TAPed Out



They even locked the bloody mini-bar!



My story starts something like Lord of the Flies, but my plane did not dive into the sea and instead we diverted 30 minutes south to a resort town to refuel (so close, yet so Faro). So maybe it is more like that terrible movie with Matthew McConaughey and Camera Diaz (have fun on that goose hunt). Anyhow, by the time we retook-off and landed where we were supposed to be, I missed my connection and with it went a great business opportunity. These things happen, said my boss's boss. I know, but I am sorry, I replied.

I am really sorry since I am now stuck in travelers purgatory (the airport hotel) and wait at the mercy of an inept airline. Maybe they are smarter than I am giving them credit for, though, and they are slowly and systematically giving me a drawn out case of whip lash from all the head shaking I've done the past 36 hours?  Portuguese torture? Probably not. TAP Airlines is as a whole no worse than the rest, but bloody hell they are collectively no smarter the broken water heater back home. I'd gladly take a frigid shower just to lose the idiocracy I am now surrounded by. A badge doesn't make you smart and a broken water heater doesn't make your shower not your own. But I am here, not where I am supposed to be or at home.

Rip Van Wrinkled: eD turns 100

Happy birthday eD!!!

I am proud to say I have achieved my goal to post 100 times during the first year of eD.  I am nervous to say, right here on the internets, that I have set the same goal in the next year!


October 13, 2012, 200 posts?  Not going to be easy, but nothing worthwhile is.  As Mark Twain said, "actions speak louder than words but not nearly as often."  Let's see if I can prove him wrong (he also said, "a person who won't read has no advantage over one who can't read," so I humbly ask that you help me along the way). 


As with our 50th birthday, I am pleased to share a few stats that some of you just may find interesting (this is a family and friends blog, so I have to believe that these numbers are pretty damn impressive!).  I may even throw a poll or two out there (having nothing to do with Amanda Knox, the Greek debt situation, or my Kindle).   


Meanwhile, thank you to everyone for reading, giving me compliments and inspiration, or reminding to get off my isle-seat to post.  The fact that some of you actually read this stuff means the world to me.  Bloody hell, now if I could just get you to comment...


Happy writing,
Dominic

Twain Tables Up for Landing

Vanity, definitely my favorite sin.

Post from a LOT Airlines napkin: 

When I have the displeasure of leaving this world, I at least want to leave a quote behind. Or maybe a witty saying. Quotes are awesome, and I want one. Maybe something I write down on a napkin. I don’t even need my tray table; I have a knee, a napkin, and a blue pen. Better yet, I can just say something really witty to my neighbor. But he is Polish (i.e., doesn’t speak English). 

Kids may say the darndest things, but adults say the damndest things. Hey that is good. Not going to do it though, keep practicing. 

Post continued, off the Napkin onto the back of my boarding pass: 

Just Faucet, It's a Bad Idea

I've said it before, I'm not living in the UK simply to draw comparisons and make complaints but sometimes I have to ask myself, really?  Okay, here is the deal:  this is a highly developed economy and home to countless innovations (including, apparently, the Hoover and meat pie), so why is it that heaps of the sinks still have two faucets - one for hot and one for cold?

Really?  Why?

I really don't get this phenomenon.  The Loo will have touchless flushing, automatic soap dispensers, bloody hell even an XLERATOR® Hand Dryer that just about blows your pants off, yet no device to bridge and regulate hot and cold water?  Really?  

Show and Don't Tell

Show, don't tell.  

True love is the greatest thing in the world...Except for a nice MLT. A mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe. 

It's a beginning writer's mantra.  Perhaps, it is even an apt collection of words to tattoo across the top of a novice scribbler's hand.  Do not tell the reader that your character started to feel old, instead show them.  

Let's draw on personal experience, shall we?

Mind the Gap

It is to Thailand’s “same same, but different,” or Mexico’s “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.” It is plastered on the walls of tube stations, inked on cheap cotton t-shirts and painted on ceramic mugs sold at stalls near the Royal Palace.  Apparently it is even the name of multiple books and movies. 

Of course, I speak of England’s “mind the gap.” 

A rough reminder to
Mind the Gap.

