I squirm in this uncomfortable chair wishing I was anyplace but here. I'm completely bored. I've already looked at all the magazines. I bought some overpriced coffee. I even finished my book.
I am stranded in the threshold of hell. The airport.
Anyone who has had an extended layaway at an airport knows that besides watching planes fly high in the sky and sneaking a smoke in the bathroom, there's not much to keep one occupied. You have to make your own entertainment. Well, you're already stuck here until your flight leaves. Might as well make your time at the airport good by watching all the goons that walk by.
There are three types of people you'll run into at an airport at any given time or location.
1. The Zombie in a Suit:
This is the guy who's here on business and has a million frequent flier miles racked up. He whips out his cell every two seconds. What he's doing on that cellphone to occupy his time is something I don't want to know. He probably knows the pilot by name and has canoodled with several of those perky flight attendants. He's suave and smooth, but way too suave and smooth. Don't let him near your girlfriend or your wallet.
2. The Parent Who's In Way Over Their Head:
Every mommy and daddy wants a vacation for their young ones to remember forever. So they pack up their sippy cups, Mickey Mouse ears and bottles of Advil to embark on a fabulous Disney World trip. What they didn't anticipate was the airport hassle. And that their kids would be a nuisance. To everyone within a twenty mile radius. I've got to give these troopers credit though. I wouldn't even think of totting two twin tornadoes to the airport with me in a million years. This pair get a gold star for having nerves of steel.
3. The Nervous Flier:
I spot one right now. Over there by the toilets. He's got one hand on the Pepto Bismol and the other on the blanket his Nana gave him when he was four. He hates flying and wishes he were anywhere other than here. His face is green and his eyes red from weeping last night. If anyone in this airport needs a hug right now, it's this poor sap. I wonder what traumatizing experience pitted him against flying? Maybe his wife left him for a pilot? Or maybe he saw Cast Away? I make a mental note to slip the guy some vodka on my way to the loo.
Ding. Ding. Finally. My flight is boarding. I step in line behind the Zombie in a Business Suit and am ahead of the Parents Who Are In Way Over Their Heads. Mr. Nervous Flier is approaching and gives me a small grin. I return it. Then his face turns green and he spews chunks all over the ground at my feet.
Note to self: Never give another Nervous Flier vodka before boarding the plane.
Keep your eyes to the skies my friends,
Perfect Vision
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
No Tiger Blood, Just a Normal Guy
What with the Masters about to happen, I was just thinking about which golfer I'll be rooting for. To me the answer is obvious. Sure, this guy doesn't have tiger blood and he's not a warlock. And no, he is not a "frickin' rockstar from Mars." Actually, he's the kind of guy you look at and say, "He could be my next door neighbor." You could see him outside mowing the lawn, and he would be the guy who has a neighborhood barbeque. My favorite golfer of all time is Phil Mickelson.
In a golf world filled with pouting Tigers and cocky Bubba Watsons, Phil Mickelson is a breath of fresh air. The first time I saw him golf on television was a few years ago. He wasn't having the best game of his life, but hey, the guy knows how to handle himself and was just out to play. He lined up his shot and whams the ball into the air and plop. On the green.
What a pro.
But that's not what made me like him. Most golfers leave huge divots in the ground and let their caddies take care of it. But Phil, he walks over to the chunk of grass and dirt, picks it up, sets it back and stomps on it. Then he gives his caddy a thump on the back and a smile as they walk to the green. It was the subtlest of actions that made me take notice.
The guy is a class act.
Most people would curl up and give up in a time of personal crisis, but when Mickelson's wife and mother were diagnosed with cancer a couple years ago, he took time off to be with them. While Tiger Woods was under fire for his millions of mistresses and inevitable divorce, Phil was quietly taking care of his kin and being the ultimate family man. He's the guy you want to root for. Is he a perfect golfer? No way. But it's his flaws that humanize him and make him one of the best golfers of our time.
My eye is on you for the Masters this weekend Phil, even if you're not a "bitchin' rockstar from Mars,"
Perfect Vision
In a golf world filled with pouting Tigers and cocky Bubba Watsons, Phil Mickelson is a breath of fresh air. The first time I saw him golf on television was a few years ago. He wasn't having the best game of his life, but hey, the guy knows how to handle himself and was just out to play. He lined up his shot and whams the ball into the air and plop. On the green.
What a pro.
But that's not what made me like him. Most golfers leave huge divots in the ground and let their caddies take care of it. But Phil, he walks over to the chunk of grass and dirt, picks it up, sets it back and stomps on it. Then he gives his caddy a thump on the back and a smile as they walk to the green. It was the subtlest of actions that made me take notice.
