels like for all those bone headed jackass wanna-bes who allow shows like 'The World's Dumbest (fill in the blank)" to thrive. My second thought was concern about the condition of the work my surgeon had just done on my nose. Not only was the work just a few hours hold, but my doc was making no money off of the follow up fix.

911 was called, my wife on the phone panicky over my potential injuries. I was embarrassed, hurt and for whatever reason, chose that time to start cursing at the top of my lungs.

"Hang up the fucking phone!"
"I'm ok, Goddammit, don't call the fucking aid car!"
"Let's just fucking call Dr. R------- (plastic surgeon)!!"
"Fuck! Why aren't you fucking listening to me!"



This isn't me, but he does look like I felt

 Again, these are guesses. There are no recordings of my exact exclamations. Well, since my wife was talking to a 911 operator, if certain audio forensics equipment were used, I supposed my precise litany of curses might be recovered. In any case, the 911 operator either decided upon her/his own, or based on something my wife said, to warn the responding aid cars that I might be armed and dangerous (I'm not kidding). As the sirens blare in the distance, and somehow, none of my family has actually come to my aid at the bottom of the driveway, I called my surgeon, got the office manager on the phone, and told her my sad tale. She assurred me that Dr. R-------- can check in with me at the emergency room.

Eventually, someone showed up. But all I hear is my wife yelling that "they went to the wrong address!" My 15 year old daughter, under direct orders from my wife, runs like Forrest Gump down the street and around the corner to where the aid car and firetruck were waiting. Out of breath, she tells them they're a block away.

Oddly, they ask her, "Are you ok? is your mom ok? do you have any siblings?" My daughter assures them that no one else is hurt, just yours truly who took the faceplant on his newly modified nose. The firemen were waiting for police back-up due to a possible dangerous situation. My yelling was interpreted as someone not only hurt, but going postal.

Eventually, I was brought into our house, and every good looking, handsome and young firemen was examining me (at least, that's how my wife described them...later). To be safe, they placed me on a backboard, put on a neck collar, and strapped me into the aidcar so I was completely immobile, notwithstanding any concerns of comfort.

Traveling in the back of the aid car, the EMT was calling ahead to the emergency. It reminded me of that old show 'Emergency One' where the main dudes always called the doctor for advice on emergency situations (Rampart?).

My surgeon visited me to check out any potential damage to my nose.  Fortunately, everything looked good. Some extra swelling, to be sure, but no sutures busted or other damage. It turns out that I had a plastic splint on my nose as protection for the many subcutaneous micro-sutures keeping varios pieces of cartlidge in place. My faceplant must have sent the thing flying. Dr. R joked that we'll probably find it in the spring when the snow melts (I will definitely blog a photo of it, if it's found). Fortunately, he noted, that splint probably absorbed much of the energy of the faceplant, saving my nose from more damage. Wow.

Finally, after another 90 minutes in the emergency room, which included a visit to the radiologist for some x-rays to rule out spine/neck damage, I was released into my wife's care at 6pm.

By this time, the snow had been falling for hours, the sun had long set, and the temperatures had dropped into the mid 20s (very cold for the Seattle area). We recently bought an Escalade, meaning heavy and 4x4 - great for the snow. As we braved our way home (with me being the asshole back seat driver the whole way), we passed dozens of abandoned automobiles, cars stuck in ditches, cars sliding backwards down hills. We happen to live on the top of a substantial hill, with only three arterials that realistically allowed commuters to get home.  My wife was such a trooper. With cars littering the hill, having made it up to various points before losing momentum or otherwise finding their cars unable to continue, Leslie swerved between and around the cars, often gunning it up the opposing lane to get around especially onerous groupings of stalled cars.

Home at last, I took special care to make it down the driveway and into the house, and finally into bed for the night.

What a day.



International Roaming Data Cost me How Much????!!!!!!!

I remember exactly where I was when the call came in. Driving to work, just a few blocks from my house, ringing filled my car's cabin via my phone's bluetooth. In the morning, fully of energy and happy to break up the monotony of the drive into work, I'll answer most any call - even ones where I don't recognize the number.

Picking up, an AT&T customer service agent informed me of some really gut wretching news. "Sir, I wanted to give you a heads up that you've accrued data charges from a Canadian network. Are you aware of this?" He clearly was trying to determin if fraud was in play here. I replied that, indeed, I was in Canada for work. "Well sir, I'm sorry to have to tell you this......"

