I seem to have hit a dry spell when it comes to inspiration for topics. That's not to say that I don't have a million things swimming in my mind that I'll gladly discuss with anyone passing, it's just that... well, I suppose they aren't as easily put to paper as I'd hoped.
Blogging is hard.
Actually, that's a bold-faced lie. Blogging is simple. Hell, political blogging is easier than breathing, and that's why I'll avoid it. For now.
I'd considered putting all of my personal, religious, and political beliefs in my blog. Not because I want to preach (that would imply caring), but just to simplify the scores of conversations I have about this crap with new friends. Okay, we get it, you're a hard-core republican/democrat/socialist/retard. Wait, I'm fairly sure those last two overlap a bit (Well, I guess the second and fourth do as well, but I'm not currently standing on my soap box, so you won't get a diatribe out of me!).
Imagine the situation: "So George, what do you think about a woman's right to choose?" Instead of an articulated response, I could just respond with, "Read page two, paragraph three. The last sentence is particularly moving. Get back to me when you've checked my sources." Tada. I'd ask, "and your opinion?" but then we end up at that old chestnut of "caring" again.
I'll write out my entire personal beliefs system, put my own spin on it, and make sure people always keep in mind MY feelings when making decisions around me. I'll separate it into books. Then chapters. Maybe even verses. It's new and it's bold, but I think I can get a few blind followers. I could be like David Koresh! Give me a gaggle of mentally questionable Texans, and I'm SET.
Or not. People in Vegas don't really understand half of "them SAT wurds" anyway, so I'm guessing a long-winded assessment of transubstantiation would be lost on them. Pity, because they're so pretty. Side note: I've actually lowered my standards since I've moved out here, as I've come to the conclusion that Vanderbilt was my last shot at being surrounded by throngs of intelligent, beautiful women. I was spoiled. I didn't know people in the real world scored lower than 1300 on their SATs and weren't fluent in a second language.
Anyway, I've rambled enough for the day. There really is absolutely no point to this entry whatsoever, and I'm about to go down to The Strip and drink margaritas out of a giant plastic football. Don't knock it til you've tried it!
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Garbage State
Pt. 3 (Scroll to the bottom to read Pt.1, 2)
Well, guess where I still am? Uh huh, New York's ugly second cousin.
Mercifully, their wifi system is up and running now (it was down all day), so I don't need to use my cell phone as a wireless modem anymore. I feel bad using up a perfectly good electrical outlet in this pub while businessmen and Crackberry users go wanting, but hey- I've been stuck in frickin' New Jersey for almost 6 hours, I think I deserve a little slack here. If I want to use it, eff them. Oh god, I'm starting to talk like them. Next thing you know, I'll start dating my cousin and burying bodies in my back yard...
Kidding, kidding... There's not nearly enough nitrogen in human flesh to make an effective fertilizer.
Two quick observations about Newark- did you know that everyone in New Jersey has the same haircut? It's true. I think it's the oil refineries' residue stuck in the air or something. Even the pilots share the coiffe d'etate... which is odd. I guess when they see the lush, verdant fields of Newark on the horizon, they dip their heads in vats of oil as a show of respect. Damn drunks.
Since I said I'd make two observations, I feel compelled to add that people here have more indiscriminant moles than I've ever seen. Usually on the face. It's like God's way of putting a "Discounted for Manufacturer Defect" sticker on people from the city. Oh, and overbites. They all have overbites. Make that three observations.
Bass is good beer.
There are two French guys sitting about 5 feet from me, and for some inexplicable reason I want to punch them. It's not that they're rude, I speak French and they're perfectly genial, but I think it's the fact that they're both wearing blue-and-white checked shirts that are almost too identical. It looks like a really bad (or really good) Picasso. I just tried to take a surreptitious picture of them with my camera phone. The 'ol Yawn-Stretch-Snap technique. It was going quite well until I realized that my phone made an ungodly shutter sound and has a flash that rival's the Luxor's beam. Luckily they didn't notice. They're French.
There is now a very hostile-looking family glaring at me. I'm sitting at a table, at which I've been situated for quite some time, and they're pulling the "there are three of us at this little table, you greedy bastard" look. Ever get that? No? Ever give it? I know I do. But I've been sitting at this table since dawn, and I'll be damned if I give it up to peple who don' thave the common courtesy to a) ask if they can borrow a chair, b) ask if they can borrow the table, c) wear deoderant.
