This is My Nightmare

You have undoubtedly heard a story with the following elements:

1. 5 hour flight that should have been 4 hours but plane spent and extra hour on the tarmac
2. Very last row middle seat
3. 400 pound man on right taking half of passenger’s allotted space
4. Young mother with 2-year old, screaming her intestines out, spoiled rotten child on left
5. Absolutely nothing to read or do

I’m there. The question is: How in the unforgiving world did I get there?

I don’t get obsessive, picky or precise about many things, but seat selection on an airplane is one of them. Especially if I book a flight that allows your to pick your own seats for every leg of the trip. I don’t necessarily care about getting a non-stop flight (I am finding more and more people that actually will not travel if they must stop and transfer). On one of the few occasions that I happen to book a non-stopper, I end up here. I don’t really care if I must sit toward the back, but please, in the name of all things holy, give me a mother truckin’ aisle or window seat- because if you don’t, I am going to be one cranky camper.

Exception: If I am placed in the middle by a cute girl (on Southwest-pick-your-own-seat flights, I go through extensive efforts to make this happen), life could get worse. However, this does not happen to be the case. Nope. I got the Incredible Hulk elbowing me in the jejunum on one side and author of “How to Piss Your Kid Off” on the other.

My prepared entertainment of videos on my new 17” lap top is completely irrelevant due to the fact that tight confines (mainly due to Hulk) do not allow enough space for the beastly machine. I immediately regret my purchase decision, wish I had foreseen this circumstance and bought the pocket sized, 6-inch, no CD drive, miniature keyboarded, extended battery computer. All I got now is Sky Mall and no-grit, family-friendly, airline-produced magazine which I am forced to read 2 inches from my face with my armpits tucked beneath my ears.

This is my nightmare.

If I could raise my arm enough to push the flight attendant call button, I would drink enough to make it all go away. Thwarted again.

Upon booking my flight, I went through drastic measures to select appropriate seating and prevent this situation. I went through each flight and picked perfect window seats 4 rows from the front of the plane. The system did not register the first try and I had to start all over again. I checked again two weeks later, and again two weeks before the flight just to make sure because of what happened the first time I tried to book the seat.

It somehow did not work. I wanted to speak with the counter lady as soon as I booked the flight, but I was already short on time and the security line looked longer than that of Harry Potter opening night. All I can do now is piss and moan in my head, act like a pompous ass hole to anyone I encounter and shop for the world’s largest crossword puzzle in one out of my only two reading options.

After the…longest…5…hours…of…my…quarter…century,…thus…far…happy,….but…
looks.... to…be…taking…a…turn…for…the…worse…life, I arrive. I call my bro because he is to be arriving in our hometown the same time as I and we figure out our meeting plan. While waiting for the shuttle, he shows up on the curb next to me with a jolly greeting and coffee in hand. He obviously had a better air experience than I.

We hop on the shuttle, exchange usual “how’s life” pleasantries and after about 5 minutes, he drops the dreaded question where this exchange takes place:

Mike: How was your flight?
Me (preferring to forget about the experience and move forward): Ehhh. It was OK.
Mike: Oh Yeah? How was your back row middle seat?
Me: How the hell did you know that?

The little weasel received my confirmation email that I sent him because I was being polite and wanted to let him know travel plans, went on to American’s website, used my confirmation number and changed my seat.

You are heaping pile of monkey crap little bro. I will never forgive you.

Oh yeah…and check your bag from the trip. There, you will find the cut filets of the fish we caught on Monday. I hope it rots in your bag and you smell like cat food when you see your girlfriend’s parents. Consequently, I hope they tell their daughter that they don’t like you because you don’t wash your clothes and make jokes behind your back for the extent of your relationship because you don’t take showers. For Christmas, they buy you cologne and bar soap to hint at your stench. They decide to have an intervention with you. You try to explain that you didn’t smell like deck hand because you don't bathe, but rather because you were the victim of a practical joke. They don't believe you.

Ass.

Do You Need Anything Else?

Humans are creatures of habit and I am no exception.

I go to the same coffee shop every morning and order a large iced coffee (hot in the winter).

I have a regular rotation of lunch locations- Penn Station East Coast Subs, Saint Louis Bread Co., Qdoba, etc.

I go to the same grocery store at least once a week and generally get the same list- tuna, milk, dog food, sandwich materials, eggs and various random items.

I rob the same 7/11 every other day to pay for the above activities.

What really confuses me is why certain employees at these businesses act like they have never seen me before in their entire life.

I have been coming to this coffee shop almost every morning, including the weekends, for an entire year, and there are never more than four people in there including staff. You would think that my picture would be on the wall as the most consistent customer or something. Instead, certain baristas look at me, when I say hello, the same way they looked at the guy at the bar the previous night- "Do I know you?"

Don't get me wrong, many people at these places know me by first name, the car I drive (and the fact that I park it in front of the fire hydrant every morning), my beverage of choice and how much ice I want. Others, not so much.

The sandwich shop people much be trained to ask the same question every time they hand me my 6-inch Italian with fries: "Do you need anything else?" When I first started coming to this establishment, the question confused me.

The reason? They ask the question as if they are going to actually put something in the bag themselves, but they don't. Anything I could possibly need for my to-go order could be handled myself by the contents of the counter next to the fountain soda machine: plastic forks, knives, spoons, napkins (which were already in the bag), lemon slices, salt and pepper packets, mustard, containers of extra oil and vinegar, straws, and even individually wrapped tooth picks.

