Canned Tuna In The Sky

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Canned Tuna in the Sky

On my last flight, as I watched the 10 year old safety video from my airline’s monitor above the row in front of me, I ponder the collective expressions of the actors/employees who are portraying passengers in case of an emergency.

I’m in marketing, I get it. Show a calm business man as he sits comfortable, while a yellow plastic tube/mask drops from the console above and observe as he shreds any sense of panic and without hesitation, places the mask over his head to ensure a perfect fit to enjoy the smooth crash landing positions we all love.

I want what he ate before the flight. What was it? Quaaludes and crystal meth? COME ON!! If a red light and alarms pop on and an oxygen mask falls before my eyes, I WILL NOT be thinking about how “cool” I can look if I don’t panic.

I will be hyperventilating and acting closer to George Constanza at a children’s birthday party when he smelled “fire” as I make a new door where there isn’t one. Parachute smarachute..I’m going to wear everyone’s coat from the overhead bin and brace myself for a Disney ride of a lifetime.

I try so hard not to laugh at the absurdity of how I am SUPPOSED to fasten a seatbelt, I listening intently as I have a thousand times before, as the intercom follows up with, “If the cabin loses pressure, please ensure you place the oxygen mask on yourself FIRST before helping others.”

SERIOUSLY, save your OWN breath. You do not have to tell me that. My seated neighbor and I have shared only an arm rest, we are not blood brothers.

No offense, but with my long arms, I may even grab two masks and see which one exudes more oxygen before leaving the others to fight over the malfunctioned one.

Honestly, you think they would learn about travelers with frequent flier mileage and priority seat assignments. But Noooo. Each time I fly, I hear the flight attendant ask me if I am “comfortable” sitting in an emergency EXIT ROW and do I accept responsibility of what it means if we are forced to evacuate.

“Mmmmm..lemme think..YES, IT means I get more leg room than anyone but Captain Sully and if something goes wrong, I’m out of this (TITANTIC) bird in the sky first and I will be sure to call CNN and 911 before the passengers two rows behind even consider unbuckling their seatbelts!” (I hope they paid attention to how to UNLATCH)

BTW, Captain Sully isn’t on my flight but let me review this again in my head. He LANDED a plane and kept passengers ALIVE……(scratching my head) Is that NOT his job?

Remember loyal fans of the Sully world (this is cynicalbuzz.com, not Thursday’s edition of 20/20)

Failing Passport Control

Failing Passport Control- http://www.cynicalbuzz.com

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No matter how innocent and good I am. No matter how many times I travel outside the country; when I go through customs or a passport control, I feel like I’m a fugitive on the run.

Yes, I have accepted the fact I’m one faux pas or mispronunciation of the word “declaration” away from a border patrol officer sending me to a Turkish prison to star in the squeal..oops-transpose that-I mean sequel to “Midnight Express”.

CUSTOMS: -Business or Pleasure? “Well I did take a photograph of a nude statue, but I don’t plan on selling it…so does where does that get filed and would you like to see it?”

CUSTOMS: -How long have you been in this country? “Um..in hours? Are you kidding me? I think I arrived Thursday, but with the time difference, it could have been Wednesday. Do I get sent somewhere special for being able to tell time?”

CUSTOMS: Son, I DON”T ever JOKE. Do you think I’m smiling under these mirrored sunglasses? “No, But the ’86 TOP GUN crew called, they want them back before sunset.”

I’m sure my impersonation of the southern prison warden in "COOL HAND LUKE", “What we have hear is a failurrrrre to communicate” didn’t help my situation much with his “scent” of humor.

I do freak out over the smallest things. I’m even thinking to myself (What is the penalty for omitting the fact I have two souvenir spoons and refrigerator magnets stuffed in my suitcase). That is how paranoid I am. Thankfully I forgot I had a box of chocolates in my computer bag or I would have been a wreck.

As they stare at my passport, there is a big sign above their heads stating in big letters,

(If you are chosen to be searched,

we will provide both an officer

and witness observer)

OOOOH. LOVELY, I have BOTH a pervert and a voyeur asking me if I’m a packing mule or just happy to see them. I am never leaving home again. MOMMY!!

