Waters-Ship Down!!!

I first saw the movie version of Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” at a local midnight showing when I was about 15 years old. Like many people it changed my life. I then got hold of a copy of the cassette and promptly wore it out to the point that it was completely un-listenable. It wasn’t until a few years later that I heard albums like “Meddle” and “Animals”, albums that actually were more appropriately composed and put together by the band versus a disguised solo project. At that point I started my path down the road of becoming a true Floyd fanatic. (For the morbidly curious my favorite albums to date are still “Meddle”, “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn”, and “Atom Heart Mother” but I commonly will state that “Wish You Were Here” is their ultimate masterpiece even though not my own personal favorite.)

In any event, I saw what Roger Waters’ termed “the fake Floyd” both in 1988 and then again in 1994, somehow landing a 3rd row main floor seat both times. I had for years waited for a real Floyd reunion but of course that day has never come. I even saw the Australian Pink Floyd show a couple years ago when they passed through town. I had but one more frontier before complete Floyd burn out: seeing Roger Waters.

Now, it must be said that after listening to Pink Floyd for over 20 years and having to deal with the atypical Floyd “fan” all around me that I’ve just about lost all interest in the band. It’s amazing how so called fans can completely turn you off and Pink Floyd is clearly one of the most misunderstood bands in rock history with some of the most confused listeners possible. In any event, the truth has to be told: “Comfortably Numb”, whereas it is a great song, is probably one of the most overplayed songs in music history, so much so that I can barely comprehend how anyone can handle listening to it anymore. “Run Like Hell”, well, I don’t get the attraction nor have I ever, and last but certainly not least “Another Brick in the Wall Part 2” has simply got to be one of the worst songs that ever bore the Floyd name. Ah yes, but I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that these songs hold about as much attraction to me as placing my hand in a hot frying pan and yet still I’m silly enough to buy a ticket to see Roger Waters. Yeah, I know, don’t say it!

I ended up purchasing a ticket for myself and a friend of mine right when they went on sale. We ended up with row 15 of the right section of the main floor, a seemingly good area to be in. It just so happened, as fate would have it, my friend would be moving out of state just a couple days later and this would be the last time we hang out. This alone on paper was assuredly going to make it an odd evening.

The plan was that we’d both arrive separately and meet at the seats. The show started at 8pm without an opening act and so we had agreed to meet at 7:30pm. I got there just a couple minutes after, thinking that my friend would already be there but alas he wasn’t. I sat down, surveyed the situation, and was particularly pleased that there were 2 empty seats to my left and I crossed my fingers that they remained that way since there wasn’t much breathing room in between seats regardless. Having nothing to do while I waited I simply looked around, stared a bit, and watched the clock. 7:40pm – still no sign of him. 7:45pm – hmm, where the heck is he? 7:50pm – now I’m getting slightly worried. 7:55pm – oh hell, he’s not coming and sold the seat to someone else?! 8:00pm – I’ve been stood up and not even by a woman! 8:05pm, he finally arrives, and the lights go out shortly after as if the show couldn’t start without him.

Roger and co. walked out onto the stage and everyone sitting in the floor sections stood up and remained standing, and the band opened with “In the Flesh?” Of course, it goes without saying that tons of people are doing the arm crossing thing from the “Wall” film as the song is played and I can’t help but wonder if the concept and meaning of the scene was completely lost on these people. It also goes without saying, as I looked around me, that most of the audience seemed completely messed up on some drug du jour. Ah yes, this was going to be a fun night, especially since I was completely sober (as usual) and I’m really only in it for the music. Clearly, I was in the minority.

The fun begins, though, while watching the performance intently, I’m suddenly pushed out of the way by a beer bottle. Yes, you read that right, a beer bottle, with a hand clasping at it like it was gold. Those two seats next to me that I was so looking forward to remaining unoccupied were no longer vacant since their owners had arrived, and evidently asking me to politely move out of the way seemed too difficult. No, much better to just push your way with a beer bottle being used as a pile driver! The couple seemed to be probably in their mid 50’s, perhaps ex-hippies, I don’t know, the man having a shaved head and a height of around 6’4” while the woman had a mop-like hairdo and was probably closer to 5’4”. The guy was doing the pile driving with the beer and so the woman ended up next to me, except that she stopped right in front of me. Now, of course, we all have dedicated seats but evidently it made more sense for her to stand directly in front of me. I nonchalantly leaned a bit on her, trying to get her to move into her own paid for space and eventually she did. At this point I didn’t intend to think much more about this couple throughout the night.

Waters’ next played “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun”, one of the songs that I was most interested in. I was unfortunately reminded of the people next to me in the middle of the song since the guy suddenly blurted out random weird comments to absolutely no one, one of them being, “Can you feel it??!” He raised his arms high into the air, looking rather crazed, and yelled again to the people in front of us, “Can yoooouuu feel it?!!!” He then turned and looked directly at me, outstretching his finger in my direction, saying “Yooouuu can feel it! I can see it!!” I produced the best fake smile I could muster and gently nodded my head in agreement. Oh boy.

Next up was “Mother” and everyone who was a couple in the audience suddenly felt the urge to embrace, including the couple next to me, even though the song isn’t, well, really that romantic. The problem here, though, was that they were more or less looking like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, that is, if the tower had the capability of nearly falling in one direction, then correcting itself, and then redoing the fall but in the other direction. In all of my life I’ve never seen two people embrace so firmly. I wasn’t even sure if the woman could possibly draw in a breath with that kind of a bear hug encasing her. I couldn’t help but think that I should call the paramedic’s, just in case.