Let me back up a few weeks first....

When I was in Montreal for a conference back in October, I used my phone quite a bit to browse the web and do other reference heavy work (and play). The broadband at the hotel was horrendous, made even worse by the large number of guest/attendees at the conference, hogging up the limited bandwidth.

When my October cycle bill came in (mid month to mid month), it included about $200 worth of voice and text message charges. I had expected something like this, roaming on the Rogers Cellular network in Canada. I itemized the international charges, and expensed the cost to my company. I thought I could put Montreal behind me.

"...but you've accrued over $3000 in data charge." For the rest of the conversation, looking back, I did not remember the act of driving at all.

"Well, fuck you! And fuck AT&T as well!"

Ok, I didn't say that or even think that, or even really want to say that. I was frozen in my tracks. Honestly, I was thinking how the hell was I going to lay this on my wife.

"Sir, we can offer you payment plan options."

Looking back, I think this guy was getting some fetish driven pleasure out of hearing me audibly squirm on the other end of the line. I'm thinking, payment options?? Are you fucking kidding? All for some basic web surfing, office document transfers and email exchanges?

"Sir, don't fret. You're not the first to be surprised by such high roaming data charges." Light. At the end of the tunnel. A glimmer of hope. "I can get these charges reduced substantially for you."

Quickly...what is the definition of substantial?

"When the charge posts on your bill, call us back and we can back date our 200mb international data plan in the form of an adjustment to your bill...."

Long. Pause.

"...which will reduce the $3000 charge to $199."

I'm saved. My wife won't kill me, I can spin this as a 'boy did that bullet miss me' with a 'how was I supposed to know the charges would be $3000' and close it with a 'I'll expense that charge as well' (the last part is probably not going to happen).

I profusely thank the agent for his assistance, and when he asks for me to take part in a short survey, I agree wholeheartedly. He thanks me for my loyal business, then asks me to stay on the line for the survey. Hold music comes on, the survey is seconds away at this point.

I hang up.

737-800/900s and Their Annoying Toilet Seats

Let me throw it out there right now. I have no idea if this is the urination norm or not: I pee standing up in airplane bathrooms (excuse me, lavatories). When I'm crossing the Pacific, flying in the glorious luxury of business or first class, the lavs on those larger aircrafts (747, 777, 330) allow me to stand up tall as I use the toilet. In fact, on Cathay Pacific (CX) and Lufthansa (LH), first class lavs have windows!

Even in the lowly 737-400, one of the older series of aircraft criss-crossing the country, when I enter the toilet, do a half turn to lock the door, then complete my 360 to face the toilet again, I can lift up the seat, where it stays, leaving me with both hands to navigate the semi-disrobing necessary (especially with button jeans).  When I'm done, I let the lid slam, flush the toilet (quaintly, in these older models, with a flush handle), make a quarter clockwise turn to wash my hands, trying to hold down the water faucet while getting my hands underneath with the 3.4 inches of space provided in a stainless steel sink designed for an Oompa Loompa's use.

Of course, following that, I'm guilt tripped into draining the sink, then wiping it down 'for the courtesy of the next passenger.' (it's always written in some extra-polite third person passive tense - very British).  When finished, I exit the toilet and head back to my seat. No problem.

Not on the 737-800, though.

In fact, I'm flying on one now as I write this post. I'm watching the flight attendants taking a sip of soda before they get on the horn to remind passengers of today's flight services (seat belt light still on, nearing our cruise altitude, but still under traffic control given the pull back of the engines indicating a speed limit ordered by ATC) and welcome the elites (such as myself) back on board.

