Being fine with being confined

I've been on nine planes in the past thirty days. By my own reckoning, that qualifies me as an expert on air travel. I logged more time in airports during August than I spent in the office. I've been delayed and rerouted more often than not. And, despite this, I think air travel, for the most part, is okay. I'm okay with the extra bag fee, because I go entirely carry-on. I'm okay with the no-fluids rule, because I rely exclusively on hotel hand-outs. And I'm okay with the overbooked flights, because I am good at finding new flights. It's like a game of skill and deception that I play with multi-billion dollar companies.

But by far the cruelest joke the air travel industry plays on its travelers are the waiting areas by each gate. They are inordinately large. I typically take up five seats. One for me, one for my laptop, one for my suitcase and two just in case I need them. It is like my own bastion of personal space. And I'm not the only one who does this. We all abuse these seats. My favorite spot is the row of seats looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the tarmac. At the jetway. At the fragile tube of winged aluminum that, through a well-known miracle of aviation (called the "Bernoulli Effect"), will manage to fit all of the passengers in the waiting area.

I don't think airlines should give us the option of sitting in such opulence. I need a conditioning period. I cannot go from personal space Nirvana to being tickled on my nose by some guy's ear hair. It is a shock to the system, and one day it will kill someone. Like a cold pool, I need to ease myself into the controlled asphyxiation that is an airline cabin. Let me brush against an elbow. Let me hear a bit of labored, nasal whistling. Have me laugh awkwardly at an old lady's non-funny observation about weather and maple syrup.

I think Southwest is doing it right. They put you in corrals now before boarding your flight. This is a beneficial experience--the sooner you feel like livestock the better. Take two minutes at the beginning of the flight to introduce yourself to your seatmate. I recommend the following:

"Hi, my name is Bryan. For the next two hours we will inadvertently touch and bump each other in ways that, at altitudes less than 30,000 feet, would be construed as harassment. Please excuse me if I don't make eye contact with you when we deboard."

Where Is Jim Cantore??

In the panic and paranoia that precedes a hurricane like Gustav, it is easy to get lost in the endless and diverse predictions about who is going to suffer death and destruction. After all, the National Hurricane Center issues hurricane warnings that stretch for hundreds of miles--they can't even tell you where the storm will hit, and preface every one of their discussions with a statement to that effect. And even if "Hurricane conditions are expected within 24 hours," there is a big difference between 74 mph winds and 140 mph winds, between a six-foot storm surge and a 25-foot storm surge. Who's going to get it?? It may be easiest to believe that one pundit who brings the storm to your backyard--because paranoia likes being right--but if you really, really want to know where the storm is going, you need only ask one question:

"Where is Jim Cantore??"

That son of a bitch from the Weather Channel is the goddamn right hand of Satan. About 24-36 hours before the storm hits, Jim meanders down to some little coastal town and hunkers down in a hotel. And then he waits for the storm to come to him.

And it does. Like some kind of hurricane whisperer, Jim coaxes these little cyclones toward his cameras just so he can perform his award-winning ,"Macho Weatherman" type of journalism. Jim duly notes the passage of the storm as the world falls apart around him. He will masterfully watch the storm surge sweep away Chevrolets ("The tide is a bit higher than average!") and he will give due consideration to the hotel that collapses beside his bunker ("We have debris!").

My advice for getting through tropical events is simple. Don't panic, don't be paranoid. Unless you see Jim Cantore at your local supermarket. Then you should run like hell.

Why are you smiling, Jim??

Happy Birthday, Blog

Hey!  This blog is a year old now!

Yay.

Welcome, Friends

I don’t get China. And I suspect that, if you live in the United States, you probably don't either.

I think our ability to empathize with China's ideological analog to democracy (communism, totalitarianism, etc) is somewhat limited by the freedoms we enjoy here. I'll provide a couple examples from the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony.

Example 1
The beginning of the ceremony showcased a spectacular fireworks display that began, for television viewers, with fireworks in the form of footsteps leading from historic Beijing to the Bird's Nest stadium. The footprint fireworks were later discovered to be digitally created.

Typical American reaction
Why would you spend millions to fake a televised fireworks display?

Official Chinese reaction
We spent millions of dollars and put in months of effort so you wouldn't find out it was faked. We even added a camera shake representative of a helicopter and consulted with meteorologists to get the hazy sky right.

Example 2
An adorable young Chinese girl brilliantly performed a national song. She was quickly elevated to the status of "National Hero." Turns out she was lip-syncing. To another girl's voice.

Typical American reaction
Was the other girl so ugly that she could not be publicly appreciated for her talent? Are you telling us that, out of a pool of 1.5 billion people, you couldn't find a girl that was both cute and a decent singer?

Official Chinese reaction
During official rehearsals it was decided that the owner of the voice was not fit to visually represent China. We should be commended on finding a replacement (with good teeth) on such short notice.

Example 3
The ceremony opened with 2,008 performers beating a perfect war-like cadence on 2,008 replica ancient Chinese drums. Lost on the rest of the world was that the Fou drum, not readily recognized outside China, was actually a large pot that a host would fill with water or wine. The host would drum the pot to show welcome to guests.

Typical American reaction
Umm, is that war paint on their faces? I'm a little uncomfortable…

Official Chinese reaction
What?? What says "Welcome, Friends" better than 2,008 drummers chanting in perfect unison? Do you need more?? Would 2,000,008 drummers make you feel more welcome? Because we can get them.