Grounded

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.

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!

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.

LLMB020305

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."

Born Again

On Saturday my computer died. I hadn't even touched it or moved it for hours. It was playing some music through iTunes. Perhaps the Mail app was open. Then it started making a crunching noise. Not a good, "wow, my CPU is really churning through some data" kind of noise. But a "wow, that sounds like my hard drive is eating itself" kind of noise. Without running through my complete list of tech repair maneuvers, let's just say it was the first time in my computing experience that it truly seemed dead.

Enter Apple Computer tech support. If you're a gambler like me, you don't buy the "extended care" plan you're always offered whenever you buy a piece of tech gear. If you gamble and you lose, what Apple wants you to do is go down to your nearest Apple Store and belly up to the "Genius Bar". You can sign up online for a place in line, so you can limit your waiting to 2 hours or so. During which, you watch helpless souls try to figure out why their iPod doesn't play anymore. You watch a friendly "Genius" explain to an elderly couple how to set up and use a Mac - which is slightly more difficult than plugging in your VCR and setting the time. You check your place in line on the iMac G5 nearby. You check it again. And again. And again. At this point you start to wonder where you can buy the new Apple "ProCare" card. Only 99 bucks for the ability to actually schedule an appointment with the "Genius" of your choice, instead of waiting in line with cheap bastards like me.

And then... my name was called. I told the Genius who called himself "E" that I ran the hardware test CD and it said my drive was dead, so I wanna use my warranty while it's still in effect and put it in the shop. He told me to hold up and then plugged in his firewire drive. He couldn't find an OS. He asked me if I backed up my computer recently. I had done so, and he promptly erased my drive. He had me install the OS right there at the bar. Voila! Good as new. E is a goddamn Genius.

The moral of the story is this: Back up your computer as often as possible. So DO IT NOW. If not, I'll look forward to reading your rant in the near future.

living large

Some people think that if you're taking business trips and living out of a hotel, then you've like hit the big time or something. You check into a room and stay there for weeks at a time. WOOHOO! High-rollin' playa. I used to think that. Then it became a reality for me. The only thing that's posh about hotel living is the fact that you can get out of bed and not do anything about its messyness. You come back from work and the bed is made again. Sweet. Other than that, hotel living kinda sucks. I have to reconfigure my mind to which channel ESPN is on. There's no stereo. And I feel like I'm fighting housekeeping about keeping a glass on the nightstand for water.

There is a strange phenomenon going on with the current hotel though. It's this weird game I'm involuntarily playing with housekeeping: Every day I come back to the hotel and find a new bar of hotel soap, wrapped in this hotel chain's paper, and there's another hotel-sized bottle of shampoo. It's always sitting on the edge of the tub on top of the bathmat, which has been folded in that weird hotel way to emphasize its girth. So I take the soap and shampoo and put it next to the tissue box. As of today I have 6 bars of soap and 5 bottles of shampoo. I can't remember how the numbers diverged, but it doesn't matter.

I can't honestly understand how somebody who takes so much care to fold the towels in such a way as to do the "fannning out in a clamshell shape" day after day wouldn't notice the growing mountain of soap and shampoo next to the tissues. Do they think that I can possibly use a whole bar of soap and an entire bottle of shampoo in one day? Why don't they take them back? I'm really gonna mess with their minds by putting all the stuff back on the edge of the tub when I leave. Apparently these things are invisible to them unless it's on the edge of the tub. Or maybe it's their way of letting me know I've hit the big time.

Fly the Friendly Skies

I've been on far too many airplanes recently. So much so that it's becoming less like a rare treat and more like getting on a bus. I've become aware of the power of alcohol for making the bus ride a little less nerve-ridden. On my most recent adventure, I made my way through the throngs of suits to find a bar in the "B-travel" section (which includes ATA, AmericaWest, and AlaskaAirlines). It was the only bar that had sports on the TV. I promptly ordered a pint of Anchor Steam. The guy sitting at the table next to mine slammed his pint, then followed that up with what I could only guess was a Jack n' Coke. Another woman bellied up to the bar and was there for about a minute and left a bottle of Heineken behind. What a magic trick! After looking around at all the people who looked like they travel more regularly than I do, and seeing how many drinks they had, I figured I better have another Anchor.

Time came to get aboard the flying bus, so I went down to the gate and boarding had already begun. I got into my seat and we took off. As we were passing through ten-thousand feet, the thought of urinating started becoming an obsession. But the "fasten seat belts" light was still illuminated, so I counted to 10 countless times. Finally the light went off and I turned to head to the closet in the rear they refer to as a "restroom". The beverage cart was already coming down the aisle, so I started toward the restroom in the front of the plane. Occupied. The first class attendant (named Cathy) ordered me to wait at row 6 - the first row outside of first class. Luckily there was nobody there, so I took a seat and tapped my foot for about 2 minutes.

