This is Flight 616 Declaring An Emergency, Over!

Chicago to KC is an hour flight. Flying is an interminable hell, as we all know. But anyone can last an hour, especially on the last leg of a return trip home. Right?

I was in the last row on a completely full flight. Didn't check in soon enough, so it's the window for me. A lovely family of non-English speakers piled in loudly next to me, junior in the middle, mom on the aisle. Relatives of every size and shape fill the row beside mine, the one in front, and the row in front of that one. Junior, probably nine at the most, falls asleep before we are wheels up.

Full flight, back of the bus, in the middle of what appeared to be a mass exodus from Islamabad. Good times.

The landing gear had barely retracted with a thump before the turbulence began. We herked, jerked, bounced, slid, bumped, and jumped the entire flight. The flight attendants never made it out of their seats. No breaks from it. We were all over the sky the full hour. Miserable.

Junior, still asleep, how I have no idea, got uncomfortable and decided to kick off his shoes. Oh dear Mother of Mildred, the smell. By then the entire clan was asleep. I looked around for anyone still awake who may have noticed the interior paint peeling off the fuselage from the stink, but to no avail. I was left alone to wallow in it. When this kid returns to his homeland, he will immediately have the register his feet as deadly weapons. He will be feared with dread loathing in middle school P.E. when he takes off his tennis shoes in the locker room. Nasty, nasty, nasty.

Couldn't get up and move, everyone was pinned to their seats by the bucking and heaving going on. I reached up and switched on all the air vents, but mom noticed that in about thirty seconds waking up just long enough to turn them off. Honestly, the thought of clawing my way through to the tail section for a seat on the rudder was looking like my only way out. I resorted to holding the in-flight magazine up to my face just to smell the ink.

Tired from travelling, unnerved by the turbulence, and sickened from the nostril melting assault on my poor, defenseless nose, it quickly turned from bad to worse. Junior, again uncomfortable, shifted so he could put his head in his mother's lap. Gentle readers, after he did that, he extended his legs and put his weapons of mass destruction right on me, on my lap. Game over. I, for the first time in my life, was about to create in international incident. Something from deep within me welled up. Honestly, it could have been dinner broken loose by the mile high rodeo currently taking place, but I'd like to think it was my survival instincts kicking in. The thought of stowing the kid, wheels up, handle in the back, in the overhead bin crossed my mind. After what I had endured so far, I'd be that guy. You know, the last one on the plane with a carry-on he should have checked. He jams, crams, and slams the lid twelve times latching it closed right before shattering the door cursing like a sailor the whole time. I so wanted to be that guy. Junior had it coming.

I knew in my heart that we would need to make an emergency landing somewhere in Iowa because a flight attendant would be soon be compelled to taze me. Frankly, 50,000 volts of low amp electricity would have been welcomed, so long as the aim was true and the barbed darts dug deep into my nose. Disgusting. So gross. I may have peed a little, actually.

That was it. I peeled the magazine off my face, not before taking a huge breath and holding it, of course. I turned to his mother and said loud enough to be heard over the teeth rattling jar of a thousand tons of steel shaking apart in the sky, "Excuse me Ma'am, would you mind....."

The look in the one good eye that hadn't retracted into my skull trying to survive the bio-chemical attack must have been enough. Junior not only woke up, he quickly got moved to the row beside mine, swallowed up by a protective clan. There were many apologies and smiling nods from the gaggle of relatives all around. It took two minutes before Junior's seat mates began to grow faint, wilting from the absolutely atrocious maelstrom that was this kid's feet, when I heard a flurry of Arabic. Moments later, Junior finally, mercifully, and under duress, was made to put on shoes. More aptly, he poured his putrid, rotting stumps back into a canvas containment vessel that I prayed was sufficient to the task lest we all perish.

An hour is not a long time. However, try it holding your breath, knowing that if the smell didn't kill you, ripping apart in the sky just might.

