Travel Diary Study of '06

I, like many other residence of Flagstaff, was asked to participate in a household travel survey last week. This was to depict the experiences and patterns of the average person while driving around our town.

These are the results of my survey.

Thursday, 9:06 AM:
When driving to school this morning, cut off by yippee (my name for a person who owns a black Excursion with a bumper sticker that says ‘save the trees’). Yippee comes within approximately 2 feet of front bumper when cutting me off. I pass the Excursion to the left hand side, beep twice, and after obtaining driver’s attention, display my right middle finger for him to see.

Driver retaliates by rolling down window and throwing large peanut butter and banana smoothie at my passenger side window. Smoothie container is destroyed upon impact, dispersing its contents about the entire right side of my vehicle.

No comment on how the flavor of the smoothie was ascertained.

10:15 AM:
While traveling behind Subaru Outback, I was forced to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision with said vehicle when it suddenly stops for no apparent reason. I glance in rear view mirror to notice that six vehicles brake and swerve to avoid a collision with each other and myself. Two of the vehicles behind me veer into oncoming traffic, narrowly adverting an accident with a motorcycle and a 16-wheeler. Two others swerve to the right. One goes off the road, the other stops just in time to avoid hitting a rather large pine tree. In my estimation, at least 7 people are nearly killed or seriously wounded.

Two seconds later, the reason the driver ahead of me stopped suddenly becomes obvious. A squirrel appears from the front of the Outback, and attempts to cross the street. Squirrel is then hit by opposing traffic.

10:33 AM:
I receive text message from classmate who previously requested assistance with homework problem in calculus. Classmate previously tried to convince me that I was wrong about a certain point that I had showed her on the problem. She had sent me the text message to explain that I was right and to apologize.

I attempt to respond to the message, while driving and not paying attention to the words that I was typing. I attempt to type phrase “I told you!” but somehow, it comes out “I love you!” I do not become aware of the mistake until she types back “I love you too!” By this time, the damage has been done. I am now being stalked by a 19 year old obese woman with three children.

11:45 AM:
I make the mistake of jumping on the freeway to make a “quick” trip to Target. I-40 westbound is backed up like a clogged toilet for 120 minutes. I take advantage of the time, traveling at less than 5 mph the entire trip, to finish my homework, balance my checkbook and play Lumines. I finally reach my destination at 1:50 PM.

2:30 PM:
Waiting for a light to turn, a cute blonde girl around my age in a red Focus pulls along my left side. She looks over and waves, I wave back. She smiles, I smile back. She starts making kissy faces at me; I write down my number and hold it against the window. She takes down my number and waves again. The light finally turns green and we both drive away.

My girlfriend is less than impressed. She slaps the back of my head and calls me some rather vulgar names. I loose my handle on the fresh cup of coffee I had just purchased at the Starbucks inside of Target. All 24 ounces of the piping hot coffee spill into my lap, causing burns and blisters.

I cry, girlfriend laughs.

Friday, 7:33 AM:
Now at work, God punishes finger used to flip-off yippee by lacerating it. I am working on computer, replacing a burnt-out power supply. Upon attempting to remove the wires from the motherboard, I jerk the wires away, forcing finger into sharp edge of case. Finger is punctured, causing bleeding for 5-10 minutes, as well as tainting the 26-year-old perfect safety record of my IT department.

RTFM

I have always seen business trips as golden opportunities. They are a chance to see different parts of the country, or world if you are lucky, and do so for free. They allow for new experiences, from things that others would find commonplace to the extraordinary, and all on the company dime, no less.

Last year, I was flown out to a small town just outside of Texas, and for the first time in my life, had an opportunity to rent a car. Now to others, this might not seem all that impressive, but considering I was not yet 25, and I had not one clue how to get from Dallas-Fort Worth Airport to Waxahachie, TX, this was to be a grand adventure for me.

I knew the company reserved some type of compact car for me at the rental agency, but like anything else, I tried to slither myself into something better.

“Good afternoon sir.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Can I see your ID, sir?”

I handed him my ID and swiveled my head back and forth a few times, just getting a feel for what was going on around me. The agent looked down and started typing away at his computer.

“Well sir, it seems that we have you down for either an Oldsmobile Alero or a Ford Focus.”