Finally, mercifully, Roger played a song from “The Final Cut” and of course no one was familiar with the tune so everyone sat down. From the stage it must have looked like dominoes were falling and I’m sure it made the musicians feel good to know that the crowd clearly disapproved of the song choice. In any event, I sat down and once again was totally focused on watching the show when I suddenly realized that my left shoulder was being firmly caressed by a bony hand. As if in slow motion, not unlike Linda Blair in “The Exorcist”, I slowly turned my head to look to my left, this time rather afraid to see what was caressing me. I sort of half expected to find Thing, the hand from the Addams Family, to be honest. As my head completed its’ revolution I met the gaze of the guy 2 seats to my left, and for a couple seconds he stared right at me as he squeezed his hand over my left shoulder, caressing it intently. I was at a loss for words, momentarily just sitting there letting some strange wasted man caress me, not sure of what the heck to do, when he finally snapped out of his stupor and realized that he’s not touching his significant other but instead me. As this realization hit him he snatched back his hand with a look of mild terror, sort of like something just bit him. He then stared at me for a couple moments with a look on his face that suggested that I just did something completely uncalled for, like mooning him or something similar. Still rather shocked myself, I turned my head slowly back towards the stage, watched for a second, and then turned to my friend and said, “Uh, I just got my shoulder caressed by some weird guy…that I don’t even know.”

Eventually, Roger returned to playing songs that the average concert goer wished to hear and so everyone stood up again. “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” began and my friend made a point to tell me, “This is my favorite Floyd song.” He waited a couple seconds, then turned to me again and said, “I’m going to go get a drink. I’ll be back.” So much for favorites!

While my friend was gone, I once again attempted to watch the performance when I was suddenly bumped into hard from the left. I looked over and I see a sight that’s hard to describe: the guy has his right arm wrapped around his wife’s head, sort of in a head lock style, and he’s so much taller than her that his back is hunched completely over her body. Had I not known better I would have thought that the bodies had merged into one strange and bizarre creature, one that’s leaning dramatically from side to side and hitting everyone that’s anywhere near it. At this point they’re leaning/falling much faster than previously and in a much more erratic manner. My friend finally returned and I pointed out their strange “dancing”, and he said, “Dude, that guy’s really f*cked up.” Imagine that…

Once again, the audience sat down as Roger started playing his own solo material, something that clearly no one bargained for even though it was Roger Waters we were seeing, after all. At this point I was suddenly disturbed by a flying ass ramming into my left arm…no joke. I looked in total disbelief as the woman next to me’s ass was hurling towards me, jabbing like a knife, and occasionally sliding butt crack-wise on my left arm. I was completely horrified, not just by the flying ass but because I couldn’t imagine what the hell they were doing now in order to for her to be in this position and I was deathly afraid to look. Curiosity got the better of me, though, and I looked over, all the while trying to avoid the jabbing ass coming at me in random intervals. What I saw was… keep in mind that we’re all seated at this point…and once again the guy’s got his wife in a head lock while sitting down, and she’s doing this thing that my cats’ do when I attempt to hug them at an inopportune moment, and they escape by trying to back out of the hug with their rear end up in the air. This is precisely what this woman was doing, hence the hurling ass, and I’m slightly impressed since I’ve never seen a human being do this maneuver before. From the best that I could gather the guy was holding onto her head while in a head lock for dear life, and I think on occasion he was probably cutting off all circulation in her body and so she tried to escape, but then when he finally relaxed she’d once again go back to her previous position. They basically did this over and over until everyone finally stood up once again.

At long last, Roger announced that they’d be taking a 15 minute intermission. Everyone except for me left our row and therefore it became the “superhighway” for everyone on the floor, myself constantly having to let people squeeze by me. I assumed the couple next to me had wandered off for more to drink or god knows what else they were on. Oh please, let them just leave?!

That 15 minutes of peace flew by and in no time Roger returned and so did the couple, and the entire “Dark Side of the Moon” album began. Things were even worse than before and I basically missed most of that album due to being hit, bumped, or rubbed on. What was even worse was that the woman seemed to think that I wasn’t moving/dancing enough, even though she was forcing me to move at random intervals by hitting and bumping into me, and she was taking it upon herself to start deliberately grabbing me, mostly taking me by the arm, or locking arms with me, holding my hand, etc. It appeared to be her mission that evening to either knock me over completely or continue rubbing her ass on me; the madness just didn’t seem to have an end in sight. During “Money” she tried talking to me and the joke was on her since I had my ear plugs in and could only say, “Huh?!” Insistent, she felt the need to ask me again, “Do you have a lot of money?!” Oh god, I thought, why in the world would she ask me this?! Is she propositioning me or something?! I don’t even want to know! I simply replied, “No,” afraid to give out any more information and nonchalantly checking to make sure my wallet was still in my back pocket. Her husband then felt it was important to tap the people on the shoulder in front of me and yell out, “I remember when this album came out!!!” They looked back at him like, “yeah, good for you, buddy!”

“Us and Them” was now playing and the lady was persistently grabbing me and getting friendlier by the minute. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m a nice guy, too nice for the most part at moments like this, but enough was enough. I finally turned to her and said calmly, “Please stop it.” She smiled like an insubordinate child and immediately grabbed my arm. I yanked it away and said much louder, “Stop it!” She smiled again, giggled, grabbed my arm again, and said, “Huh?” I yanked my arm back with force and this time screamed, “CUT IT OUT!!! I’VE HAD IT WITH YOU!!!” She looked at me in terror, like I had just bit the hand that feeds, and in turn her husband looked at me like I was a freak, and then they both looked at one another with a “what’s wrong with that guy” sort of look.

As “Brain Damage” played and Roger sang about “…the lunatic…” the guy to my left yelled out loudly, “The lunatic?! Whooooooooo’s the lunatic?!” He scanned the audience a bit and then turned directly to me, again outstretching his finger in my general direction. “It’s yooouuuu!!” he yelled, pointing at me wildly. Yes, that’s right, buddy, I’m the lunatic…duh!

At long last, a moment that I thought would never come, the show ended and the lights came back up. I was afraid that the couple would attempt to say something to me but luckily they simply exited the row and made their way out of the arena. I can honestly say that I hope that I never, ever, in a million or so years, ever set eyes on these two individuals again!