Outside of the busiest train stations, I must admit that the novelty of Britain’s famous warning to subway patrons is mostly background noise. Last Friday, I wished the warning was a little bit louder. 

Happy Valentine’s Day!!! Meat at Taco Bell?

Our move from San Francisco to London has taught me many things, one being that the comforts we left behind are difficult to replace.  This, of course, was part of the deal and we expected it, bloody hell we even looked forward to it.  There would be no point in moving thousands of miles away if we simply brought everything with us and lived our lives in exactly the same way.

Why didn't we think of this?

In the old country, nothing made me happier than being dug into the couch with a Mexi-melt, glass of Zin, and the LA Kings in High Def.  An unabashed drive-thru visit to Taco Bell, despite the latest smear campaign, was a surefire way to put a true smile on my face.  A post-meal walk with my wife down to Crissy Field was a reminder of how incredibly lucky my life had become.  These things were my comfort blanket, in the old country.    

A Merry Can I Doles

I'm not crying,
my eye is leaking.

Wine glasses are meant to be broken, people are not.  I knew we were in trouble immediately when the scenic opening of American Idol from San Francisco made us verklempt before the scrawny host opened the audition door for the first contestant. 

“We used to live … right there!”  Literally, the helicopter captured a scenic shot over the span of the Golden Gate Bridge, leading right into the Presidio.

“I know.  Will you get me a napkin?”  The view of our apartment from above made it look exactly as small as it was.

“For the wine, or for your tears?”  Bloody hell.  Both.

The Internet is in the Computer?

Internet, at home.  What a novel idea!  With a great amount of pride (insert excess Visine into eyes for effect), I announce “Go Kings Wifi,” now available at the Giuliani household on New Kings Road!

The Internet is in the computer?

It has been a tough month without it, trust me.  I know what some of you are thinking, bloody hell get over it, you can get by without it for a month.  Yea, how are you reading this?  Ouch, that was defensive, sorry. 

I think I have figured out the true meaning of Internet in our lives.  It is like the backpack we wore when we were in grade school.  Remember how heavy and over packed that thing was?  The straps almost always gave way to a stringy mess that usually surrendered to a duct tape fix-up.  Life-time guarantee Jans, really?  

In that backpack, we had everything we needed for the day, to name a few: rubbery wrestling figures, Chuck E. Cheese's tickets, baseball cards, ad-libs, Ed Emberley's Big Red Drawing Book, and, right, school books.

Well our ability to efficiently communicate, pay bills, blog, research, and look at celebrities in bikinis, is all dependent on our ability to connect to Gore’s invention.  Well I have my backpack back, and I can’t wait to see what is inside (cheesy is good for ratings, sorry!).  First things first: this blog post, from home.

Disclaimer: Disclaimer.

John Hancock?
It's Herbie Hancock.  Duh!

As some of you may know, last week my wife and I had to sign a waiver to take a doggy-bag out of a London pub.  At first, I truly thought it was a joke (dare I say, I waivered?).  Then I thought I was imagining things, probably due to the no-more-than-three pints of Australian lager in my belly.  

But when the server presented me the document and waited for my Herbie Hancock before granting us custody of the naughty chicken, I had to come to grips and accept that the whole scene was real and that I was not, unfortunately, on Candid Camera with Allen Funt.

Harley Worth a Dime

Harley’s Bowl was where we rolled, almost every weekend.  The 60’s inspired single-story building towered over the otherwise empty field, unless the circus was in town.  The bleak architecture neither inspired nor dissuaded us.  The Nihilists  weren't scripted yet, there were no Little Lebowski Urban Achievers.  No, it was the shine of the oiled lanes that drew us inside.  Well that and the nachos. 

Bloody Hell Quintana

That summer, Harley’s was our numero uno hangout.  With rented shoes and sore thumbs, we mingled with the drunks and degenerates who welcomed us with open arms.  We bowled our asses off, and when we were finished we would request a print-out of our scores, averages, and ranks.  We were bowlers, man.  I’m not afraid to admit that I bowled my best game when I was eleven years old.

Happy Christmas

Heathrow was kind to us, and we arrived safely in sunny Los Angeles (seriously, we sat outside for a bit and caught some rays).  I'm getting ready to head over and watch the nieces and nephews rip through Santa's pile of goodies.