“Excuse me?!” I tried like hell to sound surprised; unfortunately, I am nowhere near as good as an actor as I am a cook or a singer.

“Well sir, whoever made your reservations specifically stated that you were to get a compact car.”

“I was specifically told that I was to get a Mustang.”

I can’t help it; I never have been able to. I always like to see how far I can take things before people realize that I am bluffing. It is something that has got me into more trouble than is reasonable to explain in this medium.

“Well sir, it says right here that you are only to get a compact car, and those are the choices that we have.”

“Can I speak to your supervisor?”

“Of course you can, sir.”

I must admit, this was quite the stupid mistake on my part. I have the tendency, along with trying to bullshit my way into a better situation, to assume that if I bitch enough, businesses are just going to give me what I want to get me the hell out of their line. Unbeknownst to me, the rental agency had my travel coordinator’s phone number on file.

The agent went into the back and grabbed his supervisor, who promptly picked up the phone and placed a call to my travel coordinator.

“Sir, my supervisor is calling the person who set up your reservations to clear up this mistake; it should only be a couple of minutes.”

I hate it when people call my bluff.

A few minutes later the supervisor comes out of his office with a grin on his face.

“Sir, your travel coordinator said, and I quote, ‘There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that he is to get anything other than a compact unless all you have left are Mustangs.’”

“Is that all she said?”

“She laughed for a while too, and explained that you like to play pranks on people that you work with.”

It’s a good thing that she has a good sense of humor. The supervisor went back to his office snickering, and the agent behind the desk, now with a vindicated smile on his face turns to me and asks me again:

“So what will it be sir, the Alero or the Focus.”

Now embarrassed and admittedly pouting a little, I made the rest of the answers in our conversation as short as possible.

“Whichever one’s the cheapest.”

“Ok sir… would you like a vehicle with or without the built in navigation system?”

On my way out of work the day before, I hastily printed out directions that I obtained from the Internet from destination to destination. However, I neglected to pick the directions up from the printer on my way out of the door.

“With, please.”

I was handed my receipt, along with two booklets. One detailed the basic features of the Oldsmobile Alero. The other pertained to the on-board navigation system equipped on the vehicle. I loaded the rental car, started it up, and did what every technically minded person does when faced with a new gadget. I immediately flung the instruction booklet onto the floorboard of the backseat without so much as cracking it open, preferring the I’ll-figure-it-out-my-damn-self method of training on new technology. It was a mistake I would have the next two hours to regret.

After only a couple minutes of fiddling around with the device, I learned how it worked well enough that I could program a destination into it. I entered the address of a hotel on a list of hotels that my company normally uses to put people up in, and I took off.

Navigating the surface streets was easy enough using the system. A warm and friendly female voice followed an attention-grabbing chime to guide me to my destination. The goal of the system was obviously to feed me audio clues, rather than visual, so that I would be more inclined to keep my eyes on the road.

“(BING!) Right turn in 100 feet…”

I got onto the freeway and accelerated, I traveled only about three quarters of a mile before I reached my first exit. It was a freeway junction just outside of DFW airport.

“(BING!) Veer right in 300 feet…”

Here is where I had my first trouble. The junction I was about to enter had one exit that branched off into two exits, one northbound, one southbound. I had a feeling I was going the wrong way, but it wasn’t justified until I glanced down and got a look at the GPS system on the dash.

I pulled off of the freeway to turn around when the voice came up again. I stopped in a McDonald’s parking lot to let the system regain its bearings.

“(BING!) Recalculating route…”

With the new route in front of me, I resumed my travels. I passed by a junior high school that was just letting out for the day. As I slowed down to let the kids cross the street, I received a handful of odd looks from students, faculty, and parents alike. It took me a second to realize that if I saw a Mexican driving in my neighborhood, yelling obscenities and flipping off his dashboard, I would be a little worried too.

I started heading towards DFW again, without a clue as to my whereabouts, only knowing that I was in Dallas. Following my co-pilot a little less blindly than before, I started to pay more attention to the display than the voice. I glanced up for a couple of seconds to see where I was driving, as not to kill myself, and the voice popped up again:

“(BING!) U-turn in 50 feet…”

At this time I was in the right lane, going 60 miles an hour. I slammed on the brakes, causing the driver behind me to follow suit. I traveled across three lanes of traffic, missed causing an inadvertent PIT maneuver by only mere inches, and barely made the u-turn without getting killed or killing the people around me.