Honestly. I must not be meant to deal with the law at any level. Last night I was pulled over from a local police officer who asked me if I have been drinking.

“Officer, I have not drank anything other than the 2 liter bottle of Gatorade I had after working out, but I’ve been swerving on the road afraid I’m going to have different kind of accident trying to control my bladder AND simultaneously watch you in my rear view mirror as you TAILGATE my butt for the past 20 minutes JUST waiting for me to swerve.

I wonder how Wyoming is in the summer. I hear the border patrol there takes makes you check your belt buckle to verify your name before letting you mosey along.

Attention Deficit In Order

Attention Deficit In Order

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I see you. YES, I see you again. There you are waving emphatically. There is a handmade sign you have flashing in and out of my peripheral vision to where I can't ignore you. You HAVE to have something better to do with your morning than to pop up and down begging for attention as you stand behind the glass studio wall for NBC's TODAY SHOW while I try to finish my breakfast.

I'm so glad you are proud of your Alma Mater and feel a loyalty to make a homemade sign for attention. I'm thrilled that you are celebrating your 50th birthday with your friends on a trip to NYC and happen to stroll by 30 Rock at 7:00 in the morning. But no one else cares other than the four other ladies with you who EVEN Al Roker is trying to avoid.

We truly just want you to move to the next tourist stop on your day trip so we can watch the news, weather, sports and how many more times the police were called into Charlie Sheen's house last week. (THE important, critical news of the day only please)

Standing on someone's shoulders at a rock concert is annoying itself, but DOING it just to be situated above Matt Lauer as he talks about airline security is tacky at best, aggravating at its worse.

Seriously, even if I did KNOW you and you came from my hometown, I would never admit I did. I truly would have even disowned you if you were my Mom holding a sign that said, "Hi Erik, look at me and Aunty Em". When they talk about the 15 minutes of fame for each of us, I truly hope those 15 seconds I'll never get back count towards YOUR ENTIRE TIMELINE of fame for at least MY lifetime.

Perhaps I am envious. Yes, maybe I would love to have Kathy Lee Gifford turn and wink at me. (is that a wink or a astigmatism?) But I would never, ever, clap like a seal in front of 40 million people so I can see myself clap on the TV monitor facing me and OH wait! HEY..wait, that is my college friend standing right there next to Meredith Viera. HI ..HI can you see me?....WOW. How cool is that.. He is so lucky. Wink

FULL SERVICE STATIC AT THE SELF SERVICE LINE

FULL SERVICE STATIC AT THE SELF SERVICE LINE

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Sounds like the best idea yet. Eliminate the cashier and let me scan and pay for my "STUFF" with a swipe of a card. Ahh, the EZ PASS for the pedestrian of the shopping lanes. What a concept...right?

NO! The biggest issue isn't that innovative idea, but the fact, the self checkout line at a Home Depot or a Walmart is ONLY AS FAST as the neophytes shopping before you .

OMG, LADY!!! the machine has it spelled out for you in not only BLACK AND WHITE, but in BRAILLE, it TALKS to you, it has a HELP button and it even has the bags OPEN there for you to put your 50 pack of batteries in.

PULEASE Mister, It's a scanner, not a MRI machine, swipe the freaking bar code, but don't hold it there until the new year.

YEAH YEAH. The Bar code...that thing that has attached itself to every item since 1972. OK, now repeat after me, each time it "BEEPS" you get charged. So right now you owe $450.00 for that pack of gum you keep swiping as your OCD kicks in at just the wrong time of the checkout process and MY life. It is paid for. I promise you and if not, I'll buy you a pack of gum for MOVING YOUR HUSH PUPPY shoes a little further down the line and leaving the premises without hitting that "help" button again.

Barcode you ask again? "Yeah yeah, the Morse code THINGY that is on the side of your paint can. YO, Norman, do you really need to use that much EGGSHELL paint at your age anyway? TRY white, your eyes can't be that sharp, you just hit the ASSISTANCE button five times to ask if your credit card will work in this type of machine. No, of course YOURS won't work. You have the only credit card out of the 400 million Americans who has a Visa that won't swipe in a VISA branded slot.