Guiness is really good, too. And no, I'm not typing slowly... I'm drinking quickly.
More to come, I'm sure, as my flight is "officially" delayed til 8:30pm; I got a text message and a voicemail from Continental. That slut.
Okay, even though I like the way I was going to end this post, a huge guy just sat down at my table and started eating nachos. I really wish I had a video diary of this day for everyone, because it's fan-freakin'-tastic. Oh, and he has an overbite and a mole. Wonder where he's from. As soon as he sat down, my WiFi signal disappeared. Does flesh absorb this stuff? My cell phone also wouldn't log on. What do you say in this situation? "Pardon me, you're sucking up all my connectivity?" I guess I'll just have to post this when I get a signal.
Damn. He just dropped a nacho down his shirt. 10 points.
Corona's bad beer.
Well, guess where I still am? Uh huh, New York's ugly second cousin.
Mercifully, their wifi system is up and running now (it was down all day), so I don't need to use my cell phone as a wireless modem anymore. I feel bad using up a perfectly good electrical outlet in this pub while businessmen and Crackberry users go wanting, but hey- I've been stuck in frickin' New Jersey for almost 6 hours, I think I deserve a little slack here. If I want to use it, eff them. Oh god, I'm starting to talk like them. Next thing you know, I'll start dating my cousin and burying bodies in my back yard...
Kidding, kidding... There's not nearly enough nitrogen in human flesh to make an effective fertilizer.
Two quick observations about Newark- did you know that everyone in New Jersey has the same haircut? It's true. I think it's the oil refineries' residue stuck in the air or something. Even the pilots share the coiffe d'etate... which is odd. I guess when they see the lush, verdant fields of Newark on the horizon, they dip their heads in vats of oil as a show of respect. Damn drunks.
Since I said I'd make two observations, I feel compelled to add that people here have more indiscriminant moles than I've ever seen. Usually on the face. It's like God's way of putting a "Discounted for Manufacturer Defect" sticker on people from the city. Oh, and overbites. They all have overbites. Make that three observations.
Bass is good beer.
There are two French guys sitting about 5 feet from me, and for some inexplicable reason I want to punch them. It's not that they're rude, I speak French and they're perfectly genial, but I think it's the fact that they're both wearing blue-and-white checked shirts that are almost too identical. It looks like a really bad (or really good) Picasso. I just tried to take a surreptitious picture of them with my camera phone. The 'ol Yawn-Stretch-Snap technique. It was going quite well until I realized that my phone made an ungodly shutter sound and has a flash that rival's the Luxor's beam. Luckily they didn't notice. They're French.
There is now a very hostile-looking family glaring at me. I'm sitting at a table, at which I've been situated for quite some time, and they're pulling the "there are three of us at this little table, you greedy bastard" look. Ever get that? No? Ever give it? I know I do. But I've been sitting at this table since dawn, and I'll be damned if I give it up to peple who don' thave the common courtesy to a) ask if they can borrow a chair, b) ask if they can borrow the table, c) wear deoderant.
Guiness is really good, too. And no, I'm not typing slowly... I'm drinking quickly.
More to come, I'm sure, as my flight is "officially" delayed til 8:30pm; I got a text message and a voicemail from Continental. That slut.
Okay, even though I like the way I was going to end this post, a huge guy just sat down at my table and started eating nachos. I really wish I had a video diary of this day for everyone, because it's fan-freakin'-tastic. Oh, and he has an overbite and a mole. Wonder where he's from. As soon as he sat down, my WiFi signal disappeared. Does flesh absorb this stuff? My cell phone also wouldn't log on. What do you say in this situation? "Pardon me, you're sucking up all my connectivity?" I guess I'll just have to post this when I get a signal.
Damn. He just dropped a nacho down his shirt. 10 points.
Corona's bad beer.
You've Got Voicemail
I'm currently sitting at my gate thinking, "I should be on a plane right now". Ahh, delays. Lovely. I've luckily scored a window seat at the gate next to an outlet, so I can chronicle the epic journey of the small woman outside trying to pull a luggage cart by hand. She must be a buck and a quarter, and she's trying to use every little bit of physics-defying gusto she's got. Guess what? She failed. Hurrah!