I made it back onto the freeway, southbound, the way I was supposed to be going. I was a little shaken up, and glad that a cop didn’t see the General Lee impersonation my rental car just pulled off. After a couple of minutes I finally settled down, it would be some time before I had another exit to take.

“(BING!) Veer right in 300 feet…”

I saw a billboard for Six Flags over Texas, and I took a moment to think about what I was going to do with all of the free time I was going to have over the next three days. I had never been to Dallas before, and I started thinking about taking a day to see the sights, and at least one day for the amusement park. It had been forever since I had been on a roller coaster and it sounded like a good time-

“(BING!) Recalculating route…”

Due to my daydreaming session, I neglected the fact that I was driving and missed the turn. I pulled off again, turned around and started to head in the right direction. Now completely frustrated, I kept my speed down to 45 mph, as not to miss any more exits. When realizing that the posted limit was 55 and the observed limit was somewhere in the 80’s, I lowered my right foot just a little more.

Fifteen miles of driving and I was about to hit another junction. This time I was prepared, I was paying attention, I knew exactly what exit I was supposed to take and how far away it was.

“(BING!) Veer right in 300 feet…”

Another junction, another exit.

“(BING!) Recalculating route…”

Another wrong turn. I took exit A instead of exit B, leading me northbound instead of southbound, again. I cocked my arm back to knock the living hell out of the navigation system. I realized that this was a fight that my fist would most definitely lose, and I was sure as hell not going to be able to get around without the stupid thing.

At this point, it was almost as if the system was starting to get frustrated with me. I could sense it in the now not-so-friendly female voice that followed the chime.

“(BING!) Left turn in 100 feet, asshole…”

It was like driving with a nagging girlfriend. Granted, it may have been all in my head, but I did hear it nonetheless.

Now back on course, it was a straight shot of 20 miles or so until I reached my hotel. I spent a good 15 out of those 20 minutes en route trying to find a radio station that played something that wasn’t country or in Spanish, not being a huge fan of the music of my people. Relieved, I finally arrived at my destination.

I eagerly jumped out of the car, wanting to get a small nap before I had to be at a sister site of ours for training. I stretched for a couple of minutes, popped every joint in my body, and walked inside to check in to my temporary home.

“Hi, I have reservations.”

“Can I see your ID sir?”

Again I hand a clerk my ID, but this time I wasn’t expecting the response I received.

“Uh, sir… We don’t have a reservation for you here…”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s no record of you having a room with us this week.”

“I’m with-“

“I know who you are with sir, but there’s no reservation for you.”

At a loss for what to do next, I double checked my itinerary and confirmed what I was afraid of. As it turns out, the list of hotels that my company uses for business has more than one hotel on it. The hotel that I programmed into the GPS system wasn’t the one listed on my itinerary. I was at least 5 miles away from my hotel, and only 2 ½ hours away from my training.

After finally getting to the right hotel, getting checked in and in my room, I had a chance to take a look at my watch. I had managed to make a simple drive of just over an hour last just under two. As I laid down on the bed to relax for a few minutes, I thought about something I tell people about their computers often.

“When in doubt, read the fucking manual!”

A Rude Awakening

I was fast asleep, and I was having that dream again.

I could see Jack Nicholson running away from me on the ground far below. I could never understand how I barely kept up with him, chasing him with a Harrier when he was on foot. He must be a fast sprinter.

He is getting closer and closer to the bridge. I have the gun sight readied, switch weapon modes, and line up to strafe my target. I squeeze the trigger on the stick, and the world slows down. I can feel the seat of the fighter shake as each round leaves the barrel. I could hear Brian’s voice come over the radio…

“Dude! Matt! Watch this!”

The plane jarred severely to the left. My body and my head, affected by inertia, are suddenly and violently thrown to the right. The motion startles me, but doesn’t wake me, that is, at least until the right side of my head hits the canopy.

WHAP!!!

Brian and Matt were in the front seat of the car, giggling like schoolgirls. My hands began to shake from the adrenalin, and my head started to hurt from the glass it just hit. Brian had just swerved the car and slammed my head against the window, not to avoid an accident, but for mere entertainment purposes.