What a performance! Never before have I been caressed, fondled, rubbed on and called a lunatic all in one sitting. Wow… Yes, that’s right folks, this is what $100 will buy you these days. I almost felt like I should leave a tip, there was so much touching going on!

A couple days later, I was driving in the Uptown area of Minneapolis, trying to make my way back to the highway. I made a left and intended to make another left at the next stoplight which I could see off in the distance. As I approached a young woman in her late 20’s, wearing a flowery dress and big sunglasses, was crossing the road while walking a large black dog, the only problem being that she was kind of walking forward, then a bit backward, and then doing something that looked more like a modern dance move. I slowly approached and was stunned since she wasn’t exactly making her way across the road and instead was standing in the middle of the street, more or less taking as many steps backward as forward and therefore never getting anywhere. Her dog was completely confused; in fact he eventually just stopped and looked at me in disgust, not sure how to react. As my car came to a stop since she was still in the middle of the street, even though my light was green, she then made a very bizarre move and in a big swoop fell backward onto the cement. She then lay there like a dead person in a coffin without any movement. I sat in my car completely stunned, not sure what to do. Luckily, there were a few people standing on the street corner that rushed out and crowded around her. Eventually they helped her up, asked her where she lived, and then they helped carry her towards the direction that she had pointed. The dog looked even more confused and disgusted than before, more or less with a look of “is this what my life has been reduced to?”

As I finally got to drive away and make my left turn I couldn’t help but feel incredibly normal and sane, a feeling I’m not exactly used to. As they say, if you want to feel “normal” hang out with loonies, and I think I’ve met my quota for the year. After all, the lunatic(s) was clearly in the hall…

Are You Talking to Me??!

Yes, I know, it’s been forever since I’ve added a new entry to this blog! What else can I say except that I’ve been occupied? I’m also ashamed to say that there’s been a slight drought in regards to ‘idiot’ moments but I have a feeling that’ll even out soon enough. The saddest part is that I had an entry sort of in the works for the end of the winter season but unfortunately I never finished it. It simply doesn’t seem appropriate to post it now, especially since it’s around 84 degrees today and talk of non-working snow throwers hardly seems to be an appropriate topic.

I have been meaning for quite some time now to discuss one of the most unique attributes that makes living in the Twin Cities area interesting: the skyway system. Yes, both Minneapolis and St. Paul have their own skyway, and no, they don’t connect, and it would be one heck of a walk if they did! I worked in downtown St. Paul for almost exactly one year and got to know their skyway fairly well. The St. Paul skyway is bizarre with all variations of twists, unexpected turns, strange intersections, you name it. It took me quite some time to find my way around without a guide or a trail of bread crumbs.

I have since changed to working in downtown Minneapolis and I needed to basically start over, unlearn what I had learned, and then catch on to their own version of the skyway system. The two have little in common, Minneapolis’ version seeming more like a shopping mall with business after business lined up with mobs of shoppers and workers alike everywhere. St. Paul’s, on the other hand, seems more like something the 7 dwarves might have mistakenly mined in search of the mother lode, and to this day I’m still expecting to see Indiana Jones ride by in a mining car with Short Round by his side. I kid you not, if you get lost in the St. Paul skyway it’s completely possible that you might never be heard from again, or at the very least end up somewhere that you didn’t know existed. I had heard horror stories from some of the people that I used to work with in regard to their skyway journeys. Supposedly, somewhere in mid St. Paul, if you mistakenly take an elevator or two and exit on the incorrect floor, you’ll find yourself walking down a narrow, semi-dark hallway not unlike something out of the “Doom” video game. After walking for a decent amount of time, supposedly the hallway just ends…without any door or any reason to it. The lighting supposedly flickers and everything, and there’s also evidently a bizarre stench that defies words. Needless to say, I was always a bit paranoid whenever I had to get on/off a few elevators in unknown turf.

The Minneapolis skyway, however, has been an adventure unto itself, pretty much like no other. I park in a parking lot that’s several blocks away from work and therefore my daily walk in and out covers several blocks of both street and skyway area. The walk is almost always entertaining.

I have since discovered that I must give off some sort of look of authority or knowledge since people always seem to stop me, of all people, for directions. This has happened most of my life, to be honest, such as in department stores and such. It never ceases to astound me when a Wal-Mart customer walks up to me and asks, “Do you work here? I’m looking for…” It’s about that time that I start reevaluating my wardrobe. Does it really look like I’m wearing a blue vest with a smiley face on the pocket?! I kid you not, it’s happened so many times that I’ve lost count. I’ve even had people so convinced that I worked there even after I told them that I didn’t that they simply continue on with their question, saying something like, “Yeah, whatever. So, anyway, can you tell me where the is?” I simply don’t get it.

When it comes to directions, though, the irony is that I almost always give people the wrong instructions. I don’t do this on purpose, mind you. I think I’m basically so thrown off that someone is asking me for directions that I get nervous, start fumbling through my brain like a drunken Pomeranian, and then simply blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, without thinking it through, of course.

For example, one day a few months back a gentleman in a business suit approached me in a mild panic. “Do you know the skyway well?! How do I get to this building?!” he asked frantically while pointing at an address on a piece of paper. “I need to get there right away! I’m late!” If only he had been holding an old fashioned time piece in his hand, he could have posed as the white rabbit from Disney’s version of “Alice in Wonderland”. Now that I think of it there was a mild resemblance.

Sensing the urgency that was oozing from the man in the suit, naturally my mind started to fail me and I began in mid-sentence. “Oh, er, you should go that way, no this way…” returning the volley and sounding more like Tweedle Dee/Tweedle Dum.

I stopped and took a breath, just about the time the guy started showing a mild look of panic, thinking that perhaps I was more clueless than he. I wasn’t exactly sure where he was trying to go but I knew the addresses and streets nearby. In less than 5 seconds worth of time I formulated my game plan. “Okay, here’s what you want to do,” I said calmly, sounding in complete control and terribly knowledgeable. I quickly shared my thoughts on how he could get to his destination in the least amount of time. He thanked me graciously and made his way down the hallway confidently and appearing to feel lucky that he had bumped into someone with such knowledge.