Seriously, if you don't move your corduroy brushing self out of the way, I am going to break down and yell "THIEF" because you forget to scan the two bags of SALT in your cart because its bigger than the glass you would have to lay it on."

Three steps is all it takes My Dear Hindrance of the Shopping Highway.

1) scan the item

2) place in bag

3) swipe your card and approve.

Any more steps than that and you can join those drivers in the EZ PASS lane that didn't read those two miles of signs ahead of time in NEON LIGHTS that said, "EZ PASS HOLDER ONLY" lanes to the left.

There is truly another world for you to shop in and it doesn't include me. I would tell you to stay home and shop online, but you would be waiting impatiently for the purchased items to be expulsed out of your printer paper slot.

Next time a store wants to make my life easier, don't try to AUTOMATE, TRY ELIMINATE......By IQ.

Anyone who can't figure out how to check out should be required to pay a premium for a personal shopper and stay to the rear of the store until the rest of us leave.

Now that I'm finally ready to check out........um...does anyone know what "ITEM NOT RECOGNIZED MEAN?" As there is no way I'm hitting that 'assistance needed' button after that long rant. ;)

Predictive Analytics of the Day

Predictive Analytics of the Day

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"promising 3 inches...guaranteeing 6 inches....predicting 12 inches" In my conservative opinion, I think it's time we regulate the meteorologist industry to rethink their vernacular before they go on TV and forecast a big blizzard or better yet, they should keep their excited opinions about their personal depth perception to themselves.

Is there any other career where you can miss 7 out of 10 times at your craft and still excel at your job (not including baseball)? Please, please!! In my next life, pay me to be a weatherman for Phoenix or San Diego or Bora Bora where I stand there for 10 minutes a day and go. "It's going to be a pretty nice day. There were worries about seeing a cloud or two, but that was only a heat spot on the Doppler radar. Tomorrow should be more of the same and the weekend looks ...well...um...pretty darn good too."

I TOO, want to stand in front of you and point to a digital map which only, I, interpret as good, bad or indifferent based on some "neat charts". I want to wear bad blazers, flashy ties and bonded teeth to tell you what you already know, "It is COLD, WARM, HOT" or the all time favorite as they point, "if you are HERE...you should be feeling some rain in your area about now."

Yes, sign me up to have 'some good ole banter' with the sports guy next to me who is reading the old news and scores off the internet with a clip-on tie and my co-anchors who are excellent ..I MEAN..excellent at reading scrolling copy at 45 wpm. But please correct yourself when read, "Afghanistan Militia" when hyphenated. It's sounds so wrong when you say, "Afgan and Stan licious".

My next life, I promise to pay more attention to air pressure, barometer readings and jet streams as I will ask my future parents to name me Storm, Chilly, or Rain to ensure my career as a futurist of precipitation does not go unnoticed, unrewarded and to guarantee I get a cool red jacket with blow dry hair to wear on the air to tell you to "HAVE A ____ DAY", depending on the inches of course.

Feeling Helpless with the Help Desk

Feeling Helpless with the Help Desk

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For my vacation day, I decided to not travel to far away places, read a good novel, or sleep past 7 am. No, that would be smart. For my day off, I decided to be productive, get up early and clear up some bills, tasks and paperwork from my last month’s trip to my doctor.

All morning, I’ve been on the phone with a helpdesk “automated” operator. How do I know she is a machine? Because she can’t be rattled, insulted or verbally abused. I know, I’ve tried. No matter what words I throw at her, enunciate, spell-out or scream; she stays calm in her monotone metallic response mode and calmly makes me spend hours on a phone which would be solved with a 5 minute live operator just saying “YES, you owe the whole bill thingy, no partial payments allowed. Pay it or we’ll confiscate your house.”

REALLY? Isn’t that all we want, resolution, closure and some truly LIVE person we can curse at afterwards and thank them for abusing you in real time? Is that asking for too much in my time of disgust? I can’t curse at R2D2 with a voice.

I have repeated my option “BILLING ISSUES STILL” and she has politely asked me if I’m approving my “LIVING TISSUE WILL?”

