Reason #438 to avoid the iPhone: that smug Applesque feeling of superiority you get from owning one could backfire.
We push back from the gate and get advised of a ground stop in MEM due to storms in the area. My Captain informs the passengers over the PA. Not one minute later, we get chimed from the flight attendant. “Some guy with an IPhone says the weather is good, and wants to know what the REAL reason is for the delay. Is something wrong with the plane?”
Read the rest. Apparently Mr. iPhone doesn’t realize that he flies on that aircraft at the behest of the very person whose judgment and/or integrity he’s questioning.
I wish I knew which company employed that pilot! I’d like to give them some business next time I’m forced to subject myself to the depraved masquerade of modern airline travel.
This brilliant sketch manages to encapsulate my daily life as a CFI in the wilting summer heat. At 8 a.m. I’m Dean Martin. By 8 p.m., I’m Foster Brooks.
Yes, it has quite a familiar ring to it, right down to the part about running an an hour and forty three minutes late for the next flight.
Most corporate aircraft have no identifying marks on them at all because the company doesn’t want competitors knowing where their executives are going. They even go so far as to have their N-number blocked from sites like FlightAware.
But not all companies are like that. KFC, for example, used to have a corporate airplane at SNA. I’m not sure if it was based here or just came into Orange County frequently, but it always seemed to be on the field. This thing was a beauty, a Challenger 604 painted in red and white striping.
Unfortunately, the clean lines were marred by a giant Colonel Sanders logo on the tail. Also, the 604 fuselage has a wide diameter, but it’s not very long. So between the paint scheme and the logo on the tail, the airplane was essentially a giant KFC chicken bucket turned on its side.
One day, just for kicks, I walked up the airstair door, knocked on the side of the plane, and with the straightest possible face asked the pilot if I could get an bucket of Cajun chicken “to go”.
He got a kick out of that, laughing heartily for about 5 seconds before pointing at the airstair and telling me to get the hell off his airplane. I descended toward the tarmac while uttering my parting shot: “They warned me that the Colonel made a mean bird…”
I’m off to Mexico with the Club Zeta crew for a much needed vacation.
But I will leave you with this not-safe-for-work video clip. Let it never be said that Pitts pilots aren’t proud of their equipment. “Nice helmet”. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Perhaps whoever designed this sign lost sight of the, uh, “larger picture” — if you catch my meaning. It doesn’t help that the pilot is sporting what appears to be a bicentennial porno mustache, circa 1976.
I’ve been trying to think of a good caption for this photo. Suggestions?
Did you know there’s a name for those who fear Friday the 13th?
Try saying that three times fast.
Some sources say it may be the most widespread superstition in the United States. Some people won’t go to work on Friday the 13th; some won’t eat in restaurants; many wouldn’t think of setting a wedding on the date.
Just how many Americans at the turn of the millennium still suffer from this condition? According to Dr. Donald Dossey, a psychotherapist specializing in the treatment of phobias (and coiner of the term “paraskevidekatriaphobia”), the figure may be as high as 21 million. If he’s right, eight percent of Americans are still in the grips of a very old superstition.
Statistically, only about 3.3% of the population has a birthday on the 13th of a month. I wonder what’s eating the other 4.7%.
I’m not sure why Friday the 13th is supposed to be such a bad day. Everyone ooohs and ahhs about it as though they’re performing a cold reading of some B-movie script that even Hollywood couldn’t bring itself to embrace. Society obviously takes this pretty seriously, because there are a lot of high-rise buildings out there with inaccurately numbered floors. Or do they build the 13th floor and just leave it vacant?
Hmmmm. Note to self: try the stairwell next time.
Here’s another tidbit about this ”unlucky” day:
With the aim of mapping “the relation between health, behaviour, and superstition surrounding Friday 13th in the United Kingdom,” the authors [of a British Medical Journal study] compared the ratio of traffic volume to the number of automobile accidents on two different days, Friday the 6th and Friday the 13th, over a period of years.
Incredibly, they found that in the region sampled, while consistently fewer people chose to drive their cars on Friday the 13th, the number of hospital admissions due to vehicular accidents was significantly higher than on “normal” Fridays. Their conclusion:
“Friday 13th is unlucky for some. The risk of hospital admission as a result of a transport accident may be increased by as much as 52 percent. Staying at home is recommended.”
It’s enough to make you wonder if we’re talking about Friday the 13th or April 1st!
Anyway, this particular Friday the 13th happens to be my birthday.
Perhaps I should be waiting for a disaster to befall me, but I’m not. 2005 wasn’t a perfect year, but it could have been a lot worse. One needn’t look far to see that. In the past year I lost friends to cancer, accidents, and saw still more of them lose their job, health, and/or home. I could easily be in their shoes. And who knows, I could be in that very place a year from now.
For today however, life is good. No — make that great. And no paraskevidekatriaphobic is gonna bring me down.
I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.
I was on my way to work a few days ago – cruising down Alton Boulevard at about 45 mph – when a small geriatric Asian woman suddenly jumped out in front of my car. Her left hand went up, palm out, making the universal symbol for “stop” as though she was a traffic cop managing a busy intersection during a power outage.