Basically, I had advised him to exit the skyway and take the street level instead, thinking it would make it easier for him to find the necessary address listed on the outside of the building. The problem, though, was that as soon as he was out of sight I realized that I did indeed know the business and address he was looking for and it was only reachable via the skyway! Couple this with the fact that it was about 10 degrees outside at the time and, well, I started to panic and feel bad. For a second I thought that maybe I should run after him, this time looking more like the caterpillar in “Alice…”, once he sends her on her way, with all 10+ arms and legs waving in the air frantically, “Little girl! Wait! Come back! I have something to tell you!!” Yeah, you guessed it, I simply let it go and continued on my way to work. (Sigh) Perhaps I do deserve to one day end up in that St. Paul dead end corridor with the flickering light and the unmentionable stench.

Last week started interestingly. Again, I walk this route every single day to and from work. I was walking in my usual pace, cutting across a parking lot, and was about to merge onto the sidewalk just inches in front of three elderly people walking casually. As I merged, somehow I tripped over my own feet and almost literally fell onto the elderly people. I distinctly heard one of them utter an “oh my” as I did what I could to look cool in my best “I meant to do that” sort of attitude. Two blocks down, for an encore, I did it again. It was obviously going to be one of those weeks.

The true highlight of the Minneapolis skyway, though, are the many individuals that talk to themselves in a rather schizophrenic manner, basically about anything from conspiracy theories to current events. My personal favorite is the man with the blue bag, a guy in his early to mid 40’s who always has this large blue bag slung over his shoulder. I first encountered him late one evening after dining with some friends. My friends and I had parked our vehicles in parking lots on opposite sides of the restaurant and so I found myself nonchalantly walking alone in the skyway towards my parking garage. As I walked, I could see this guy (Mr. Blue Bag) rounding the corner off in the distance and walking in my general direction. I didn’t think anything of it since he looked harmless enough, or at least he did from a distance. We slowly inched our way closer to one another, with him still heading in my direction and not making any sounds or showing much sign of life. Instead, he looked like he might be deep in thought or perhaps contemplating why he preferred the blue bag over some other color that might better match his outfit. Still approaching and probably about 20 yards in front of me, he suddenly came to life, raised his arms up into the air, and started screaming at the top of his lungs, “I’ll kill him!! Aaarrrgh!!” After saying this, he immediately went back to showing no signs of life, not entirely unlike the Warner Bros. frog after signing “…hello my baby, hello my honey…grrrrribit…”

Upon hearing his outburst and particularly noting the “kill” part of it, I started to get nervous. However, we were walking in a narrow area where it would look really strange and obvious if I suddenly stopped and turned around, not to mention that he would now be behind me and headed in the same direction. No, it seemed best that I just continue going forward and act like I didn’t hear anything, which is what I did. 5 yards away…4…3…2…1…and then he passed me. For a moment I thought, whew, that was mildly scary! Just as I thought that, as luck would have it, the guy turned around and was now following only a few feet behind me! Help!!!

At this point I’m not sure what to do and so I do the only thing I can think of…speed up. Thankfully, I quickly pulled away from him and in a matter of a few minutes he’s out of sight, although I’m sure if anyone was watching they were probably wondering why I was power walking while looking like a scared chicken that’s mistakenly gotten out of the coop.

Two days later, while out walking on a break from work, I ran into the blue bag guy again, and this time he let out a strange yell as if he was in protest to some invisible force. I couldn’t help but wonder: is it me? Do I set this guy off or something? He seemed pretty mellow always until he caught sight of me. Luckily, we continued walking in opposite directions and I didn’t think much more of it although I couldn’t help but wonder what protest he was indeed protesting.

Once again feeling relieved to be away from the guy with the blue bag, from there I entered the government building and just as I passed the escalator, a large mob of, ironically, protestors were riding up it with picket signs, chanting something that I couldn’t make out, and getting angrier by the second. I continued to walk forward but worriedly looked behind me. From an onlooker’s point of view it probably looked like I was at the head of the mob since right behind me and still continuing to come up the escalator was a massive protest with some people yelling through bullhorns. Security was running over to where I was and it looked quite like the scene out of Charlie Chaplin’s “Modern Times” where he just happens to be waving a dropped piece of white linen after rounding a corner, unknowingly placing him at the very front of an anti-war protest. Chaplin’s character got mistakenly arrested shortly after; having seen this film, again, I tried to put as much distance between myself and the protestors as I could and as quickly as possible.

On a different day, I approached a guy wearing a long trench coat who was standing by himself in the middle of a parking structure. As I approached, his eyes darted around madly, and he whispered albeit loudly into his jacket as if talking to his pocket, “…and then everything will be perfect.” “Will it?” he answered himself. “Yes…ssssh…someone’s coming. Maybe he won’t notice us.” I walked past him as casually as I could, his eyes all the while squirrelly and darting around like mad but still trying to act nonchalant and such. As soon as I was about 20 feet away from him I heard him say, “Excellent. He didn’t notice us. Now, what I was saying was…”

Two days ago, again on my way into work, a gentleman holding a map of the area stopped me on the street corner. “Excuse me sir,” he said, “can you help me find the Guthrie Theater?” I had just been there only a few days prior and so I quickly pointed out where he was on the map, where the Guthrie was, and what the best route would be to get there. On the way out of work the very next day and at that same precise spot, a lady asked me if I knew where Hubert’s Bar and Grill was. I explained that I wasn’t positive but I was pretty sure of where it was located, and more or less pointed in the general vicinity of it. A few moments later, after getting in my car and driving towards my freeway entrance to head towards my house, I passed Hubert’s and low and behold there was the lady getting ready to cross the street towards it.

As I drove past in my car I smiled to myself and could hardly believe it. I somehow had managed to give two different people accurate directions within 2 days. Perhaps there’s hope for me yet. Of course, I thought all of this as I talked to my pocket.

I Can't Understand You...

