Another June, Another Wedding

For the second year in a row, we got to travel to an out of town family wedding. This time we flew resulting in a shorter trip and not quite as much adventure:

Five minutes prior to our flight's departure from the gate, the captain came on the intercom:

“Well, I guess this isn't really bad news but we have an equipment problem, and we'll have to ask everyone to vacate the plane. Hopefully, we can get a replacement plane and get you on your way.”

I wondered what he considered bad news. I can imagine his announcement if the plane suddenly started going down in a flaming death spiral:

“Well folks, as you can see we're having some issues up here but it's not the worst news. Oh wait, here comes the worst part...”

 

The second morning, I left the hotel room to get our morning coffee from the lobby Starbucks. As I waited for the elevator, I heard a bell ringing and pounding from one of the elevator doors followed by, “Hello? Hello?”

Apparently a damsel was stuck on the elevator. This caused a dilemma: help her out or go get my coffee (and maybe I should take the stairs to do so)?

With no tools, I figured I probably couldn't get the door open. I also realized that if I said anything to her, she might get irrational expectations that I could actually help, so I just went downstairs. But I did tell the front desk about her before I got the coffee.

(Note: I always thought the proper spelling for “dilemma” was “dilemna”. Not true, apparently. )

Pretty much every wedding weekend I attend involves a golfing excursion. This time we got to play with my 14 year-old nephew who was playing for the second or third time ever. We taught him some very important lessons:

• Every golfer must learn how to drive the cart with his left foot while sitting on the passenger side, left hand on steering wheel and right hand holding a beer. (we allowed him to hold a soda instead)
• He must also master the art of leaning out of the moving cart to pluck a golf ball from the ground.
• If you hit an errant shot that hits a house, car, or person, do not approach! Immediately drive to the other side of the fairway, drop a new ball and pretend like nothing happened and/or blame it on someone else in the group.
• Never hit on the beer cart girl for the same reason you never hit on strippers or Hooters' waitresses.

The outdoor, riverside, wedding ceremony started at 6:00 p.m. Everyone had large sweat stains on their backs before the dancing even started. Probably the best part occurred during a quiet prayerful moment during the ceremony when someone from a passing boat yelled, “Don't do it!”

During the reception, some guests grumbled that the DJ wasn't playing enough 70's music (ie disco). A family member mentioned something along the lines of, “with the exception of REM, the 80's were the worst decade for music.”

Flabbergasted, I stammered, “What? I will put together a three hour symposium on how 80's music is superior to 70's music.” Just then, a Bon Jovi song came on. “Okay, that doesn't help my case, but...”

The only disappointing thing about the trip was that there was no Kung Fu Fighting at the reception (the song nor a real fight).

The Airline Evil Eye

I hate flying, but it’s not due to fear. Flying today is like spending money to sit in a gulag for 14 hours. (Which is how long my normally 4-hour trip home actually took me recently. At least Greyhound has the decency to tell you it will take 14 hours and you’ll stop in 22 cities you don’t want to stop in, although you’ll probably sit next to a convicted felon who hasn’t showered since two weeks ago Tuesday.)

But okay, I admit, I do have some superstitions. I know the drive to the airport is statistically more dangerous than the flight. Yet I can’t quite rid myself of what I consider potential omens.

During my last trip, as I left the airport restaurant, the waitress said, “Have a safe flight.”

I looked at her closely. What did she mean by that? Once I get to the airport and go through security, it’s out of my hands; I hope she says that to every flight crew that walks by. Then I remembered I had stiffed her. I ran back and gave her $3; I didn’t want my final moments on a death-spiraling plane to go like this:

Passenger #1: What do you mean you stiffed her? Don’t you know that kind of karma can carry over to our flight?

Me: Well, I did have to ask twice for salsa. And she never refilled my water.

Passenger #2: So you’re satisfied with that giant stuffed burrito as your last meal?

Me: (Burp.)

On a normal flight, even if I haven’t witnessed any omens, I’ll usually mentally write my obituary just in case. This can be a very useful exercise at any time because it forces to you to weigh your life. After running down the pros and cons, you can then decide if a plane crash would be right for you.

While sitting at the gate, I’ll watch the pilot make his inspection as he walks around the plane outside. This usually leads to me thinking, “He sure is spending a lot of time looking up at that wing. He must see something. If the wing falls off during the flight, at least I’ll know why.” Or conversely, “Man, he sure walked around the plane really fast. I bet he missed something.” Either way, I then cross myself.

If I miss a connection due to weather delays, instead of looking for a ticket counter to change my flight, I look for TV crews that might be tracking me down because the plane I was supposed to be on crashed. Then when I don’t see the TV reporters, I start to think that I’ve been bumped to a flight that’s going to crash instead. I’ll be the sorry footnote on page 3: “if only he had gotten to his first connection on time.”

I always wonder about the pilots. Some of them don’t like to talk at all to the passengers during the flight. I assume they are either focused squarely on flying safely, or drunk, or asleep. Then there are the pilots who practically serenade you through the flight. I wonder how they react when the plane goes into a nosedive. Will they still be calm and collected? Will they be screaming? Will they still be giving us updates from the flight deck? “Well, folks on the right you can see the Grand Canyon. Look quickly because it’s approaching really, really fast.”