So here's where I run into problems. Having drank lots of water today, nature calls. The seatbelt lights are still illuminated, but when you have to go, you have to go. I get up, and walk the 15 feet or so to the forward lavatory, and unmolested by the FAs touching up their make-up before hitting the aisle, I enter. Over the droning of the captain's voice (all of them seeming to emulate Chuck Yeager's monotone growl), I lift up the toilet seat, and of course...it stays up! Yeah! Makes my peeing easier, but ruins my post.
On most flights on this aircraft, I have to unbuckle my belt and unbutton my pants, and let them drawers drop lower than I normally would, since I only have one hand available to..er...aim and fire. I can't use my leg to prop it up due to the biomechanics of how I urinate (the pump can't prime in such an odd position), leaving me to use one hand to hold up the seat, and the other to aim as best as I can. The biggest mistake I make? Not letting my pants drop low enough so my junk remains unimpeded by any pinching or pressure on the urinary track.  In other words, I don't want any stopping and jump starting when the flow begins. I need to swing free since my other hand is still otherwise occupied with the toilet seat (Ironically, these seats are the type that slowly drop so they don't slam. Great. They won't slam, but they also won't stay propped up).

When successful, I drop the seat with a thud and commit both hands to pulling up my pants from my ankles, where inevitably I've had to let them slip during this process. I hit the big blue flush button, hear the vacuum pull it all away, then wash and exit.

Oh, I should mention that all the while, my neck and head are tilted under pressure for the ceiling while I try all this.

Should turbulence come into play, not only do I have less control over my pee, I seriously risk breaking my neck given how it's bent, and given that I have no hands free to help me balance or otherwise compensate.

So, watch out for those toilet seats in the 737-800 that don't stay up when needed.

Book Review: "They Call me Baba Booey"

I've been a Howard Stern fan since I bought a car with Sirius installed (before, my car had XM). He'd been just past first year of his five year contract that took him off of terrestrial radio with his never-ending battle with the censors and station management (well chronicled in Stern's book and movie of the same name, "Private Parts"). On satellite, Stern was not answerable to the FCC. On his show, anything goes, which I both respect and enjoy.

His producer of 25 years, Gary Dell'Abate, just published an autobiography which focuses mostly on his youth, while flash forwarding for some anecdotes from his time on the Howard Stern show. It's obvious that Gary wanted to get his childhood experiences off his chest. From page one, the book uses his mother as gravitational force around which he and his family orbited. Full of memorable reminiscents (Gary described how he would religiously listen to Casey Kasem's top 40 Weekly Countdown, only to be disappointed years later when outtakes of Kasem recording his bits between songs was played during the Stern show. Kasem swore up a storm and didn't obviously care about the material, crushing Gary's memory of him).

For fans of the Stern show, this is a must read. Listening to Dell'Abate on the radio every day naturally causes me as a listener to develop certain assumptions about his background. His work ethic has always been strong on the show, and he makes sure to underline this as a theme throughout his life. There are a few funny stories regarding his 'radio family' as he puts his Stern co-workers, and I was surprised at how truly and totally crushed he was over the ceremonial first pitch he threw at a Mets game in 2009 to support Autism. He really, really blew it - and got hell for it from every corner. It really got to him, even with the thick skin he developed growing up with his semi-crazy mom.

I recommend this book only to fans of the show. If you have no idea who this guy is, most of the references to the Stern Universe will make no sense, and even though his family history is full of interesting (and sometimes tragic) experiences, unless you have a connection to the author, it won't grab and hold on to your attention and interest.

As a footnote, given the theme of this blog, I read most of this book on the SEA>ONT segment of my trip to Palm Springs with my wife.

Old Hollywood Incarnate - Bob Hope Airport (BUR)



Burbank Airport circa 1960

Today is my eighth visit in 2010 to Southern California using the charming Bob Hope Airport (BUR) as my entry point. Tucked up against the hills, the Burbank airport is serviced most predominantly by Southwest Airlines on the commercial side, but is as busy on the general aviation side, given how closely the various film and television studios are located (Universal Studios is only six miles away).  It's the airport closest to Hollywood, and has not appeared to have changed at all since it was built in 1928. Owned for most of its 20th century existance by Lockheed, and running with the glamorous Hollywood-Burbank Airport for many of those years, it boasted to be the largest air terminal in Los Angeles when Lockheed bought it in 1934.

Operated as an airport authority run jointly by the cities of Pasadena, Burbank and Glendale since 1978, the small airport continues to only use airstairs to unload passengers from the commercial aircraft (mostly 737s).  

I love this little airport. Everything about it is in such opposition to the sprawling cities that grew up around it. When I sit in first class, I can get  to the airport drive to catch my transportation in under 90 seconds once the aircraft door is opened! There is one conveyor belt for luggage serving the smaller of two terminals (not sure about the larger Terminal A...it seems more modern from the outside). The flight information isn't digitally displayed - the destinations and flight numbers are 'slotted' into position, much like gas station signs of old required daily manual changing of prices.