It was an interesting choice. My car is a 14 year old Mitsubishi Eclipse with nearly 200,000 miles on it. No disc brakes, just drums. No anti-lock system. No crumple zones, airbags, or sneeze guards.
Suffice it to say I left skid marks on the ground… and in less mentionable places. This crazy woman avoided an ambulance ride by mere inches.
Did she take a moment to reflect on this fact? Nope. Instead, she rushed around to the passenger side window and started pounding on it while yelling something incomprehensible. I could only pick out bits and pieces, but the words “high school” stuck out.
I’m not sure if it was idle curiosity or the urge to yell back at her, but whatever the reason, I reached over to roll down the passenger side window. This was clearly a mistake, because before I could even get it halfway down, she reached into my car and unlocked the door. In an instant, the door was open and she was sitting in the right seat, all the while jabbering on about highschoolhighschoolhighschool. Naturally, my laptop computer was under her ass. A meaningess factoid, apparently, because she continued screeching about “highschoohighschool!”.
There was a high school just down the road. Hmmm. Was there some sort of emergency going on over there? A crazed student with a gun, perhaps? A gas leak? Or perhaps it was something really important, like the football team getting a critical two point conversion in the fourth quarter?
I began driving toward the school, thinking it might be wise to dial 911. If nothing was happening on campus, there was always the hijacker in my car for the authorities to work on.
It was about this time that I hear the word “bus” interspersed with the gibberish and it all started to fall into place. Our intrepid nut case had missed her bus. Apparently wherever she’s from, if you miss the public transportation, you forcibly stop the next automobile and they give you a ride to the farthest reaches of town.
Still shocked at having an uninvited total stranger in my vehicle, it took a good 30 seconds before I threw her out. I spat, “Confucious say: get the hell out of my car before I go postal, you crazy loon!”
OK, not really. It was more like, “Um, I’m headed to the airport. This is as far as I can take you.”
A blank stare. Time passes. I gesture to the sidewalk. She opened the door, hopped out, and happily walked away without so much as a goodbye or thank you. After all we’d been through together!
The nerve.
I’m not even sure what to say about this, except it seems clear now why the Rams moved out of Los Angeles. It wasn’t the crumbling Colesium, the antics of owner Georgia Frontiere, or a lack of support from the community. It was the Ghost of Needlepoints Past:
I kid because I love. God bless Grier for being mature enough to not only stick with the name ‘Rosie’ but to also publish a book on needlepoint. He’s was a bigger guy than I am. And at 300 lbs, I do mean that literally.
Speaking of 300 lb. linebackers, that probably explains why few people gave him a hard time about this avocation. His other love was beating the pulp out of an offensive line. Makes me wonder how many people ended up attending the Rosie Grier School of Embroidery more out of a healthy sense of respect for his reputation on the gridiron than out of a, shall we say, ‘love of the game’.
Alcohol impairs judgement. Since when??
Lesley and I found this and several other humorous trash cans at the Dana Point Harbor today.
(Did I just use the phrase “humorous trash cans”? That’s a first.)
I hope Ken Lay, Dennis Kozlowski, Bernie Ebbers, and others of their ilk are reading this.
BEIJING (Reuters) - China executed four people, including employees of two of its Big Four state-owned banks, for fraud totaling $15 million, the state Xinhua news agency said Tuesday. The executions occurred in the midst a high-profile government campaign against financial crime. They followed a string of arrests in white-collar crime as China prepares to sell shares publicly in its big banks.
The story goes on to detail the method of execution: a gunshot to the back of the head. Now, if this is the punishment for $15 million in fraud, what kind of penalty would Kenneth Lay — who saw more than $1 billion worth of securities and wire fraud on his watch — be facing in China? It would clearly have to be a fate worse than death. Something really inhumane, like forcing him to watch Judge Judy or Homeboys from Outer Space for all eternity.
A CEO gets tens of millions of dollars each year to helm a company and claims all the glory when times are good. When the firm goes belly up, however, they are the first to claim they had no idea what was going on and bear no responsibility. Well, I know we don’t want to be more like China. But there are times when it’s awfully tempting. For example, when you think about the millions in taxpayer funds that are being spent to put these guys on trial.
So here’s a modest proposal: let’s take a page out of their playbook. Since our CEOs tend to favor outsourcing if it saves money, let’s outsource our high-dollar white collar criminal justice proceedings to China. Something tells me it might be more effective than Sarbanes-Oxley at curbing those annoying cases of multi-billion dollar fraud.
In honor of this weekend’s closing ceremonies (and sponsored in part by Rich’s Top Five List-o-Rama), I give you the Top Ten Signs the Olympics Have Jumped the Shark:
10. The Parthenon was built faster than the Olympic stadium
9. Synchronized swimming?
8. Not a single riot during Olympic soccer
7. Forty percent of tickets unsold
6. U.S. women’s basketball team referred to as The Dream Queens
5. Carly Patterson’s eyebrows
4. Bob Costas
3. What’s with all the falafel?
2. Seventy-five pound gymnast declared obese due to incorrect starting value
… and the number one sign the Olympics have jumped the shark:
1. Race walking (aka hitting rock bottom)
When I refer to the “crazy Jackson”, you’d think I’m talking about Michael. And up until now, you’d be right.