She keeps asking me for my “PASSWORD” as I told her that she erred with the "LAST WORD” I constantly repeat my “RECENT ADDRESS” but she keeps referring back to my diagnosis of “DECENT STRESS”. Stress?...Oh, maybe just a little right now…Keep talking JUDY Freakin’ JETSON.

So now I’m completely lost, I can’t reset my password, I had no idea my 2^nd dog had a middle name. I am only 50% sure of my state of birth or my password reminder 7-digit code that includes upper/lower letters and numbers.

I inhale and try to breathe; I can only ponder if it’s a felon to kill a computerized voice that doesn’t listen to me either phonetically or literally. As I have now decided, if I want to be ignored to this extent, I’ll just go back to work.

The Flight of the Wannabe

Sometimes the in-flight movie isn’t the most entertaining event on an airplane. On my way back from the Miami, I observed a lady, who has been sighing and “tsk tsking” with disgust ever since she was overlooked for a first class upgrade, and had to sit in the first row of coach.

She began her flight of disappointment before we even were airborne by arguing with the flight attendant that because she USUALLY sits in first class, she should be allowed to use the 1st class lavatories.

As she was denied repeatedly access to the port-a-john in air, she turned around in a huff and marched loudly to the restroom in the rear of the plane while the rest of us (content with our peanuts) continued to watch My Best Friend’s Wedding for the 12th time shown on a the 4-inch screen. Ahh, but I digress.

Reference for non-travelers: All restrooms on planes are the same, there are no rose scented walls and silk toilet paper in 1st class facilities, trust me, it’s only an urban legend.

After the disappointed lady of Debutantes’ past came out of the “steerage” facility, she hoofed past the rest of us returning to her seat. However, this time with more than she left; as row after row; crowded aisle after aisle; all the winged bus inhabitants witnessed her shirt tucked into her pantyhose and 15 feet of toilet paper dragging behind her.

Excuse me for a second while I reminisce and laugh again. …..one more second…

Ok, I’m fine now.

As she passed me, I nicely pointed out her trail of embarrassment, “Don’t you just miss those first class bathrooms where the toilet tissue is perforated and the dressing room mirrors actually reflect the rear disposition of the past?”

DOING TIME WITHOUT THE CRIME

DOING TIME WITHOUT THE CRIME

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Yes, my perception is tainted. My travels for work spoil me with lovely hotels in great cities. However, some hotels should not be occupied, but donated to prisons for overcrowding. It's supposed to be a home away from home, not the equivalent of doing 10-15 hours in a state penitentiary.

I should have known better as even my GPS couldn't find this "Four Seasons" of solitary confinement in rural New York state. My loyal gadget of the directionally disabled not only couldn't locate it, it never even heard of the road or worse yet, the crime district it was in.

My GPS only kept telling me, "RECALCULATING...RECALCULATING...GO BACK NOW BEFORE YOU END UP IN HOSTEL IV or SCREAM 6".

Too late. When you walk into a BATES HOTEL room and there are SIGNS all over to help you with the obvious, you know it's going to be a night to remember..or one you try to forget.

There is a direct correlation to the number of "DON'T" signs and the stars in hotel rating system. A four star hotel will have only one sign, "THANK YOU". However, a Minus four-star hotel with security cameras will have 20 signs within a 20 square foot space.

-Don't hang anything here (it's a freakin' sprinkler on the ceiling..what am I going to hang? a Piñata?

-Don't use blow dryer near water (Thanks, but I like saving time to wash and dry hair at same time)

-Don't turn lights on after midnight (Does this mean the toilet is non-working after midnight too?)

-Don't touch A/C. (Why would I? I'm going to be perfectly comfortable all night in "lock down", one small window, with no lights after midnight to read more "Don't do anything" signs.

Alcatraz had more amenities, but it at least had a view of the San Francisco Bay. I'm just staring at a flashing hotel street sign that says. WE HAVE CABLE. ...Cable?..wow...Now all is good in Whoville.

After hours driving, I just want to sleep at night and shower in the morning. No need for breakfast in bed or strawberries at night. I'm easy like that.

But what I can't cope with is only ONE pillow and a quilted sheet/blanket/bed spread combo to sleep with. What is that?...A QUILTANKET? I didn't know if I was suppose to lay under it, in it, over it or put helium in it and escape from this prison yard of discomfort.