Understanding others has never been one of my high points in life. I’m pretty good at communicating my thoughts, mind you, in fact I might even be a bit too proficient at it, but when it comes to interpreting just normal conversation from others it can get a bit interesting.

Some claim that I have “creative hearing” and perhaps they’re correct. It’s not really that unusual in regular conversation, for instance, if someone were to say “I’m having friends over for dinner”, for me to then reply curiously, “You’re salving your end this winter?!” Maybe I just really secretly wish that someone would tell me something unusual like that they were planning on salving their end this winter, I’m not sure. Regardless, this is precisely the kind of thing that I hear on a frequent basis.

Sometimes I’m just a bit out of the loop and my creative visual mind runs away with me. For example, I was setting up a date not too long ago with someone of which I’d never met before in person. While speaking on the phone, we agreed to meet at this so-called “jazz” festival (although they seemed to be playing everything but). I’m pretty easy to recognize even if you’ve never met me in person before but I was immediately a bit nervous about picking her out of a crowd of who knows how many people. She reassured me, though, that she would be pretty easy to spot: “I’ll pretty much be the only single mom in her early thirties, pushing around a 2 year old in a stroller, with a blue tooth.”

Momentary silence formed on my end of the phone. A blue tooth? Panic instantly started creeping inside of me. Does this woman have some sort of birth defect? Being the outrageously visual person that I am naturally, I immediately imagined a half walrus/half woman with one strikingly long blue tooth dangling out of the side of her mouth, perhaps chomping on a recently caught fish. Or, I’ve heard of people getting gold teeth…is this some new fad that I have yet to hear about, especially since I’m pretty out of fads for the most part anyway? For a few seconds I strongly considered weaseling out of the date, scanning my brain for some sort of viable excuse. I couldn’t ask her what she meant, of course, because what if she really did have a blue tooth hanging out of her mouth! No, it was best to keep quiet and simply suppress it.

The date was the following evening and so there I was walking around the jazz festival, truly not sure of who I was looking for since I didn’t understand what was meant by the “blue tooth” reference, my only true hint of picking her out of the crowd. I walked the complex a couple times, basically keeping my options open for just about anyone that mildly fit the description, and then luckily she found me. It was then that I noticed the strange looking mobile phone device hanging off of her ear, something I had never seen before. Ah, the “blue tooth”… If I was more techy perhaps these confusing moments wouldn’t happen to me? Yeah, you’re right, I’d probably a find a way anyhow.

It’s not always me with the understanding issue, though. My latest adventure was at a local Caribou Coffee establishment located in the Minneapolis skyway close to where I work. I had received a $10 gift card from my boss for Christmas and I was simply trying to use it up, having only $1.70 left on the card.

I ventured into the skyway towards one of the 500 Caribou Coffee’s within 3 minutes walking distance. I kid you not; there are so many mini coffee houses in the downtown skyway that you’d think they’re secretly breeding like rabbits after hours. Upon walking in to the closest one I could find, no one was in line, and in fact both the establishment and the staff looked pretty relaxed, like they could use a customer walking in who wants to use up his Caribou card. I took this as a sign. I walked up to the counter and a young semi-hip mildly flamboyant guy, probably around age 23, took my order.

I handed him my Caribou card which he promptly swiped through the card reader. A receipt quickly emerged and he seemed a bit frazzled, like perhaps it was his first day or something similar. He started handing me the receipt but stopped in mid-reach, pulling the receipt back to read it himself. After grimacing and reading it over, he said, “Oh, it looks like you owe another $2.35.” I expected this so no big deal, and I handed him my Visa card for the remainder. He then swiped that card through the card reader and just as I thought everything was cool total confusion seemed to reign.

The clerk kept waiting patiently at the printer, sort of like a doctor expecting a patient to give birth at any moment to twins or triplets, but nothing ever came out. Puzzled, he started hitting random buttons on the register, definitely the technical thing to do, mind you, and then sighed loudly, then hit a few more buttons, then sighed loudly again, and then finally whined out loud to no one in particular, “Heeeey, this thing isn’t woooorking…” He glanced over at a young girl, I’m assuming perhaps the manager although she looked about 13 years old, and she completely ignored him. Mind you, she was standing only about 4 feet from him but she ignored him just the same…

The clerk stood there, shocked by the ignoring, and whined again in a much louder voice, “Heeeey, something’s wrong with this thiiiing.” Again, she totally ignored him, or at least pretended to considering the fact that I think half the place could pick up his whine loud and clear. He decided to try a different approach. “Maaaary, how do I make this thiiiing print?”

Mary finally took notice and wandered over. In a slightly disgusted voice, she asked, “What are you trying to do exactly?”

The clerk, mildly talking with his hands, said, “Well, this guy placed his order and swiped his Caribou card through the machine…”

Mary cut him off, looking at me accusingly. “He did what?” I wasn’t sure how I got pulled into this but I gently shook my head back and forth, trying desperately to convey the message that I didn’t touch his machine.

“He paid with a Caribou card, and he swiped it through the machine…” The clerk paused momentarily, and then corrected himself, “Um, well, I mean I swiped the card through…”

Mary, clearly very impatient, didn’t care to hear the rest. “When that happens just hit this button, push this, and hit this button.” Even before the clerk could even possibly bark any sort of protest, she walked away again leaving him still without any receipt or any clue.

A moment later, he whined again, “Maaaarrrryyy, it’s still not working.”

Rolling her eyes, Mary returned. “What now?” I would have thought that she would have learned that this was evidently the wrong question to ask but clearly Mary wasn’t catching on.

The clerk began again. “This guy swiped his card through the machine…” A slight pause occurred, and then he said, “…well, no, I swiped the card through the machine, but then the receipt didn’t come out…” This story was starting to sound familiar. Once again, Mary attempted to show him what to do but the clerk was wising up. “No, you see, he swiped his Caribou card through the machine…” A slight pause and then “…well, no, I swiped his card through, but then there was still a balance of $2.35.”