Rat bastard…

Matt and I had just graduated from high school 2 months earlier, and figured it would be kind of cool to do a ‘Senior Trip’ of sorts. Brian had graduated the year before us, and the three of us were about to move to Tucson to go to the U of A. Matt was to be a business major, Brian and I were engineering majors, Mechanical and Aerospace, respectively.

We were making our way to Desert Hot Springs, California, to pick up our friend Ryan, who had just moved away to be with his family. We each had two packs of clove cigarettes, and I distinctly remember telling my friends that 2 packs each was far too many cloves for a four day trip. By the end of the trip, we ended up buying a carton of cloves in addition to the ones we had already purchased.

The first night was rather laid back; we had a cheap dinner, and then ended up in downtown Palm Springs, smoking cigars and playing like we were notorious. That was of course, until the four of us got into Ryan’s 1986 Toyota Camry. I don’t care who you are; you can’t look like a badass in a Camry. The four of us barely fit in the vehicle, and I’m fairly certain that Matt, who stands 6’5”, had to stick part of his head through the sunroof to fit in the car without having to crane his neck.

Ryan lived, and worked, in Culver City, a suburb of Los Angeles. He was a Best Boy, or Key Grip, or one of the other obscure titles that you see scrolling down the screen in the credits of a movie. He worked for Sony Pictures, and had a hand in making ‘Armageddon’, among other films.

“I don’t like Ben Affleck, he smokes.”

“You smoke too, you moron!”

We spent what was left of the night in Culver City, not waking up the next morning until around three in the afternoon. We grab a bite to eat, park the car somewhere in Hollywood and start strolling down Sunset, taking in the sights. The three of us that weren’t Ryan looked very out of place.

Let me rephrase that…

We looked like monkeys, staring at a flame for the first time. You could almost smell the money in the air; you could feel the pretension in every local that passed by us. Our mouths were left agape by the things that we saw. As we paraded down Sunset, Matt glared at something that he had never partaken in at his tender age.

“Nudie bar, nudie bar, NUDIE BAR!!”

The Body Shop sat next door to The House of Blues. It happened to meet all of the requirements we were looking for in a strip club, namely, an 18 year old could walk in. While waiting in line, the four of us struck up a conversation with the bouncers, quickly learning how seriously they take security at this establishment. We found out that two out of the two bouncers could easily kick our assess blindfolded, with one hand and one leg tied behind their backs. The bouncer standing to the left of the door, checking our ID’s happened to be Mr. Korea as a part time job. The gentleman to the right of the door was a former middle linebacker for the University of Arizona. Anyone who has played football knows that middle linebackers are not to be trifled with, considering most of them are certifiably insane.

I took a seat, ordered my 2 minimum, 8-dollar cans of soda, and thought about something for a second. Something just didn’t seem right, and it didn’t hit me until all four of us were seated. I leaned over and whispered into Matt’s ear…

“Would you mind telling me how the hell you just walked through that door?”

Matt was a lot of things during this trip. He was funny, dorky, giddy, a fanboy, and a good friend. Matt was not, however, 18 for another month. I know Matt could be a smooth talker at times, but I didn’t think he could talk his way into a strip club. He reaches over to me as to shake my hand, and he slips me a card.

Clever bastard…
Matt was not resourceful enough to get himself a fake ID, he was smart enough to find a friend who happened to look exactly like him on his ID, and to ‘borrow’ it. Matt had the appropriate height, weight, hair color, eye color, and facial features to pass as Greg, a friend of ours that turned 19 shortly after I turned 18.

“If you get caught, Mr. Korea is going to make you eat that card.”

Over the next ninety minutes, we quietly sat and watched the show. Well, when I say we, I mean Ryan, Brian, and I. Matt on the other hand was as gleeful as a child in a toy store. Had I known better, I would have taken bets to see which one of us had to get up and go to the ATM first. Ryan was out of the running because the three of us were paying for all of his expenses; his birthday fell two days before we arrived.

I sat back a little and watched my best friends throw money at a woman as if they were playing darts and she was the dartboard. I began to get the feeling like walking into that place was going to end up being a costly financial mistake, especially for Brian, who loved to spend money frivolously on crap that didn’t matter. Of course, he was the first to go to the ATM.