But from out of nowhere comes sister Janet to claim that title by suggesting that her “wardrobe malfunction” at the Superbowl is actually President Bush’s fault. According to Janet, the President engineered the whole fracas in order to divert attention from the situation in Iraq.
As if this wasn’t enough, she offered Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 as some sort of confirmation of the fact.
I guess the only question she didn’t have the answer for was: is koo-koo one word or two?
My pal Rich Manning has some serious concerns about who is–and isn’t–being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. After looking at this year’s list of honorees (George Harrison, ZZ Top, Prince, Jackson Browne, and Bob Seger), your humble host joins him in weeping for the future.
I hate to bring up the obvious, but shouldn’t there be a “freak factor” limit for inductees? For example, even if Michael Jackson were the undisputed hands-down greatest musician of all time, should he be inducted if he’s convicted of molesting 50 children?
What would happen to the list of eligible artists if some common sense were injected into the process of selecting inductees? Let’s take a look.
In Prince’s case, he would fall victim to the “your name must be pronounceable without using a complex series of clicks and whistles” requirement. Any artist whose name cannot be uttered without mastering the conjugation of verbs in Esperanto should not be in the Hall of Fame until they’ve bought the world a Coke–and a set of Hooked on Phonics tapes.
Both Prince and Jackson would be eliminated from consideration by virtue of the “cannot have tried to change your skin color from black to white” rule.
And can I get an “amen” on some limit to plastic surgery? The artist being inducted to the Hall of Fame should at least bear a slight resemblance to the person who recorded the music. If you’ve intentionally turned yourself into the Elephant Man or obliterated any clues as to your gender, you’re out. See ya, Jacko.
Of course, this sort of genuine-draft-cold-filtering process could get ugly. The Hall of Fame shouldn’t be burdened with such politically explosive decisions. Therefore, prudence dictates that they let me make the call. If I hate the artist in question, they’re out (see ya Jacko, redux). If I like them, they might have a chance (again sayeth the Lord: see ya, Jacko).
“It’s gold, Jerry. Gold!”
Seger, Browne, and certainly George Harrison are ok. But ZZ Top? Please. If it was my call, they’d be out on their banjo strumming butts. They belong in the Confederate Moonshine Drinkers Hall of Fame, not the Rock Hall. Anyone who hasn’t shaved since Nixon was in China doesn’t need to be in the Hall of Fame. What they need is to undergo a “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” makeover by the Fab 5.
Perhaps the real problem is that the Hall of Fame is like Movieland Wax Museum, only less relevant. And it doesn’t even have an integrated Starbucks coffee shop like Movieland. Let’s face it, wax gets a lot more interesting when you add coffee to the mix. If only it was that easy to fix the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame…
Anyone need a cool digital camera, cheap? A friend sent me this message:
“I’m selling a friend’s digital camera. He’s in the hospital now, and will probably be there for a while. He needs the money to pay for medical bills - it’s a great camera, see the attached last picture he took to see the amazing photo resolution & quality.”
My friend Jon Lagerquist and I have been discussing Halloween. Via e-mail, we’ve been trying to figure out what Halloween in Irvine actually means. Does it really exist? I’m not sure. I have been living here for about 5 years and have yet to have a single trick-or-treater come to my door. I don’t even buy candy anymore.
We determined that Halloween was an approved Irvine event, but the stack of forms that one is required to fill out is daunting. There’s the costume approval, route approval with alternates and time frame, candy bag qualifaction, candy check procedure, process for pre-approving houses to stop at, wavers for early and late start times, trick auditions (and approved conditions to perform tricks), parent guardian or chaparone approval, requests to trick or treat without same, and so on.
And then, of course, if someone were to actually deny you candy and you wanted to “trick” them, you’d have to fill out a whole other set of forms, pay for additional insurance, and the list of tricks you’re allowed is pretty pathetic. I think the scariest tricks they allow in Irvine are:
- leaving the homeowners property by cutting across the grass instead of walking carefully on the OSHA-approved lighted pathway
- not saying “thank you” or “good night” when you leave
- using such foul verbiage as “darn” or maybe even “shucks”
- adding unapproved accessories to your costume without the proper permits, filled out in triplicate and notarized
- crossing the street without holding hands and carefully looking both ways
- derogatory comments about the homeowners association
- and, for the truly daring trickster, making comments like “gee, I think that El Toro airport is gonna be a SWELL thing!”
By way of contrast, the list of approved tricks for Santa Ana reads a wee bit differently. Some popular Halloween tricks there include:
- poppin’ a cap in someone’s ass
- placing a lit M-1000 firecracker into or under the gas tank of someone’s 1976 Ford Pinto
- the use of an any explosive device with a yield of one kiloton or less, especially when obtained from Mexico; this usually generates a friendly chuckle and response of “ay, gitano!”
- lighting the offenders house, hair, car, grass, or small defenseless pet on fire
As you can see, here in Irvine we’re a daring bunch of rebels who know how to get down an play dirty if you don’t give us candy. So watch out.