One of the pilots exited the cabin and tapped Cathy on the shoulder. She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the restroom which was marked "Occupied". He went in. Okay, so I'd been had. The restroom was never occupied at all and Cathy knew this. I had to go to the little zen place in my mind to get over this. Meanwhile another stewardess (named Theresa) came to the front to sub for Cathy, who had just gone into the cabin to provide a little naughtiness to the flight crew I'm sure. The pilot who had just dropped a load went back into the cabin. I waited another minute and started toward the bathroom, which I was now sure was free. Theresa blocked my entry and said, "No, you have to wait". I said "But there's nobody in there." She told me to go back to row 6. I saw that the beverage cart was still blocking my way to the restrooms in the rear. I was about ready to make a break for the front restroom, but instead I went to that little zen place in my mind again and politely said to Theresa "I have to use the bathroom." This really set Theresa off so she got in a huff and told Kirk (our other flight attendant) to move the cart so I could get by to the rear bathroom. I wonder if I should start wearing Depends to the airport. Live and learn.

An Ant's Life

Remember that movie "A Bug's Life"? Remember all the cute little ants you rooted for to beat the grasshoppers, and when they won at the end you yelled "Hooray"? Is that the way you really feel about ants? I sure as hell don't. Especially after the rains brought an infestation into my kitchen this week. They creep me out to no end. I look at the minions scrambling around aimlessly to find a scrap of food (or a dead ant) to carry back to the colony and it gives me the willies. I certainly don't go "Hooray!"

Lily and I did a little research on how to rid ourselves of the heebie-jeebies, and we discovered that vinegar is a deterrent. And then through trial and error I found that it's not actually a deterrent as much as it throws their scent trails off; hence they don't make ant trails and gather. So after making a little playpen to contain them out of vinegar-soaked paper towels, I did some research on the web on how to make sure they didn't stick around.

Terro looked like the winner ant solution, so off I went to the local Ace Hardware to buy it. I also bought some traditional baits called "MaxAttract" just to make sure I covered my bases. Terro is some gel-type stuff that looks like the bottled hand sanitizing gel you might see people rubbing their hands with after getting off Muni. Especially the number 19 Polk. Terro gives you paper discs about the size of a quarter that state "PLACE TERRO HERE" so the ants will know where dinner is served.

Terro is to ants like shit is to flies. They circled around and on top of the globule I set out for them. And because it seemed so popular, I dropped a bunch onto the tops of the traditional ant baits as well. About 2 hours later there were probably 20 times as many ants in the paper towel pen as before. A day later, the ants dropped off to about 1/3 of the original bunch. I felt so proud that I'd done my husbandly duty of keeping the house safe from intruders that I showed Lily as soon as she walked in the door home from work. She said "aw". She felt bad that we had done this to them. I can't win. Hooray!

The Curse of New Year's Eve

I'm sick. No fevers or anything like that, but a nasty cough that would make anyone turn and run to get a SARS-style mask if they wanted to hang out and chat. It's kind of a bummer, seeing as how I'd like to go out and revel with the revelers and bid farewell to 2004. Still hoping for a dramatic recovery, but at this point it's probably better to watch the ball drop on the tele with Dick Clark... er, Anderson Cooper? The irony in that is how Dick Clark is "the man who never ages" and Anderson Cooper looks like he could be 60 (but he's actually 37).

Anyhows, New Years Eve has always been a lame holiday for me and probably countless others because the expectations are higher than Scott Weiland two weeks after rehab! I mean, what better holiday than a day where we're EXPECTED to go out and make a bunch of noise and get drunk and have a hangover the next day. But no such luck this year for yours truly.

This isn't the first time. I got really ill in the late 90's and sweated out my fever in bed. My roommate Luke busted through my door half-wasted at about 11 and looked at me cross-eyed while babbling something about a party, then saw me under the covers and turned around and yelled "WOOHOO" as he ran down the hall. The next year, my girlfriend got us tickets to Primus at the Oakland Arena. We had about 3 shots of Jaegermeister each before BART-ing it over. Once we made it inside, we got into a huge fight which forced us to leave before the show began. And most recently, I was on a job in Chicago and couldn't make it back to SF to be with friends. The saving grace was that Lily was able to come out and take one for the team.

So now I look forward to NYE 2005 to do some reveling. With Anderson Cooper.

Merry fucking Xmas

Done all your Xmas shopping yet? I haven't. None of it. Well, I actually got a few gifts for my family when were in Spain, but they weren't going to be Xmas gifts. But since we've now reached that time of year for MANDATORY gift-giving, the Spain gifts will be used for that purpose. And I suggest we all call it "X"-mas and not "CHRIST"-mas, because there is hardly a whiff of Christ in there anymore. Now I'm not advocating putting Jesus back in there as much as I'm advocating calling the holdiay "SHOPFEST" so we're aware of what the 25th of December really means. It means giving gifts and receiving gifts.

For some of us with a major tendency to accept guilt into our lives as a motivational factor, we will go to church and perform the requisite sequence of sitting, standing, and kneeling. But for a large majority of Americans, we do nothing more to celebrate this holiday than handing over credit cards and receiving merchandise which will be wrapped with paper and bows and put under a decorated tree. Don't get me wrong, I find it all really beautiful and heartwarming to spend time with friends and family and stuffing your gut like it's Thanksgiving again. It's just the blatant merchandising and mandatory nature of the buying that kills me.

So while you're out there on the night of the 24th, looking for that gift for cousin Charlie that you forgot to get, just remember that this is what Jesus really wants you to do.