I would have easily won the bet. As it turned out that evening, Brian ended up at the ATM more than he did the lavatory.

The four of us got our hands stamped, and went outside for a 20 minute constitutional. We lit up some cloves and walked a short distance down Sunset, having to listen to Matt babble on about how infatuated he was with one of the strippers.

“Dude, I’m telling you, she wants me!”

“Matt, the only thing she wants from you is your money!”

At this point, we walk past a street vendor who happens to be selling single roses for $8 a piece. The vendor put a (albeit bad) idea into Matt’s head. He decides that a rose is a good way for the stripper to notice him. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn, but he had to go and borrow 3 bucks from me to get the 8 dollars he needed.

Matt ended up being the second to go to the ATM.

We took our seats again and all hell broke loose. I have never once seen my friends spend so much money in so short of a time period on NOTHING. Apparently, they felt as if the money wasn’t being spent fast enough, so everyone went straight from the dollar bills to the lap dances!

Matt gives his favorite girl the rose, she gives him a very gentile, ‘Thank you!’ and she walks off.

8 dollars well spent…

I was the third to go to the ATM, not because I went crazy with the lap dances, but because I had one, and paid for one for Ryan. It was his birthday after all.

Matt shelled out his money for three lap dances, but Brian went nuts. By the time the night was over, I would have to estimate that Brian purchased at least 8 dances, 5 for himself, two for Ryan, and one for Matt.

I take a look back at the ATM, and see Ryan standing in line.

“Matt is out of money in his account, I am lending him a few bucks.”

All of us, save Ryan, awoke the next morning and made phone calls to our parents back home, requesting that more money be deposited into our checking accounts. We made a pact with each other not to discuss the previous night’s activities with anyone.

"Uh... we spent a little too much on 'dinner' last night, can you float me some cash?"

We were on our way to the bank the next afternoon, to retrieve the money that was left for us by our unknowing parents. About half a block away from the bank, we are sitting at the stop light, smoking, and waiting for the light to change, when suddenly the car is hit. Surprised, angry, but uninjured, Ryan shifts into park, jumps out of the car and slams the door.

In true L.A. style, Ryan inspects the damage on his prized vehicle, yells at the driver of the car that just rear-ended him, gets back in his car, and drives off as if nothing happened. Apparently, as he explained on the way to the bank, things like this happen to him all the time, and it's just not worth the time it takes to file a report to repair such superficial damage.

What can I say? It's his car after all...

The next stop on our tour was Huntington Beach. We had no real plan of attack, really, it was more of a ‘lets walk around like a few idiots and see what happens’ sort of thing. We bought a few more cigars and started walking down the shoreline, staring at all the oceanfront property that we couldn’t afford.

“Dude, with all these beach houses, someone has got to be partying!”

As what usually happened in situations such as this, I was delegated the official bullshitter. I was given the task of talking to random girls and finding us a party to crash. The four of us took a seat on a bench, lit up our cigars, and I started to line up possible victims… I mean marks.

There are certain things I would look for in a mark. Age, height, confidence, hair length, clothing, how many people she was with, and how innocent she looked (yes, I was a little devious back then) are all factors. Optimally, the type of girl I would look for would be in their early to mid twenties. She would range between 5’4” and 5’8” in height, just shorter than me. She would be confident enough that she wouldn’t be freaked out by a conversation with a random guy, but not so cocky that she would stick her nose up at you and walk away. Plus, you want to pick someone who has friends and a place to go. Hair length had to be at least to her shoulders, don’t ask me why, it’s just always been the case. She would have to dress casual, to semi-casual, looking like she was going to a gathering, but not trying to catch anyone’s eye.

She absolutely MUST be either alone, or with one other person. If she is with one other person, the other person MUST be female with the same attributes that she has. This is one of the most important rules when picking a mark. The more girls there are, the greater chance there is that one of them will see through your bullshit, and you just can’t have that. Besides, one guy walking up to one or two girls looks semi-normal. One guy walking up to four or five girls looks like a loser.

All of the factors mentioned combined together determine what I like to call ‘The Innocence Factor.’ Basically, you are looking for someone innocent enough to believe your bullshit, but someone who looked like they partied once in a while.