Mary finally got it. “Oh! Okay, so what happened then?”

“Well, then he swiped his Visa card through the machine…” Another slight pause occurred, and then, “…well, no, I swiped his card through, but the receipt never came out.”

I’m not entirely sure how many times we went through this loop of him insisting that I swiped my card(s) through his machine but it was more than any normal human being should be subjected to. In the end, as you probably already guessed, the clerk missed some button in between swiping the cards and my Visa card never even really registered in the machine, hence the non-existence of my receipt. He then asked, “Can I see your card again?” and I could only think to myself, “Oh cr*p, not again! Please let it go through…please!!!”

As I turned around to leave, I noticed that the once vacant Caribou establishment now had a long line forming out the door. A friend of mine had been waiting for me during the transaction and as I walked up looking quite frazzled he asked, “What the heck was taking so long? Your coffee has been sitting on the counter for like 5 minutes.”

I smiled slightly and said, “Well, you see, I swiped the card through the machine…er, I mean, he swiped the card through…”

Ironically, I’m sort of craving a coffee from Caribou as I write this. I’m not sure I’m feeling that brave, though. Maybe I should consider getting cash out of the ATM first. It just might be worth the extra effort.

Please, Please, Leave Your Bags at the Door

I love the Midwest. For example, I saw a man in his late 40’s this morning dancing at the gas station while he was filling up his car’s tank. It was about 30 degrees outside which isn’t really that bad but the wind was whipping pretty well, making it feel much colder than it truly was. Regardless, the guy had his car door open with his radio gently emitting the sound of 60’s R&B, and there he was doing a little happy shuffle as his gas tank diligently accepted more and more gasoline.

That’s Minnesota for you. What’s not to love?! Just for the record, that word in the title is pronounced bag, as in the first syllable of bagel. That’s a little bit of Minnesota speak for you non-Minnesotan’s. Some people find that accent annoying but, you guessed it, I find it kind of cute. Yes, I’m a bit weird but you probably already guessed that.

And then there’s Phoenix…

I recently took a trip back to Phoenix. It was to be the first time since I left in 2004 that I would be visiting the city where I resided for 20 long years of my life, from 1984 to 2004, the years I commonly refer to these days as the “sweating years” since that’s about all I did there anyhow. I admit that I was slightly nervous about going back, seeing the places that I used to frequent, and visiting with old friends of mine that I once would see on a daily basis while roaming the hallways at work. I wasn’t sure what kind of emotional turmoil if might set off inside of my psyche or what other strange effect it might have on me. After looking at the weather forecast, I was also slightly afraid of, well, sweating.

Now, Phoenix isn’t a bad place, really. It’s all in what makes you tick, what your preferences are, and so on. The common link to all Phoenix residents is that they pretty much 100% don’t like weather that’s under 60 degrees and they have no issue whatsoever with eternal sunshine every single day of the year, except for the 3 or 4 days that it drizzles for an hour (and believe it or not they complain that it’s not sunny…go figure). Practically everything in the city is brand new as well, and a building that was constructed in the 60’s is considered “old” and a relic. It’s a great place for sports, golfing, partying, and outdoorsy things that don’t require water or vegetation (hiking, mountain biking, etc.). The downside is that there’s very little history to the city, a major lack of culture and artistic expression, and close to nothing to see in historic architecture. If the above description appeals to your preferences then more than likely you’d love it; if it makes you cringe, I’d advise staying put. I personally like a lot of variety in weather since I get bored easily and due to my chemical makeup I sweat whenever it’s over 70 degrees outside. I know, you didn’t need that visual…sorry. I also get horrid headaches from sunlight due to having very sensitive eyes and such, and so I’m sure you can imagine how much I enjoyed Phoenix for those 20 years just in regards to the weather alone. I personally live for winter and the seasons in general, and I’m beginning to suspect more and more that I’m part polar bear rather than Italian. Coupled with my love of the arts and culture, I felt rather, pardon the pun, stranded in the desert for 20 years. Again, it’s all about what you’re into and there’s no real right or wrong, just personal preference.

Anyhow, back to my point… I had scheduled my first trip back to Phoenix during the weekend of December 16th and I wasn’t sure what awaited me. To make things more complicated, I joined a band back in September and our first show was only days after returning. Being the freak that I am I usually practice heavily on the weekends and mildly during the week but due to my schedule I’d have little time before the performance to practice at all. I couldn’t help but wonder if not playing for 5 days straight would be a severe mistake.

The motto of my trip was simple: don’t get sick! It’s December, after all, and all sorts of cold and flu strains are flying through the air like mosquitoes in mid-summer. I have a personal history of picking up some sort of illness from flying and considering the time of year, where I was going, etc., the odds were clearly against me of remaining sick free. I already had a fairly bad cold all during my time off at Thanksgiving and so yet another bout of illness really didn’t sound too attractive. Again, with the band’s first show only days later, I truly couldn’t afford it.

Then again, what is a guy to do? Flying is like being trapped with 100 or so strangers shoved in a closet and at least 20% of them don’t a) cover their mouths when they sneeze or cough, b) are already ill and are extremely eager to share it with you, or c) they’ve already touched everything in the plane on prior flights and who knows what germs are lying awaiting your presence before you even board. Quite frankly have you ever seen anyone disinfecting the inside of the plane? I haven’t, and I’m fairly convinced that the person would be wearing a radiation suit in order to do it.

My story really begins after it begins, though, or perhaps more appropriately it began before it began. It was Jerry Seinfeld’s fault, that’s all I can say. Okay, let me start at the beginning… A few days before leaving, I had noticed that Jerry Seinfeld was planning a stop in Minneapolis and the tickets just so happened to go on sale at 10am on December 15th…and my plane was scheduled to take off at 11:15am. I tried desperately to get the password for the Wednesday presale but I got it an hour into the sale and the best seats were already taken. Like a dope, I thought that perhaps they hadn’t opened up the entire floor and that Friday’s sale would still give me a great shot at good seats. My plan was to be logged onto Ticketmaster exactly at 10am, to get everything done by 10:15am, and run out the door and drive like mad to the airport. I figured I should be able to get there by 10:45am, no problem, and that still gives me a half hour to get to the gate. I don’t fly that often and I’m new to flying Northwest Airlines and I chose to ignore the “check-in online 24 hours in advance” email since I had to check-in luggage anyhow and there seemed no real point in it. It was a good plan, eh?