If the next morning, the shower would be my saving grace, All would be forgotten. Too bad I would have been cleaner if a prison guard hosed me down in CELL BLOCK TWO before this luxury bathroom suite of cleanliness got the job done.

I'm over 6'3" and the shower head was 3'6" off the floor. It took me over an hour to wash with a soap wafer the size of a CHEEZ-IT. It is sad when you have to negotiate which parts of my body needed the soap more and the rest can wait for tomorrow. Worse yet, it took me 90 minutes to dry off as I reached to grab a towel . No, let me rephrase that. NO towel, just a SHAMWOW to squeegee myself off. YES, I felt like an Olympic diver as I used this 6-inch yellow faux chamois to rid my body of moisture.

I finally checked out, (or depending on how you look at it-released) and the front desk/security asked me how was my stay. I just took a deep breath now that I've been broken and said. "THANK YOU SIR, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER?"

I did tell him I truly only wanted to see ONE more sign before I left this hotel/prison combo. He said, "What would that be?" I responded, "You've been Punk'd".

Sadly, it was real and I only felt slighted the lights went out last night right before I finished giving myself a tattoo. Yes, I got to get Inked or I would have no proof of doing my time. Peace out.

Play Crazy 8's Anyone?

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Play Crazy 8's Anyone?

On Acela train to Boston this week. I peered out the window contemplating why an Express Train makes 8 stops and slows down to about 8 mph in so many areas, when I caught eight (8) Department Of Transportation workers studying ONE spot on the road near the tracks.

All eight had a white Ford F-350 truck, white hardhats and matching bright shirts. As I thought maybe I came upon the DOT world headquarters, I realized it was more the redundancy department of redundancy. Eight men with eight coffee mugs staring at the same area of a road equivalent to a size "8" work boot.

If only I could have opened my window and overheard their value and accurate assessment, strategy and implementation of why all eight of them need to be standing around eight inches of erosion somewhere near the Connecticut border, I would have heard:

“Ed, I see the crack.”
“Bob, that is not a crack. That is a crevice, a crack is much smaller.”
“Both of you are wrong, that is a beginning of a pothole which will cause collateral punishment to 18 wheel vehicles within eight months.”
“Speaking of punishment, did anyone see the Patriots game last week?
“OH YES! We had the best tailgating party ever. I realized our company trucks hold more beer than the utility company trucks my brother-in-law usually drives to the game.”
“Is that the brother who always brings a six of beer, but drinks a case?”
“No, that is my sister-in-law on my wife’s side. He is the one who put the hole in my pool table while we were playing 8-ball.”
Speaking of holes, I guess we should all go back to the IHOP and write up a report on this crack.”
“You mean, crevice?”
“POTHOLE”
“I’m hungry now!”
“I said Pothole..not Pot roast”

As my train picked up speed, I left the Ed and the seven dorfs to plan how they are going to fix this formidable fissure of the ages in eight months, with 800 men and $800,000. (includes lunch at IHOP)

No Sense of Urgency

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No Sense of Urgency

I know we don’t CHOOSE to go to an Emergency Room. If we did it, it would be called the “eh…it’s not so bad yet” room. But having the privilege of walking into an Emergency Room just before midnight, incurs motivation to never, ever get sick, get in a accident or run with scissors after 11 pm because the words, “urgent care” truly means take a 3 digit number and don’t bleed on the waiting room couch.

At that time of the night, when you are competing against Methadone withdrawals, guys who try to pimp out their car without lights and children who have objects stuck up their noses, your opinion of what is critical quickly dissipates.

But at least next time I visit an E.R., I’ll know what to wear to the event. I’m going to dress up in 80’s gym shorts with a button down shirt and work boots to ensure I fit in. I truly wasn’t thinking fashion when I arrived through the automatic doors as I looked like I was wearing Garanimals matching my shirt with a pair of jeans before heading out.

However, I think the “medi-tease” is the worse part of the waiting. When you walk in and they instantly take your ID, credit card and blood pressure as you describe your situation; you assume they are prepping you for the immediate attention you have been paying insurance premiums for all these years.