The guy is a class act.
Most people would curl up and give up in a time of personal crisis, but when Mickelson's wife and mother were diagnosed with cancer a couple years ago, he took time off to be with them. While Tiger Woods was under fire for his millions of mistresses and inevitable divorce, Phil was quietly taking care of his kin and being the ultimate family man. He's the guy you want to root for. Is he a perfect golfer? No way. But it's his flaws that humanize him and make him one of the best golfers of our time.
My eye is on you for the Masters this weekend Phil, even if you're not a "bitchin' rockstar from Mars,"
Perfect Vision
Monday, April 4, 2011
What's a Bieber?
Knock. Knock. I hear at the door.
"Who's there?" I ask.
"Chest hair." The voice replies.
"Chest hair who?" I inquire.
"Chest hair who plucked himself off Justin Bieber because he's embarrassed to be seen there."
I gasp and open the door to let that poor creature inside.
Unless you've been living under a rock for the last two years, odds are you probably know who and what a Justin Bieber is.
My first experience with the Biebs was at a roller skating rink. I'm wobbling along at my turtle's pace on those skates and Justin Bieber's "Baby" comes through the speakers. I look up above, wondering where on earth this racket is coming from, when all the sudden, a flock of screaming pubescent girls rampages past me like a frickin' stampede. Before I realize what's even going on, my feet flail around and I'm knocked over on my butt, banana peel style.
That, my friends, is called Bieber Fever, and it's the deadliest disease on this planet.
And as I lay there spread eagle on the cold, hard floor at that skating rink, I came to the conclusion that I would never be bitten by the Bieber Bug.
That's not to say that I despise the kid. He's like, what, 12? How can you hate someone who doesn't even have their big boy molars yet? Plus, he does kind of resemble a fluffy woodland creature, what with that high pitched voice and fluffy looking hair. And I do like squirrels....
However, I can't say I'm terribly impressed either. I read that interview he did in Rolling Stone. Scratch that. I should say I got halfway through that article before I put the magazine down to go pull my toenails off with a pair of pliers, because that activity was more intellectually enriching. I'm pretty sure the exact moment I stopped reading was when he used the word "mouses" instead of "mice." I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, "Maybe this kid shouldn't be paying so much money for hair gel. He could use some grammar lessons."
So as I sat on my sofa eating popcorn with the chest hair of Justin Bieber who came knocking at my door, I came to a decision. When the kid grows a chest hair that isn't afraid to be seen in public, I'll listen to his music.
Here's Looking At You Kid,
Perfect Vision
"Who's there?" I ask.
"Chest hair." The voice replies.
"Chest hair who?" I inquire.
"Chest hair who plucked himself off Justin Bieber because he's embarrassed to be seen there."
I gasp and open the door to let that poor creature inside.
Unless you've been living under a rock for the last two years, odds are you probably know who and what a Justin Bieber is.
My first experience with the Biebs was at a roller skating rink. I'm wobbling along at my turtle's pace on those skates and Justin Bieber's "Baby" comes through the speakers. I look up above, wondering where on earth this racket is coming from, when all the sudden, a flock of screaming pubescent girls rampages past me like a frickin' stampede. Before I realize what's even going on, my feet flail around and I'm knocked over on my butt, banana peel style.
That, my friends, is called Bieber Fever, and it's the deadliest disease on this planet.
And as I lay there spread eagle on the cold, hard floor at that skating rink, I came to the conclusion that I would never be bitten by the Bieber Bug.
That's not to say that I despise the kid. He's like, what, 12? How can you hate someone who doesn't even have their big boy molars yet? Plus, he does kind of resemble a fluffy woodland creature, what with that high pitched voice and fluffy looking hair. And I do like squirrels....
However, I can't say I'm terribly impressed either. I read that interview he did in Rolling Stone. Scratch that. I should say I got halfway through that article before I put the magazine down to go pull my toenails off with a pair of pliers, because that activity was more intellectually enriching. I'm pretty sure the exact moment I stopped reading was when he used the word "mouses" instead of "mice." I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, "Maybe this kid shouldn't be paying so much money for hair gel. He could use some grammar lessons."
So as I sat on my sofa eating popcorn with the chest hair of Justin Bieber who came knocking at my door, I came to a decision. When the kid grows a chest hair that isn't afraid to be seen in public, I'll listen to his music.
Here's Looking At You Kid,
Perfect Vision
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