You may be thinking, "Well maybe they have that stuff behind the counter as well." They don't. The first week I ever bought my Italian from this joint, Sammy Sandwich asked if I needed anything else and I said, "Could I get some napkins?" He pointed me to the self service counter.

You may have noticed there is one KEY ingredient not listed as a part of the self service counter: Ketchup, catsup, catchop, kechup. And with those hand cut, perfectly seasoned fries, I am gonna need me some ketchup. Why is the ketchup behind the counter when everything else is readily available? Another topic for another post.

So, when Suzy Sandwich asks me if I need anything else, the only thing she can actually provide me of any substantial dining value is some ketchup. Why, in God's name, doesn't she just freaking ask me if I want some freaking ketchup? I have no idea.

Suzy and Sammy have to know me by now. They simply have to. I have been there at least 50 times in the past ten months and every time, they ask me "Do you need anything else?" And every time, I say ketchup.

Today I forgot.

Suzy put the fries in a cup, put the cup in the bag (all while acting like I was a complete stranger), handed me the bag, asked the pointlessly vague question and I said "No." I started walking out the door. What the hell was I thinking? I turned around and said, "Can I get some ketchup?"

Suzy, in the absolute most condescending and degrading tone you could ever give a customer without being too rude, said, "Well, that's why I asked if you needed anything else."

Yes, I know Suzy. That's why you asked me if I needed anything else. If you asked me if I needed some ketchup- the one service you could actually provide- we wouldn't be in this situation.

Thanks.

Faceboom

It's official: The baby boomer Facebook infiltration is complete.

In fact, I am even friends with some of my grandparents on Facebook. (As a side note, the generation before the "Baby Boomers" is apparently called the "Silent Generation." Seriously...see for yourself: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080731161621AAVLnyh)

Generation X members across America are frantically de-tagging incriminating photos and erasing inappropriate posts.

I personally love it. And I am pretty sure I am in the minority of Generation X. Facebook is not just a college social networking site anymore. It is now a true "Facebook."

My brother is fighting the losing fight by claiming he is not going to censor his facebooking practices just because the rents, aunts, uncles and cousins can now view his movements. I think he has purposefully made his messages more crude, inappropriate and politically incorrect to scare the Faceboomers away. This type of action did not occur nearly as often before the oldies joined. Just this morning, I received a message with not only the F word, but a homosexual slur- which received the obligatory "boys..." message from my mother. Now parents can voice their disapproving opinions by comments on status messages.

I also saw one of his messages inspiring my underage uncle to get "pants-sh**ing drunk" upon arriving for his freshman year of college. That's pleasant.

(Yes, I have two uncles that are younger than I am...long story.)

I will not be censoring my Facebook practices either, but I never was quite so...blunt...in the first place.

The Faceboom movement has provided much entertainment for me. Many Faceboomers (and especially Silent Generation members) find Faceboom as a convenient replacement for the US mail. If Twitter's 140 character limit applied, many of these folks would have some issues. A recent post my one of my friend's mothers on his wall (names have been changed to protect the innocent):

"Hi Josh, It's mom. I forgot to ask you on the phone last night if you were impacted at all by the whole Michael Jackson memorial service. Are you close to the Staples Center? That was quite the event! Sad ending to a sad life - he sure could entertain though! I hope to see you two sometime over the weekend if you get the chance. I would like to go see Public Enemy, maybe Sunday. It's going to be so hot here the only logical thing to do will be to sit in a nice dark, cool movie theater. Join us if you can. OK, you're going to start making fun of me again for this post so ICFN - That stands for" I'll close for now." :-) Say hi to Deborah. Love, Mom"

I cannot wait until this Faceboomer joins the future Baby Boomer Twitter infiltration and must write in all acronyms.

The same mother- but posting on a wall of her son's friend (again, names have been changed):

"Hi Tommy! Thanks so much for adding me as a Facebook friend! I love this Facebook - it sorta lets you be a snoop without feeling guilty about it. Just kidding - I promise I won't be a pest on here. I will be looking at your pics though. Congrats on Law School. You have such a bright future ahead of you - be proud of yourself!! If law school doesn't work out, you could audition for the Frankie Valli part in Jersey Boys. I saw the play in Chicago and the lead looks just like you. It was uncanny, the resemblance. Josh told me you could sing so who knows?! Anyway, take care of yourself and please, I would love to see you the next time your home the same time as Josh - I'll make dinner. Take care for now. Love, Irene

I could write a book on this particular mother's messages. The Facebook Book. In fact, she wrote it already in the form of Facebook wall posts. Awesome.

Of course, both messages received "likes" from several of "Josh" and "Tommy's" friends which makes the whole situation much better.

I am very excited for the Silent Generation to get a hang of this thing and start writing even more formal and lengthy messages. Can't wait.

In the family of one of my work friends, Faceboom has become the source of conflict and argument. A new faceboomer, unfamiliar with FB etiquette, decided to tag herself in every photo that she liked and "wanted to keep in her own album"- none of which she was actually in. Grandparents also became upset when a photo was posted of a party they were not invited to. Oops. Apparently, Faceboom is the new Thanksgiving table- a wonderfully new, more polite and exciting way to get drunk and yell at Uncle Larry for buying the cousins beer.

A not so pleasant side-effect of Faceboom is the addition of younger family members to Facebook. I am definitely more scared of what a 12-year-cousin is going to see than my parents. I also don't think that they have quite caught onto the fact that everyone can see their messages.

Welcome to the brave new world everyone-where grandparents and infants alike can have their own web pages and post whatever they want without being judged. I am scared, confused, and entertained all at the same time.