Make no mistake, when doing things such as this my goal was not to hook up with the chick. I was 18 so I was looking for booze.

I spotted my mark walking our way. She was 5’6”, 22, and had shoulder length sandy blonde hair. She was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and she looked like she was on her way somewhere, but wasn’t really in a hurry to get there.

“Guys, get up and stand near the statue behind me, wait there for me.”

She gets closer to the place that I am sitting, and I feign a glance at her. I want her to notice that I have seen her, but I don’t want her to think that I have been staring at her. I wait until she is precisely three steps past me before I say anything. I want her to believe that it is an afterthought to say something, not that I had her marked 100 yards earlier.

“Excuse me, miss… My friends and I are in town for the weekend, and we were trying to find out what there is to do around here at night, would you have any ideas?”

“Well, what kind of things do you guys like to do?”

I’m in.

She begins by telling me of all the bars and clubs in the neighborhood, which makes things that much easier for me, because I don’t have to try to make her believe I’m over 21. But on the other hand, I have to explain to her why I don’t want to go to a bar.

“We were actually thinking of something a little more intimate, like a house party. We just aren’t that much into the bar or club scene…”

…Because we can’t get into one…

Her pager goes off, and I am sensing trouble. She jots over to a nearby pay phone, makes a quick call, comes back and we start up the conversation all over again.

“That was just one of my girlfriends from school…”

“School? Really?”

“Yeah, I’m a senior at (insert local college name here).”

“My friends and I just graduated from the U of A! We are just doing a road trip to celebrate before we start grad school!”

Admittedly, I just dug myself into a hole. The only way out of this bullshit is more and more and more bullshit. Unfortunately, as most of my friends will attest, I had a unique proclivity for seeing how far I can push before someone calls me on it.

I threw off my gloves and let everything fly. I started talking about the projects that Brian and I collaborated on for our internships right before graduation. Somehow the two of is ended up being key design team members of the Mars Pathfinder mission. Matt did his required internship for Solomon Smith Barney as a part time stockbroker. Ryan, who wasn’t even planning on going to college, was the second chair violinist Palm Springs Symphony Orchestra.

“Well, my friend that just paged me just told me about a party going on down the street. Would you guys like to go?”

“Why don’t you write the directions down, while I go let them know what’s going on….”

I had seemed to forget the most important rule of bullshitting, don’t ever, EVER use an accomplice if you have never seen his poker face. I turn to go talk to my friends to see the three of them wrestling around in the sand. I flash a quick thumbs up, and my friends go flipping nuts. Each one of them began dancing and giving each other hi-fives like they had just scored the wining touchdown in the Super Bowl. I flash an angry glare at them and the halt their exuberance, at least for a second.

Moronic bastards…

I turn around and the girl that I had just spent the last half hour of my life talking to, in an attempt to get free drinks, had vanished. I’m willing to bet that she didn’t want to party with a few guys that start doing the chicken dance for no apparent reason.

Oh well, so much for the party.

Somehow, that evening we end up cruising up and down Sunset again. I’m sure it had to do with the proximity of Hollywood to Culver City, and lack of available things to do. As we begin to approach The Body Shop, Matt, all of a sudden, becomes a strip club detector. The closer we got to the club, the faster he began to chant.

“Nudie bar, nudie bar, nudie bar!”

We would slow down as we approached, then slowly passed the club and laughed as the chant changed from excited to gradually more and more disappointed. The phrase came out of his mouth slower and slower as we drove.

“Nudie bar…nudie bar...”

After milling about Hollywood and driving by some houses in some of the ritzier parts of town, we ended up on our way to a taco stand of some kind, with the windows rolled down, listening to Loveline.

Another unfortunate mistake made on this road trip.

In the mid to late ‘90s, there was only one thing that Matthew loved more than naked chicks, and that was his favorite band, Korn. A few members of the band happened to be guests on the radio show that evening, and of course Matt, the fanboy that he is, had to get his question in to the band before the show went off the air for the night.

He only had 90 minutes, so he had to act fast. We went through the drive-thru of the ubiquitous taco stand, grabbed our food, and stopped at the nearest convenience store we could find with more than one phone booth, and Matt got to work. I have known Matt for 11 years now, I played football along side him for three of those years. I have never seen him act with as much determination and vigor has he did that night.