Delayed AGAIN. Within 5 minutes, I've been delayed three times. Go Continental, you magnificant bastard, you!
So since I'm just pouring out thoughts on, uh, screen, I need to mention a little qualm with their "flyer alert" system. I mean, I like that they'll give me a call to let me know we've been delayed-- that's actually very sweet of them. Unfortunately, they don't really have a semi-intelligent system here: I got a call telling me I was delayed 10 minutes... cool. Then I got one saying I was now delayed 11 minutes. Okay. Now 12 minutes. Um.... how long will this be going on? I turned off my cell phone for a few minutes, when I turned it back on I had EIGHT voicemail messages from them. I feel like I'm trying unsuccessfully to break up with an airline.
Then there's the text message/voicemail that I get when I land.
"Congratulations, you have landed!"
....was this not expected? And how in unholy hell could I not have figured this part out on my own? Stop eating up my minutes, Continental, I already told you you're being too needy! I don't need this in my life right now, and I've... well, I've been seeing United on the side. I'm sorry, I know, but their seats are just so much comfier, and the snacks are better. Please don't be mad. Let's move on.
Oh mother of God, I have another voicemail.
Delayed AGAIN. Within 5 minutes, I've been delayed three times. Go Continental, you magnificant bastard, you!
So since I'm just pouring out thoughts on, uh, screen, I need to mention a little qualm with their "flyer alert" system. I mean, I like that they'll give me a call to let me know we've been delayed-- that's actually very sweet of them. Unfortunately, they don't really have a semi-intelligent system here: I got a call telling me I was delayed 10 minutes... cool. Then I got one saying I was now delayed 11 minutes. Okay. Now 12 minutes. Um.... how long will this be going on? I turned off my cell phone for a few minutes, when I turned it back on I had EIGHT voicemail messages from them. I feel like I'm trying unsuccessfully to break up with an airline.
Then there's the text message/voicemail that I get when I land.
"Congratulations, you have landed!"
....was this not expected? And how in unholy hell could I not have figured this part out on my own? Stop eating up my minutes, Continental, I already told you you're being too needy! I don't need this in my life right now, and I've... well, I've been seeing United on the side. I'm sorry, I know, but their seats are just so much comfier, and the snacks are better. Please don't be mad. Let's move on.
Oh mother of God, I have another voicemail.
Air Travel: Dante's Secret 10th ring of Hell
Posted from Terminal C, Newark Int'l: Newark, NJ
Seeing as commentating on flying is one of the most abused, hackneyed subjects of the lowest comic minds, I feel I must conribute.
I have grown a keen hate for airports. I assumed this would be slightly obvious given the title of this posting, but just to reiterate for the 'slow' among us: I hate airports.
Especially ones in New Jersey.
The state's basically one giant landfill with an airstrip, and the smell doesn't stop at the airport doors, buddy. Why did Continental decide this place should be a hub? Someone in the board room was drunk for this one. One other thing I don't quite realize is why I'm being routed THROUGH New Jersey to go to Vegas. From Indianapolis. My travel time goes from 4:45 flight time direct, to 15 hours with the layover. I mean, it was marginally cheaper than the other flights, but what about this scenario doesn't make sense? The direct flights from IND->LAS were far from booked, yet as some sort of cosmic punishment for wanting to save a buck, I'm routed through satan's anus, and I get to stay there for three hours. My only consolation is that I got the stewardess on the way out here to empathize and pour me an unending glass of Chivas. That ALMOST makes up for it... but it doesn't.
But that's the airport. Now comes the fun part.
Indianapolis to Newark, NJ. 11:00am
I find that my impression of the flight is primarily defined by the person next to whom I am sitting. Anorexic Ukrainian gymnast who sleeps the entire time and folds into a ball that takes up 3/4in^3 of space? Excellent. Lumbering, overweight assmonkey that reeks of Dr.Scholl's and beef tips? No thank you. Guess who I get to sit next to? Not only does Chuck the Travelling PVC Salesman take up more than his fair share of shoulder and hip room, but he crosses his arms and expands himself exponentially. Thanks, Chuck. To add insult to chiropractic injury, he made sure he showed up just as they were closing the jetway door. You know what I'm talking about; You're sitting in the aisle seat with some perfectly chatty nymph stationed at the window, and no one between you. You casually joke about how you seem to have "lucked out" since no one is sitting between you. She giggles. You beam.