What they don’t tell you is that your deductible has now been withdrawn faster than a Bernie Madoff cash deposit and you are delayed and expendable until the lady who is hallucinating and the man who forgot his pants are treated for exhaustion, sleep deprivation and stress.

“HELLO, EXCUSE ME, I have those three symptoms every day, but to me, that isn’t an emergency, that’s a Tuesday.”

After two hours, I am asked to wear the “gown” of exposure and sit in the Hall of Purell because all the double occupancy exam rooms are filled with people who are STILL one pulse ahead of me in life AND death.

The only people passing me in this cold corridor of numbness are spouses and significant others of the patients who are taking my spot on the human conveyor belt. …and their only goal is to get outside to smoke every 10 minutes because their loved ones are causing them stress….and these were the NON-smokers.

Finally the doctor on-call stops by to ask me the same questions the receptionist asked me two hours ago and literally says, “So, what do you think it is?”

“Mmmm. Well Doc, based on my years of watching St. Elsewhere, General Hospital, ER, Chicago Hope and Family Guy, I think I am already dead and you need to call CSI and Homicide because I’m ready to kill someone.”

But I don’t feel any pain now that I got that off my chest. Thank goodness my deductible is only $100.00 or I would feel I REALLY wasted my money.

Neighbor Can You Spare Some Time

My favorite elderly neighbors asked me to come over yesterday to help them with some new FANGLED technology. I gratefully ran over salivating hoping to assist Mavis and Eddie with perhaps a Bluetooth music system or HDTV linked to their netbooks.

As they graciously opened their door like their long lost son just returned from the war (I saw their furniture..we’re talking the Civil War), I see a box holding a—cassette loading refurbished answering machine and a VCR on a TV which was YES, you guessed it, still flashing 12:01 12:01 12:01 12:01 12:01.

My current age must not have resonated with them as they offered me cookies and milk as I set up their answering machine, even know I could swear I smelled their afternoon ritual of whiskey sours seeping through the air.

I tried to simplify the process of them recording their message into the machine even testing it with them a few times before I felt confident they could handle it.

Before I left, I adjusted their MAGNAVOX VCR clock and set the timer so they can tape their GUIDING LIGHT soap opera but I just didn’t have the heart to tell them it’s being cancelled in a few weeks.

That evening, I felt obligated to call to see the technical progress of my “greatest generation” and their giant step into the 19.5th century as the answering machine kicked on.

Then….the love I felt knowing they followed my directions to the every detail was just overwhelming.

“HI…YOU HAVE….REACHED THE CIRELLI’S…." “It’s not working Eddie..the light isn’t on..” MAVIS, SSHHH….ERIK TOLD ME THAT IT ONLY NEEDS TO FLASH ONCE,…IT IS ON………PLEASE LEAVE A MESS---" “Eddie…I don’t think that is the light he was talking about.. He was talking about the VCR light” "MAVIS.. I KNOW WHAT I’M DO---.BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP”

Mmm…the only message I could leave was. “Your answering machine sounds perfect. I hope you enjoy your PROGRAM tonight” as I rushed to send their phone number to everyone on my twitter account because no one is going to believe this message unless they hear it for themselves.

Averting Disaster

The merging lane was a disaster ready to implode. The intersection itself was already packed while the space was narrow and obstructed. I just avoided a rear end collision a few moments before as I diverted my eyes to see what was passing me on the side that smelled familiar. I returned my focus to the impossible task at hand and decided I had to either stop completely to avoid adding to the trouble ahead or shoot the gap.

I didn’t hesitate. I accelerated to bypass the slower drivers and the undeciders. I shot through the lane and looked back to see two old ladies, a man with a Bluetooth headset and a family with twins scarcely miss the crash of a lifetime.

But as I moved down to the cereal aisle, I noticed my challenges had just begun and I knew right then, I was going to have to take a quick detour to grab a cold chocolate milk and just endure what was going to be another Sunday crowd at the food store. I relent that some pain is unavoidable as I hear echoing over the lanes, “NUMBER 24, your Deli order is now ready”. --- I need more than chocolate. I’m Number 275.