Bob Hope Airport Today

 This airport has some sad history. In 2000, a Southwest Airlines 737 overshot the runway, blew through the perimeter fence, and came to rest on Hollywood Way, claiming a single victim - a young boy in the backseat of a passing automobile was killed when the plane collided with the vehicle his father was driving.

BUR remains my favorite small airport. Even as the world has exploded around it, and the sprawl of Los Angeles eventually made the larger LAX the primary gateway to the Southland, Bob Hope Airport still retains its charm, and in the traffic congested LA, allows a quick exit from the airport upon arrival.

The Swinging Lifestyle...Really?

My wife and I just returned from a long weekend in the Palm Springs area. After flying into the Ontario airport (ONT), renting a crappy 'full size' car, and driving 75 minutes through the desert and past the hundreds of enormous electricity generating windmills, we found our way to Palm Desert and our destination.

We stayed at a 'resort' called Sea Mountain Inn (SMI). It's not your typical resort or spa. See, it's an anything goes kind of place.

Swingers
Lifestylers
Nudists
Clothing Optional-ists

You see, SMI is all of these. There's a motel sized swimming pool. located in the interior of a complex which is completely out of view from the outside. By way of walls and the placement of the 15 hotel rooms, the courtyard of SMI has over 60 lounge chair set up among palm trees, near the pool, outside the 'club' area, and around the jacuzzi. The key here is complete isolation from the outside world (which is judgemental and frankly, has decency laws) and a complete sense of privacy when inside (SMI is technically a members only club, which allows its activities).

Did my wife and I lay out in the sun naked? You bet. That's the best part of these places (we've been to one other in Mexico). Did we swing or otherwise engage in 'the lifestyle?' Absolutely not. We stuck with each other. Granted, we may have gotten a little frisky outside where others could see us, but that's a far cry from the extremes I witnessed. Full blown orgies. Lots of exhibitionism (this one woman from Jersy loved to scream and moan). As I mentioned, SMI has 15 rooms (where we stayed for 3 nights), but most of the guests come for the day/night and don't spend the night.

We actually went to SMI with an open mind. Even though we've never 'swung' in our marriage, we figured that if something came up that we were comfortable with, we'd experiment.  At SMI, this never happened. Never came close. We just didn't click with anyone there - we didn't feel comfortable just being there without any agenda. It was obvious that others were trying to get it on, and the conversations sprouted among those kindred spirits. Even though there's never any pressure to do what you're not comfortable with, people move on to find others who are.

Because of this, and because I couldn't see hanging in the jacuzzi while orgies would be occurring just inside the 'club' on the big round bed that takes up a third of the floor space, my wife and I got dressed up and went out in our rented car to one of the local Indian casinos. We did this each night we were there.

I could go on to describe all the sex acts I witnessed (most of which invited an audience as part of the fetish), but I won't. These were, for the most part, average looking folks. No hotties - not a live version of a porn movie (those participants these days are attractive at least).

However, what I will get to in a future post is an evening spent at the nearby Agua Caliente Casino and the married couple we met there, and hung out with there. Irony isn't without a sense of humor.

Welcome On Board

I love to travel. I love the idea of traveling. These days, I find myself traveling quite a bit, but less for personal fun and the vast majority for work. I decided to start this blog, and furthermore, I will try to remain anonymous.

What to expect from the time I've convinced you to spend with me, here? Since this is coming from the top of my head, and I have no formal plan in place beyond a vague vision, these 'goals' are subject to change:

• Observations from a real business traveler experiencing real business traveling.
• Photos of places I'm visiting (along with commentary)
• Anecdotes and stories that will give the readers a chuckle, gasp or a reason to not return to this blog
• Silly photo and trivia contests.
• Book reviews - I blow through reading when I travel

In 2011, I've traveled just about 100,000 air miles. The year is almost over, but I still have some surprises up my sleeve. I'm on a plane tomorrow (Nov 11), Monday & Tuesday of next week (Nov 15 & 16), then on Friday - Monday (Dec 3-6). Oddly, only one of these flights is being flown for work reasons.