With one receiver on the left ear and one on the right he began dialing the number for Loveline faster than my eyes could see. He would hear either a busy signal or no answer, thumb the phone hook and dial again, and again, and again. The pattern continued for about 40 minutes until Ryan piped up and planted a seed of an atrocious idea into Matt’s head.

“Luci, the studio where they tape the show is like ten minutes away, I have passed buy it a few dozen times.”

I think you know where I am headed with this.

The four of us pile back into Ryan’s Camry and drive to a secluded part of Culver City, an area of town that you would never expect to exist in the shadow of Hollywood. The roads were unpaved and unlit. There were no trees to be seen, and the properties were spaced apart like a rural community. We pulled up to a gated complex that was obviously a radio studio. It’s rather difficult to be clandestine with two one-hundred-foot radio towers in your front yard. Matt gets out of the car and buzzes security through the intercom for the gates.

“We heard that Korn is there, can we ask them a quick question?”

“Sir, I have no idea what the hell you are talking about.”

“We aren’t leaving until I get to ask them a question!”

“Sir, if you don’t leave the premises immediately, I will be forced to call the police!”

On our way to Ryan’s place, Matt finally got the answer to the question he so desperately wanted to ask. Apparently, he wasn’t the only fanboy in the country who was absolutely dying to know where the band got their name. Upon hearing the answer to the question, Matt confirmed that he had just wasted 90 minutes of my life.

“That’s what I read, but I just wanted to double check…”

Back home now, with more stories to tell than I can fit into this writing, my parents make a generous gesture to my friends, and the seven of us, Brian, Matt, my family and I are all treated to dinner at Famous Sam’s. I am in the middle of one of the tastiest burgers I have ever had in my life and I see a light bulb begin to hover over my dad’s head.

I can see his eyes light up like he just solved a mystery. I could hear the gears grinding away as he put two and two together. There were 3 18 year olds, one 19 year old, meandering about L.A. with nothing to do. There was the call, begging for more money. My dad stares at me and smiles, and in front of my 13 and nine year old brothers, utters something that shocks the hell out of the three of us.

“So guys, how was the titty bar?”

The three of us are in stunned silence, are eyes are wide open, like deer caught in the headlights. I start choking on my burger, as I try to play the statement off like I have no idea what he was talking about. I am about to deny the allegation placed on me when Matt turns to me and blows the whole thing wide open.

“Dude, I thought you weren’t going to tell anyone!”

“I didn’t, but you sure as hell just did!”

Reflections on a Flight From Hell

This time last year, I was whisked away to magical Waxahachie, TX for a fun filled 3 day, 2 night training session that could have taken place over a very short conference call or e-mail. I was given a whole three days notice that I was to be sent on the trip.

There are very specific reasons I was sent on this trip. First of all, my experience as a trainer, my leadership ability, and my communication skills would ensure that my counterparts in the building would receive proper teaching after my return. My can-do attitude and adventurous personality leaves me open for new experiences in new places. But the biggest reason of all is the fact that no one else wanted to go so I got suckered into it.

The trip as a whole was rather mundane, until the flight from Dallas to Phoenix. My flight out was one of the most enjoyable flights I have ever had. The flight was severely under booked, so seemingly every passenger had his or her own aisle. I would liken the passenger density to putting a family of five onto a school bus for a road trip.

The flight was very comfortable, experiencing fewer bumps than a weekend road trip to Vegas. I spent the time catching up on my reading and sleeping, arriving in Dallas refreshed and ready to work.

The trip home was the antithesis of my trip to. I don’t believe in Karma as a whole, but I do believe that for every pleasure there is a pain. For the pleasure of my outbound trip, I was about to experience the pain.

I arrived at the airport 3 hours before my scheduled depart time, this afforded me time to eat breakfast, buy a book, and get the most expensive haircut in the history of man. I took a seat at the gate about 45 minutes before I was due to leave, and started to do what I believe every person flying alone does.

Regardless of the mode of transportation, plane, train or bus, everyone does it. I call it a passenger triage, it’s my own personal manifest of the most and least desirable people to sit near. Normally, this list I compile in my head is purely for entertainment purposes, but I knew the plane that we were going to be packed into, and became concerned.

