Thursday, February 24, 2005


I flew back from Seattle last Friday, and boy are my arms tired! (Insert drums and crash sound effect here).
Actually, I had probably one of the more miserable flying experiences in recent memory, and that's saying a lot. I know, I know, you're probably saying "Golly, Lee, you're always griping about stuff that happens on airplanes. What could possibly be more miserable than:
a. Almost having to pee your pants while the flight crew blocks your entrance to the toilet.
b. Getting smacked on the head by the Frenchman in the seat behind you.
c. Being held at gunpoint on a hijacked plane."

Okay, so C never happened, and I hope it doesn't ever happen. But the other two are in fact, fact. Well, this time it was nothing in particular. Except maybe that the stewardessesses skipped me and the gentleman next to me whilst giving out complimentary feces-laden water and juices and soda with feces-laden ice cubes. That, and the lady behind me kept letting her newspaper rest on my head.

Lately I've noticed the pilots of these planes are becoming a little more aggressive with their flight maneuvers. I mean, do they think they're some ace pilots hot-dogging in the friendly skies? If so, we can probably find a nice flight pattern over Iraq or Afghanistan to hot-dog it at will whilst dodging the scud missiles or whatever the US Gov't sold them a while back. IT'S A DAMN PASSENGER PLANE. TREAT IT AS SUCH. Lily made the analogy of a bus driver maneuvering like he's driving a sportscar. I've seen that on Muni. It ain't pretty.

Whoever the fuck was flying this Alaska Air MD80 decided to take the super-agrro pattern while coming in to land at SFO. I looked out the window and we were heading straight toward the San Mateo bridge. That or the surrounding WATER. I felt queasy. I don't normally feel queasy on flights. I looked up toward the front of the cabin and saw just about everybody looking out their windows. About 15 rows in front of me somebody puked. Hopefully into the little barf bag nobody seems to notice anymore.

Now this has nothing to do with weather, or mechanical issues, or anything. It has to do with some asshole in the cockpit who thinks he's some slick pilot who could do wonders in a smaller plane. Let me tell you, we were all pretty fucking impressed. I am so gonna say YOU SUCK to the smiling trio in the cabin the next time something like this happens. But I ain't flying for a while. That, or I'm gonna push the limits of how many in-flight drinks you can buy.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

El Presidente

I received an e-mail today containing a letter written by John Cleese. It was a notification of revocation of our independence from England. Apart from being totally hilarious, it made a good point about us not being able to elect a competent president, and now we have to do a bunch of things in a proper Brit fashion. It's too bad. We were becoming a pretty good country. I mean, not too long ago who didn't want to be an American? Now half of America is ashamed to be American. I know I am. We're represented by a buffoon. And to the rest of the world, it looks like we want him in the oval office.

And this Monday we're supposed to pay homage? What is it that we're supposed to do exactly on President's Day? I can understand most of the other holidays. At least the American ones. Independence day = grill, drink beer, blow stuff up. Thanksgiving = eat. President's Day = ?

I think I'm gonna write a letter to the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle (a fine newspaper if you're normally into reading the Weekly World News) and preach to the choir a little. Maybe say something about the fact that we're better off giving a day to pay homage to John Cleese than this fucking nimrod we call our leader. Hopefully I won't be the only one. We should all do something to pay homage. Wear a FUCK BUSH shirt. Stick a flag with Bush's face on it in some poo. Anything.

I'm also starting a campaign immediately - GAVIN FOR PRESIDENT 2008!

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

me & my me & my me & my me & my me & my ...

Last week one of my "friends" in Seattle invited to me to go to his friend's house to watch the superbowl in HD. Now if that's not one of the best things you can hope for while you're on the road, I don't know what is. So on Super Sunday I call my "friend" around 3 hours before kickoff. Left a message. No callback. Left another message about an hour before kickoff. No callback. So I proceeded to watch the game in my hotel room with no beer and nobody to sing "Live and Let Die" with.

I had a Superbowl party at my house 2 years ago. Lily and I stocked up on food and beverages. People came over. We even had a mock Superbowl before the real one using Madden 98 on Playstation 1. Raiders vs. Bucs. I was the Raiders. And just like the in real game, the Raiders lost. I vaguely remember getting my ass handed to me just like the Raiders did. Even though none of us were really fans of either team (we were mildly rooting for the local team), we still had a great time.

Okay, back to the 2005 Super Sunday. That day in the hotel I understood what the hell Super Sunday is really about. It's not about watching a game. It's about hanging out with your friends. Which is what most events are about. Unless you're my friends who are Giants season-ticket holders - in which case, it's about watching a game. But it's also about drinking. Drinking a lot of beer. But that wouldn't be any fun unless your friends were there too. So when you decide to go to tonight's venue, remember that the "S" in TNSC is for "Social". And buy your friend a drink.

Thursday, February 03, 2005


As I was putting the finishing touches on the 203rd edit I've been working on, I remembered that I hadn't writtten this week's edition of "Lee Lee the Musical Bee". I thought about it for a minute, and what was noteworthy in recent memory. Like the fact that my car had been broken into, but being as my car is a beater and we don't keep anything but melted cassette tapes and grocery bags in there, there was nothing to steal. Then I realized that all that was just me recalling working on the edit and thinking about the car thing and whether I should write about that, while I was at this "music" event in the basement of 222 Club listening to a guy warp a rasta voice on his laptop while a gal played an endless loop that she too was warping. It was kind of mind-numbing, but at least I had earplugs. It was such a drone that it brought me back to my gig in Seattle that went full-circle and eventually was killed. Maybe that would be good to rant about. But then I emerged from the blackout I was in while drinking myself silly with the writer of the ad, who had just recently moved from San Francisco and was pining for his days of watching "football" matches at Mad Dog in the Fog with his buddies. And all that was just an endorphin space out after a hard bike ride through Golden Gate park where I came across a new dirt trail and narrowly escaped the lusty come-hither look of a guy in the bushes that made me pedal the hell outta there. And then I woke up this morning and remembered that I hadn't written this week's edition of "Lee Lee the Musical Bee."