Like most of my plans, there were a few flaws. As usual, Ticketmaster and I have a love/hate relationship (see “The Ballad of the Tom Waits’ Ticket”), and of course it ended up that they did indeed open up all the seats during the presale, meaning that my selection on Friday was even worse than before. Frustrated, I tried to simply buy any ol’ seat and then my Ticketmaster password didn’t work. A few more minutes of fighting with my computer and I noticed it was already 10:15am. Abandon plan! I shut everything off, grabbed my luggage, and literally ran out the door. Minutes later I was bumbling down the highway at an absurd speed.

Parking at MSP is pretty simple, although it costs a fortune, and I even got a good spot close to the terminal. I walked very fast up to the check-in counter, waited a minute or two for the people in front of me, and then attempted to check-in. “ERROR!!! PLEASE SEE ATTENDANT!” the computer flashed on the screen. Uh oh. The attendant slowly made her way over to me, asked me a couple questions, typed a few keystrokes, and then said accusingly, “Well sir, it’s less than 30 minutes to your flight.”

I looked at her stupidly. “And? So what?”

“Well,” she said, “Northwest’s policy is that you have to be checked in prior to 30 minutes before your flight. You’ll have to wait for the next flight.”

My mouth slowly started to hang open more and more, probably making a very attractive looking home for insects or lightly colored moss. “You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head. I looked down at my watch and it was now precisely 10:48am. “But it’s been like 3 minutes…and I’ve been standing here at least 3 minutes…”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” she replied, and again looked accusingly. “That’s why we offer online check-in.” Ah, that freakin’ online check-in!

“But I had to check-in bags so what’s the point of online check-in?” I asked.

She grimaced. “It’s so you can board the plane.”

“But then what about my bag?” I thought I had her on this one.

I’ve learned that airline employees have an excuse for everything. “It would have caught the next flight.” Nice to know that my luggage doesn’t need to fly standby, i.e. they treat our luggage better than us, the real people who pay the money.

Arguing seemed futile except for raising my blood pressure and so I gave up the battle. Oooh, I was ticked, let me tell you, and I think I was even growling to myself in the corner, scaring a young couple sitting not far from me. And so, no Jerry Seinfeld tickets AND no plane ticket. This trip truly wasn’t beginning correctly.

I ended up being on standby and didn’t actually escape MSP until the 5:10pm flight. I barely made that one, only getting on since the guy that was actually called at the last minute for the standby seat had only moments before walked away thinking it was fruitless.

Have you ever seen the movie “The Out of Towners”? I’m referring to the original Jack Lemmon version, of course, but probably either will do. I clearly was having an Out of Towner’s (OOT) trip so far and it was about to get even better. My hotel for the evening had a 4pm MST cancellation policy and since I wouldn’t know until after 5pm CST if I got on the plane (if I didn’t get on the 5:10pm flight I was planning on just leaving the next morning), well, I had called and cancelled my room for that night, just to be safe. I had explained my entire predicament to the hotel clerk, how I wouldn’t know if I needed the room and such until after the cutoff, sort of hoping that she’d have some sort of sympathy or plan for me. Instead, she said, “Um, okay, er…what do you need again?” I swear my cats listen to me closer than other humans! Instead of retelling my predicament I simply cancelled my room for that night. I did ask, however, if they had many rooms available and the clerk stated they had “tons of them”. I felt mildly reassured, even though she hadn’t heard a word I said only moments prior.

Okay, so it’s now 5:15pm and I did get on the plane, of course, most likely because I had cancelled my hotel room and fate could have some fun with me. It was only then that I realized that I hadn’t eaten since 8am that morning and we wouldn’t be landing in Phoenix until 8pm! Almost instantly the shakes began. I figured I’d get the flight attendant to give me a few extra bags of peanuts, which leads us to OOT moment #2: NWA doesn’t hand out any free snacks anymore and instead they sell a snack bag for $2, a snack box for $5, and so on. I opened my wallet and I had exactly $1 and no change. I meant to go to the bank before I left but I talked myself out of it, saying “why do I need cash when I have credit cards?” Just like Jack Lemmon who shrugs off the stewardess’ attempts at giving he and his wife coffee and a snack since they intended on having a big dinner that evening, I had to sit and listen to others around me crunching, munching, and making other various noises while my only nourishment would be a cup of ice with Coca-Cola in it.

By the time the plane landed I was simply ravenous with hunger. My first order of business after disembarking was to call my sister and let her know that I had actually arrived. I had called the hotel from MSP by using my credit card at a pay phone but Phoenix doesn’t have that option on their phones. I searched the airport for someone that would change my one lonely dollar into quarters and stopped at one of the airport stores. The clerk told me that I had to buy something in order to get the change. I replied that if she had something for less than 50 cents I’d be happy to since I only had a dollar and needed at least 2 quarters left over. She looked at me oddly and instead just opened the register and gave me the dollar in change.

I called my sister, made the plan to meet at Café Lalibela (still the greatest Ethiopian restaurant I have ever encountered) and we met there shortly after. I arrived first and was about to fall over from hunger so I ordered some soup and promptly gulped it down as if I had walked to Phoenix without any food or water rather than flown. Once my sister and her husband arrived, I only then remembered to call the hotel and get my room back. I borrowed her phone and called.

“Hi,” I said, “I had a reservation that I cancelled earlier because I thought I might not get on the plane but in the end I’m here and need the room.”

The clerk, a different person from the call earlier, responded arrogantly, “Oh, we don’t have any rooms. We’re all filled up.” Yep, I didn’t see that one coming. So much for “we’ve got tons of rooms”. With that, I ended up sleeping on my sister’s couch that evening.