Politeness long sense lost, the vacuum created by my running up the narrow center aisle in the plane to make my escape the moment of touchdown was sufficient enough to bring all seat backs and tray tables to the full upright positions, paper waste, left over service items, and loose fitting articles of clothing all fluttering chaotic in my wake. Didn't care. The second the cabin door opened, the red jacketed gate attendant got quite a shock as I wrapped my arms around him in bear hug, lifting him off the floor, as I sobbed thanking him for my deliverance. Stopping just long enough to poke my head into the cockpit to thank them for demonstrating the engineering limits for wing deflection and pitch-to-yaw ratios, and to commend them for hitting every thunderhead in the wide open expanse of sky between here and Chicago, I tore out at a full sprint up the jet-way rubbing my nose along the wall the entire distance.

Disoriented from the sixty minute roller coaster ride, and with my vision blurred from tears of joy, I stumbled to the baggage carousel. Clearly not well, I mistook an overly tanned retiree's Lhasa-Apso for a shaggy towel, snatching it off it's diamond crusted leash and profoundly violating it, as I attempted to scrub the the residual stench from my nose and face. After retrieving my bag, I found my car and drove home with my head out the window.

Two things:
-I may never fly again, and I mean it, and the stupid Lhasa Apso followed me home...

UN & Noodles

Toronto is probably the most diverse city I have ever visited.  Today at the office I had a little pow-wow with a Chinese, Indian, Pakistani, a French speaker from Montreal, and a Vietnamese. It was awesome.  I felt like Colin Powell heading up a UN security council meeting. Not sure I understood any of it, but it was a good time.  

Speaking of Vietnamese...went to a Vietnamese noodle shop today. The proprietor had a very, very poor grasp of English, or was a cheeky little genius. Not sure. You walk in and they greet you by saying "welcome to Pho King Noodle", the name of the restaurant. In your spare time, look up how "Pho" is pronounced in Vietnamese. Still laughing. 

Tears, gentle readers, streaming down my face.  He must have said it like 10 times when we were there.    

Rest assured, I had a big, heaping bowl of Pho King noodles.  You bet you Pho King UN Summit I did!

Sorry mom.  Tears...

M.I.A.

Whoa, gentle readers, my blog production  stinks the last several weeks.  My apologies.  It seems it takes so little to get out of the pocket, out of the routine.  

There's bunches to laugh at, make fun of.  Material shortages aren't the issue at all.  

I could write tombs on my recent foray into woodworking with my son.  It shouldn't be possible for someone to suck so bad at something.  My seven year old is forgiving.  I'm thankful for that.

Traveling has given me several ideas.  Some can be written.  Some, I'll just laugh about on the inside.  There's Punjabi radio stations here in Toronto, some restaurant fare, customs, and airlines, as always, that could make good fodder.  

There's the never ending fount of bad, or politically incorrect, song ideas that continually come to me when I'm desperately seeking viable commercial hooks.  People, I'm not kidding. Notebooks full of useless crap are witness to my strange ability to think of nothing useful.  I should make a weekly blog entry on those.  No, on second thought, maybe I shouldn't.

Just bear with me.  I'm going to find my rhythm again.  I'll be back to barely literate, completely inane, immature nonsense in no time...    

 

Look at "Tat" Little Scared Boy Run...

Had occasion to visit with a couple tattoo artists in a trendy little spot in downtown KC. Both boys had full sleeves on both arms, finger and neck tattoos, piercings, gauges, and rings of all manner protruding at all sorts of angles. Decked out in all black, driving hybrids, grinding their coffee beans, rolling their own, all-in types, they were living the life.

There we were, just the three of us, standing around co-existing, me whistling the "Which One of These Things Does Not Belong" song, when one of the "dudes" asked if I wanted to see a portfolio. Being polite, I thought why not. Gentle readers, I declare unto you I saw some things that will forever haunt me, come to me in dreams of ink, needles, and surgical grade stainless steel. If we're ever alone, remind me to tell you about a photo marked only "Rose, Seattle". Dear Mother of Mildred...