Then the plane lurches to the left like a semi's been dropped in the cockpit. Chuck. He galumphs on with his way-too-big carry-on, his "personal item" (usually a bag of garlic Cheetos), and his short-sleeved collared shirt with pit stains the size of Honduras. He pours himself down the aisle, constantly looking from his ticket stub to the seat markings as he smacks unsuspecting passangers with not only his carry-on, but his odor. Why are you looking at that ticket, Chuck? We ALL know where you're headed-- come on down! Sit between me and Nadia, please. Hope, it would seem, is officially dashed.
I attempted to carry on your conversation with Nadia, but Chuck's rotund figure keept me from even being able to see if she was still alive- it was tantamount to conversing with someone on the other side of a 400lb bubble of lard. Chuck, you suck. Dirty fu-- nevermind.
On a more humorous note, I just asked the waitress here (some shit-hole in the Newark airport) if their bar had WiFi.
"I'll ask the bartender, but I think we only carry Budweiser products"
No shit.
Seeing as commentating on flying is one of the most abused, hackneyed subjects of the lowest comic minds, I feel I must conribute.
I have grown a keen hate for airports. I assumed this would be slightly obvious given the title of this posting, but just to reiterate for the 'slow' among us: I hate airports.
Especially ones in New Jersey.
The state's basically one giant landfill with an airstrip, and the smell doesn't stop at the airport doors, buddy. Why did Continental decide this place should be a hub? Someone in the board room was drunk for this one. One other thing I don't quite realize is why I'm being routed THROUGH New Jersey to go to Vegas. From Indianapolis. My travel time goes from 4:45 flight time direct, to 15 hours with the layover. I mean, it was marginally cheaper than the other flights, but what about this scenario doesn't make sense? The direct flights from IND->LAS were far from booked, yet as some sort of cosmic punishment for wanting to save a buck, I'm routed through satan's anus, and I get to stay there for three hours. My only consolation is that I got the stewardess on the way out here to empathize and pour me an unending glass of Chivas. That ALMOST makes up for it... but it doesn't.
But that's the airport. Now comes the fun part.
Indianapolis to Newark, NJ. 11:00am
I find that my impression of the flight is primarily defined by the person next to whom I am sitting. Anorexic Ukrainian gymnast who sleeps the entire time and folds into a ball that takes up 3/4in^3 of space? Excellent. Lumbering, overweight assmonkey that reeks of Dr.Scholl's and beef tips? No thank you. Guess who I get to sit next to? Not only does Chuck the Travelling PVC Salesman take up more than his fair share of shoulder and hip room, but he crosses his arms and expands himself exponentially. Thanks, Chuck. To add insult to chiropractic injury, he made sure he showed up just as they were closing the jetway door. You know what I'm talking about; You're sitting in the aisle seat with some perfectly chatty nymph stationed at the window, and no one between you. You casually joke about how you seem to have "lucked out" since no one is sitting between you. She giggles. You beam.
Then the plane lurches to the left like a semi's been dropped in the cockpit. Chuck. He galumphs on with his way-too-big carry-on, his "personal item" (usually a bag of garlic Cheetos), and his short-sleeved collared shirt with pit stains the size of Honduras. He pours himself down the aisle, constantly looking from his ticket stub to the seat markings as he smacks unsuspecting passangers with not only his carry-on, but his odor. Why are you looking at that ticket, Chuck? We ALL know where you're headed-- come on down! Sit between me and Nadia, please. Hope, it would seem, is officially dashed.
I attempted to carry on your conversation with Nadia, but Chuck's rotund figure keept me from even being able to see if she was still alive- it was tantamount to conversing with someone on the other side of a 400lb bubble of lard. Chuck, you suck. Dirty fu-- nevermind.
On a more humorous note, I just asked the waitress here (some shit-hole in the Newark airport) if their bar had WiFi.
"I'll ask the bartender, but I think we only carry Budweiser products"
No shit.
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