The Bombardier CRJ200 series planes are 50 passenger, dual engine regional aircraft meant for short hops. The seating arraignment is 2+2 and the overhead clearance is only 6 feet, which means that if I were much taller, I would have to duck to walk around the cabin. The interior is just over 8 feet wide, which seems like plenty of room, but considering 4 seats and an aisle must fit into 8 feet of space, real estate is at a premium.

The sardine can arrived at the gate 30 minutes late, which gave me plenty of time to complete my manifest. As I feigned playing spider on my Pocket PC, I took a few glances at the people around me steadily becoming impatient of the delay.

There was a gentleman sitting four seats to the right of me. He was a chatty fellow in his mid forties, who began talking to everyone and anyone who would listen to him about how well his son is doing in high school. If he sat next to me, I might smother him with my pillow. There was a woman about two rows of aisles away from me who looked like she might not fit into the aircraft without axle grease and a large shoehorn. This woman was wearing a purple t-shirt bearing a ubiquitous cartoon character and a set of pink leotards. I have never questioned a flight crew regarding the passenger weight restrictions before I saw her.

I kept my fingers crossed as I boarded the plane, hoping for a misanthropic, underweight, thirty-something business traveler with an mp3 player and a book to occupy his or her time. But, as is my luck, I got the orca. To top it all off, she got the aisle seat to my window seat.

Now, normally I really don’t give a damn about the size of a person, but imagine if you will, the following scenario. You are a twenty-something smashing man, of average weight and above average intellect, who also happens to be a claustrophobe. You have now been sitting on the tarmac for 45 minutes waiting for clearance to take off because high air traffic density that day. You have no idea when the plane is going wheels up, and you have a two and a half hour flight ahead of you. You are caught between a rock and a fat spot, and the fat spot wants to be your new friend. You have about 18 inches of overhead clearance and a two-foot by one-foot Plexiglas window and aluminum to the left of you.

I have always carried a morbid fascination with aircraft accidents. There is something that is very interesting about the seemingly trivial chain of events that cause catastrophic results. I have always wondered what it would be like to experience a explosive decompression, to be a witness to that kind of experience and survive. I have never wished for one until our plane took off.

‘…God, all I need is some air.’

As we began our egress from DFW, the jet took a rather sharp turn to the left as it was reaching altitude. This, of course, made the woman sitting next to me lean on me due to the force of gravity.

‘…God, don’t let her seatbelt snap.’

We reached altitude about 10 minutes later, and the Capitan turned off the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign. There was no meal service on the flight, just the typical refreshments that are found on a short flight. Much to my grief, the woman planned ahead.

The first thing she does when the light goes out is reach into the overhead compartment and pulled out what appeared to be a whole roasted chicken and a pound of mashed potatoes. It looked as if she had experience with this maneuver, because it was completed in one motion with the eagerness of an Olympic sprinter waiting for the gun to go off.

It is my humble opinion that if you look like that, dear God, you shouldn’t eat like that. Try a salad once in a while, they are pretty tasty! The sounds that came from this woman while she was masticating are too horrific to describe with words. She tore through the chicken in a manner that stretches credulity, almost to the point where I expected her to start howling like Tyrannosaurus Rex from Jurassic Park after it eats the Velociraptor at the end.

‘…God, don’t let her eat me next.’

I sipped on my drink, stared at the snack that was brought to me and tried not to make eye contact with the demon. She reached into the stowage area beneath her and pulled out a laptop. This wouldn’t bother me so much, but rather than putting on a movie, she proceeded to start typing a letter. Of course, she had to put her left elbow directly in my face, slapping her underarm flab against my chest over, and over, and over again!

‘…God, why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you?’

The next sequence defies imagination. She looked at me, smiled and said something that I thought I would never hear in an airplane.

“Do you mind if I grab your nuts?”

I spat the orange juice that I was drinking all over the two passengers in front of me, and in a guttural reaction, stood up and tried to run away. My head made it all the way to the ceiling and made a dent in the overhead compartment. I was thrown back into my seat, and contemplated opening the emergency exit.

Slowly recovering from my concussion, she looks at me rather sheepishly, realizing how the statement was misconstrued. The flight attendant brings me a bag of ice for my head and the woman next to me explains herself.

“I meant your peanuts.”