Near the back of the book, there's a picture of some guy, I think, lying on his back in a wide-eyed daze. A gaggle of black clad pin cushions were standing around the figure pouring what looked like wine all over him. Picture some sort of nasty hazing ritual at the only goth frat at the Fine Arts School of San Francisco. I start to laugh, commenting that "Wow, that fella had a bad night." Dude 1 looks over my shoulder and gets a very serious look, brow furrowed, the whole nine.

"No. That's The Hype. He was performing that night. It was a satirical look at corporate gluttony. He'd just finished a heavy set, cutting himself. Everyone was just showing appreciation. Remember that Dieter? That was an amazing show."

First off, Dude 2 is named Dieter. Yeah, it's like that people. Secondly, did he just say cutting himself? And in what society does pouring drinks on the perfumer mean appreciation? I thought wine. Maybe blood. That would be about right wouldn't it? It took all I had not to ask if they were the undead. The Hype? Seriously? No, seriously?

Pretty sure my brow furrowed because Dude 1 quickly retrieved his portfolio and tucked it away smartly before casting a knowing glance at Dieter. I fancy myself a creative kind of guy, got a little artist in me I think, but I was beginning to get uncomfortable. My carbon footprint was way too oppressive and I was wearing khaki slacks and a poly blend shirt in a bold color. I bet those boys talked about the community service project they took part in, spending time with the lost, funny dressed little man with the slightly hickish accent, when they were drinking green tea wheat grass smoothies with their coven, I mean friends, that night.

So many questions: Does Dieter's friend, Dude 1, have a name, what does The Hype do for an encore, and how much sedation did it require to attache the implant-rod-serrated knife edge-thingymabob in Rose, Seattle?

I'm not meant to know. Pretty sure.

Shaken and Stirred

Hello gentle readers. Miss me?

A little vacation was in order. Took the crew up to Omaha for a few days and then on to the Mall of America.

I'm so proud of my wife. Surrounded by 520 stores and 50 restaurants, she snuck away for less than 20 minutes for shopping.

Yes, the rest of our time was spent trying to hold down prolific yak as we were treated to ride after ride of mechanical spinning, falling, shaking, and sliding, followed by rapid direction changes and sudden stops. I find it interesting that they called this an amusement park. Personally, I find suppressing the need to vomit for an entire day anything but amusing.

Little guy loved it. Here's a little pic of dad and E riding the swings. Again.....

Good times.

From Canada with Love

I present to you, Poutine. French fries covered in brown gravy and cheese curds. No not shredded cheese, actual curds. It has curds. I just love saying that. Curds. You say it. Go on. Curds.

Recommended by cardiologists everywhere for job security purposes, this concoction is widely available throughout Canada.

This may catch on in the U.S. Beats Canadian bacon. Canadian bacon really isn't bacon. It's ham, for the love of Mike. Right...

Lazy 4th

I'm lazy today. I'm taking the family to see the Royals lose again today. So, I'm running out of time. But, I came across this article and loved every word of it. This is what I would blogged today had I imagination and any modicum of literary skills. (Seriously, count the number of times "I" was used in the short paragraph above. Use it as exhibit A in my trial for impersonating a writer.)

Click the link and give it a read. Happy Independence Day, gentle readers.

http://www.tmsfeatures.com/columns/political/liberal/garrison-keillor/Garrison-Keillor.html?articleURL=http://rss.tmsfeatures.com/websvc-bin/rss_story_read.cgi?resid=200906301156TMS_____GKEILLOR_ctngk-a_20090630

Again...Again

Been a few days. Hope all is well with you out there in the blogosphere.

Well, gentle readers, four years ago it finally felt like settling down was settling in on me. It was about time actually.

Per the usual, when you begin to get comfortable, things get shaken up. Ain't that always the way.

The company I worked for sold. As a result, change soon followed.

So starting Monday, change follows change with a new job. Hated leaving, but I think it's best.

Wish me luck as I take my show on the road, literally. Pray for the heartland of this country as I begin to wreak havoc upon the upper Midwest. No one is safe.

Planned on staying put. Hows' the old joke go...what's the quickest way to hear God laugh? Start making plans...