Several years ago I was en-route to my annual golf trip. Because of weather, my flight was canceled and I had to fly out the next day. Normally this would cause me to look over my shoulder for TV reporters; however, I got moved up to first class for the next day’s flight so I started thinking about free wine and Scotch instead. The next morning, as I sat in Seat 1A, the plane made its final approach then suddenly increased speed and veered sharply up and to the right. “I can’t believe it,” I thought, “my first time in first class, and I’m going to die. And here in first class we’ll hit the ground first!”

My next thought was, “Those golfing bastards better not continue the golf trip without me. I would not have wanted it that way. I would like a Viking funeral at the minimum and for everyone to permanently give up golf in my honor.”

The pilot then came on the intercom and said he had to abort the landing because another plane was still on the runway. So I ordered another Scotch.

The second time an incident like that happened, I was on my way to Las Vegas. We were probably no more than 200 feet off the ground when the plane picked up speed and aborted the landing. I realized what had happened even before the pilot told us. But this time I thought much more rationally: with the twenty-minute fly-around delay, is the airline going to reimburse me for those lost minutes of gambling? I very well could have hit a royal flush in that timeframe.

But then dark thoughts crept back in: how awful would it be to crash on the second landing attempt after the first abort? What are the odds?

I guess I should just stop thinking and find a good book to read while I travel. But then again, deep down I want to be the person that says as the plane goes into a tailspin toward the ocean, “Ha! I knew it! The pilot didn’t do his inspection right, I didn’t see the gas truck fuel the plane, the TSA inspector scolded me for locking my luggage, the gate agent moved me to a middle seat, the bartender gave me a vodka martini instead of gin then forgot to wish me a safe trip, the book store didn’t have change for a ten, I forgot to pack the green jacket, I left my cell phone on, and the dog didn’t eat his breakfast. With all of those omens, this was bound to happen!”

Postcard from Las Vegas

St. Pauli Girl and I just got back from Las Vegas on our first vacation in two years. Since I don’t get out much, I will probably write the next 50 or 60 blogs about this trip.

We love Vegas and have been going off and on for the past ten years. When you are there, it really feels like you’ve stepped out of reality for a few days (for example, you look in your wallet and swear there was $100 in it an hour before). Another appeal is that you get to see the full spectrum of humanity on display, from Bible-thumping street preachers, to Bubbas toting coolers packed with Coors Lite, to old rich people who’ve had so much plastic surgery they look like wax museum wannabes.

One of my conversations with St. Pauli Girl about that:

Me: Why do all these old men look so gay?

Her: They’re not gay. They’re rich and can afford plastic surgery, good hairpieces, and bi-weekly manicures and pedicures.

Me: Oh…. So, all rich people are gay?

So here are just a few notes and observations from our latest trip:

 If you are sitting in row 18 of the airplane and people in row 12 can hear your regular conversation, you are talking too loud. After having to get up at 4:00 a.m. to catch our flight, I could not sleep the entire trip because of the two loud talking ladies behind me. The nine-month-old baby across the aisle behaved better. I learned from Loud Lady #1 that her first love died mysteriously, her second love started out as just a friend knocked her up, she dumped him, kept the baby and now she hopes to retire to someplace like Argentina where the government won’t bother her as much. And she likes to drink screwdrivers. Four at a time. Don’t cry for her, Argentina.

 Friendly travel tip: there is no need to line up in front of the jetway 30 minutes before your flight. You either already have an assigned seat or, if it’s Southwest, you have an assigned place in line. I’ve never actually seen an airline close the door and declare the plane full before everyone with assigned seats boarded anyway. But what do I know? I don’t travel much these days.

 Not only should you not gamble what you cannot afford to lose, you should also act like you can afford to lose it. Case in point: a rich-looking old guy with slicked back shoulder length grey hair and expensive shirt was strutting between blackjack tables with a stack of green chips ($25) in his hand. Whenever he saw an opening at a $5 table, he’d place a single $25 bet. He did it at our table where he promptly lost, screamed at one of the players for making a “wrong” play, and stomped off.

A. He obviously wasn’t as rich as he wanted us to believe.

B. He had no right to berate other players for being stupid; he was the stupid one for making a stupid bet he couldn’t afford to lose, because if he really wanted to win money, he would learn how to play properly.

 Restroom Etiquette.

A. I believe cell phones should have a mechanism that electrocutes anyone using a cell phone in the restroom unless your name is Lyndon Johnson. There is probably .00000001% of the population that is important enough to be using a cell phone in the restroom. And probably none of them are in Las Vegas restrooms. At the very least, if you don’t get electrocuted, whoever you are talking to should either divorce you, defriend you, demand their money back, or fire you. Or set you on fire.

B. Zip up before leaving the urinal. No one wants to see you adjusting yourself or even just tucking in your shirt with your fly hanging open. And it’s ten times worse if you’re doing that while talking on a cell phone.

And finally: why I love Las Vegas. This incident actually occurred on a previous trip. I was sitting a bar playing video poker while watching sports highlights on the tv. Two little old ladies, probably in their 70’s, one with a walker, shuffled up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, young man,” said one lady. “Did you happen to see if the Boston Bruins won?”

“Actually, they lost 5 to 2,” I replied.

“G%$*& it!” they screamed. “F%$&ing idiots!”