I can't help but notice that the pendulam has swung, maybe not clearly to the other side, but certainly past the middle line.  It used to be all about me, and my brothers and sisters.  After the carnage beneath the tree, we would size up the individual piles of gifts, as if to say "what did you get for Christmas?"  Well I got a new pair of hockey skates, a New Jersey Devils hat, and Dad's secret present was a ping pong table (my brother got a train set) and I am SO EXCITED!

Kicking it With Kids

What is fair punishment for a kid that kicks the back of your seat for the entirety of your flight?

My name is what?

My flight from London to Los Angeles was about 11 hours.  The little punk behind me played treadmill with my seat, for all 11 hours.  Bloody Hell, the mother just sat there and watched the brat walk all over me.  I think the kid needs to learn a lesson and understand the pain she caused me.  I'm now in LA and so exhausted that I barely know my name (though my back feels, well refreshed).  

So as fair punishment, I say that she should have to legally change her name annually, on her birthday, for the next 11 years (i.e., the number of hours the runt kicked your seat).  That will teach her, and seems fair to me.    Then again, I am so tired  I don't even know what I am typing.

Mr. Short-Sleeves in Severe Winter Weather Man

We have all seen these people before.  Perhaps we even know these people.  Bloody Hell, one of us may be in the gang of these people.  And who are these italicized people that are driving me crazy, you may ask?  

Really?

Individually, they are none other than that dude or dudette wearing a short sleeve shirt, or God forbid shorts, outside in the middle of a severe winter.  The phenomenon spans the globe, trust me.  I’ll tell you I am but one man and even I have now witnessed it on at least three different continents.  What is with these people?  [I admit that I have identified an entire class of people that are now subject to this rant – but they are not a protected class and I feel free as a bird to dig into their arrogant ways.]

One Sheet and Two Towels to the Wind

Four plates; mini-water cups; bowls; forks, knives and spoons makes our kitchen routine pretty easy.  Eat and drink, wash, and repeat.  If laziness calls, eat and drink, eat and drink, then wash and repeat.  There is really no other option and to be honest it is comforting.  Could you imagine emptying out your kitchen and replacing your cutlery and fine Ikea china with only 4 sets of each?

It is not an extra mug, it is a chalice
and it was used by...Bloody Hell!

In addition to the above, we have five coffee mugs that are on constant rotation.  Generally there is one in the cupboard and four on the drying rack.   This is great, but also unsettling.  Why five when everything else is four?  If I were Benjamin Franklin Gates in National Treasure 3, would I gleam something important from this extra mug (“extra mug” is just fun to say, and it is now noted in my Future Band Names folder)? 

In the meantime, we have settled into our daily lives, and we are simply used to having the extra mug around.  We no longer question on a daily basis, “why five?”  But maybe we should (cue music)…

Bloody Hell vs The J-Man

I am uninterested in spending two years in London only to sit around compariing the UK to the US.  I just will not do it (my goodness they fry everything here).

Jump in and call five pounds five quid, that is the ticket to assimilation.  Football is football from here on, I won't even mention the S word.  But one thing, one little nuance, I have to explore even if it requires a comparison to American vernacular:  bloody hell. 

Bloody hell, look at my wand.

The fact is I actually said "bloody hell" to myself when a gaggle of about ten lorries past me by when I tried to cross Fulham Rd to catch the tube.  Ignoring what I just wrote, did I really say bloody hell under my breath?  Yes, I did.  But what does it really mean? 

We get the gist, right.   It is a hell that is bloody.  Not a place where you want to host a fundraiser (or is it?  So many politicians and lawyers...deep pockets in hell, even if the place is bloody.  Tangent noted, sorry).  But I want to know the root of it, the historical signigicance and I may just ask the judge to use it in a sentence ("bloody hell, just get on with it." ... "Root of orgin?").  I don't want to google it, or wikki leak it.  I want to know it, and live it, because my subconscious now demands that I use it.  I shall not use terms that I do not really understand, right?  But I can't just ask someone about it, that would be lame.  "Excuse me nice old lady, sorry to disturb your pint, but what does bloody hell mean?"