The next day I learned that practically every single person that lived in Phoenix was sick with something. It didn’t really matter where I went, who I was around, etc. Maybe I was just super-sensitive to it since I so much didn’t want to get ill, I’m not sure. Regardless, at least 60% of the people that I had hoped to see while in Phoenix ended up canceling since they were ill. I was surrounded by sickness but I stood my ground just the same.

That evening, I checked into my hotel finally (a day late, mind you) and hoped to get a good night’s rest. I was comfy, the temperature in the room was just right, and all seemed perfect…until 3:30am when I was woken up by the room directly next to me who decided to throw a party. Yes, no kidding, an all out party, drinking, talking loudly while looking over the balcony, and so on. I couldn’t believe it. I called the front desk and was ready to scream. The last words I heard before the party broke up was “Hey! Have you ever p*ssed off a balcony before???” This could only happen to me, I tell you.

The rest of the weekend was fairly normal and it wasn’t until the following night, of course, that I finally got to sleep a bit although I had to get up kind of early the next morning for my flight back home. I met a friend for breakfast and then headed over to Sky Harbor Airport for my departure flight. I was careful to make sure that I checked in online this time, just in case. I was sure that this flight would be better than the one out to Phoenix. I truly felt I had all my bases covered. I’ll give you one guess as to what happened next…

We’re finally allowed to board the plane and my seat is located towards the back of the plane. I have the window seat and there’s a young man, probably about age 25, already sitting in the middle seat. I tell him that I have the window seat, more or less asking him to get up so that I can sit down, and he just sort of sits there for a moment or two looking a little panicked and confused. Does he not know what I mean? I wasn’t sure if I should clarify or not. Finally, looking more panicked than before, he does get up and allows me access to my seat. I sit down, buckle up, and breathe a sigh of relief since I’m on board and ready to go home.

Meanwhile, the guy next to me is beginning to make me a bit uneasy. He looks truly nervous, or worried, or something like that. I start thinking about the film “United 93” and how the terrorists acted before they took over the plane and this guy next to me is sort of in that zone. I’m not sure what I should do. Should I notify the flight attendant? If I do, what do I say? “This guy next to me is acting weird!” Er, no, I think not. I’m sitting at the window seat so clearly I can’t get out easily, plus people were still boarding the plane. I was trapped.

It’s then that I look closer and notice that he’s got a big wad of cotton strapped on the back of his left hand, you know, like as if he had an IV in there a little while ago. On his right arm I see a hospital band, most likely with his name on it. I kind of look at his face again and now I’m thinking he’s suicidal, or maybe he’s escaped or something. Oh my god, he IS a terrorist! Help!!!

It’s then that he suddenly looks really nervous, opens up one of those plastic coated bags, and proceeds to vomit. Bleeeeeuuu!!! Then, he vomits again. And again. And again. The vomit seems to continue for minutes, the bag quickly filling up with liquid, and afterwards, even though he’s done, he’s doing that thing that we all do but don’t discuss, more or less spitting out wads of food that got stuck in his teeth on the way back up. All the while, I am forced to sit there through this ordeal, trying not to scream or vomit myself, trapped in my window seat in pure horror. And so he’s not a terrorist and he’s not suicidal…he’s freakin’ ill and I’m trapped next to him for the next 3 hours until we arrive back in Minneapolis! Being a partial germ-a-phobe combined with not wanting to get sick I nearly had a coronary just thinking about it.

My favorite part, though, was that the flight attendant walked by moments later. The guy motioned to his bag of sickness and pleaded, “Can you please take this and dispose of it, and then please get me another?”

The flight attendant clearly connected the dots in her head and then said, “I can’t take it right now. Just hold onto it.” She then walked away.

Are you out of your mind?! It was then that I was really ready to scream. The guy looked stunned, sort of like the flight attendant just told him that we were in a submarine under water and not in a plane at all, and ended up just sitting there, clearly looking around for where he’d puke next. Luckily, the attendant returned with a new bag as well as a large plastic garbage bag. “Just put them all in there and I’ll collect it when the flight’s over.”

Yes, that’s right, folks, I, um, we, had to fly with the barf bag for 3 hours as if it had paid for a ticket and was the fourth passenger in our row. The person with the aisle seat arrived shortly after and was none the wiser. Meanwhile, I decided to glue my mouth shut as much as possible and avoid touching anything in the near vicinity for fear of getting whatever “it” was that he had. I knew I was doomed but I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. The aisle guy, though, enjoyed his flight, completely clueless that we were all going to be deathly ill by the time we arrived and not realizing that he was sharing his seat with a ¾ filled bag of compressed food and stomach acid.

We landed finally at MSP and as soon as we left the plane I stayed as far away from my former seat mate as possible. Inside I felt truly sorry for him for he clearly wasn’t feeling well and surely must have been embarrassed. Still, I had a show to do in 4 days and I had to think of myself.

Everything seemed fine for the rest of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Thursday night, however, less than 24 hours to the performance, I awoke at around 3:30am to having horrible stomach pain, a headache, and dripping in a cold sweat. I was sure I was going to throw up on stage that night and it seemed to be my destiny, my worst nightmare realized.

Well, I didn’t, and the show actually went quite well even though I felt less than 100%. I took any meds I could find and made it through the night just fine. The next day, though, I was literally crawling around my house with beyond belief stomach and headache pains.

The good news is that I never did vomit. I guess I won after all, or sort of. I was ill the entire week of Christmas and considering I was ill the weekend of Thanksgiving I was clearly on a roll.

I can only think that Phoenix attacked back in one form or another. Cities don’t like to lose one of their lifer’s and clearly Phoenix was ticked at me.

I still can’t believe that we had to share the flight home with the “bag”. I think the next time I fly Northwest Airlines, just for the fun of it, I’m going to bring a used bedpan along as the fourth passenger in our row.

And, oh yes, I’ll make sure I check-in the bedpan online 24 hours in advance.