the terminal: where class goes to die

Airing on this fall and cancelled before winter.

This fall, ABC is rebooting the classic TV show Pan AM. This period piece shows flying as God intended: beautiful rich people, skinny female flight attendants, and smoking is allowed everywhere.

My flight this past weekend surely shows what a diaper full of tiger vomit that concept is. I was debating on live blogging this, but 1) my two year old BlackBerry most likely does NOT have an app for that, and 2) I don't know exactly what 'live blogging' is.

Either, way it is/was written from the perspective of me waiting in a terminal. Also I was too lazy to go back and change all the tenses. Furthermore, I have blogged about this before, but now with more awesome.

People really are terrible. This statement never feels truer than when I fly.

If everyone is complaining about the rising costs of airline travel, why am I surrounded by so many poor, ugly people? Oh, that's right. I'm flying Southwest.

To my right is a semi-balding man whose mouth hasn't closed for the last 30 minutes. He is either having the world's most relaxing stroke or he is definitely missing all kinds of important chromosomes.

To my left is a 60 year old man wearing a fedora. I mean, really? You are too old to be going through a mid-life crisis or even appropriately know who Justin Timberlake is. Also, no one should ever where a fedora. Ever. They are the epitome of douchebaggery. You might as well a sign that says "I bro-hug my fraternity pledges and secretly make out with them when we're drunk... And a lot when we're sober!"

Behind me is a woman whose child has been screaming since I sat down. We aren't even on the plane yet. "Ma'am, I've only had one beer and in a short while a middle-aged homosexual is going to make me turn off this iPod. I hate to impose, but may I smother your child?!"

Across the terminal that meth built, there is a small kid-oriented area. Kids and airplanes are like dating and sobriety, the two just don't work together. The TV is showing Pokémon which is basically an old anime cartoon that pretty much destroys any useful information a child learned from watching Jurassic Park.

Of course the one moderately attactive guy here is talking to a girl who looks about as interesting as low-fat yogurt but clearly doesn't eat it. 

I'm boarding now.

i am *probably* not a serial killer.

But if you asked Diane at the Kroger I frequently shop at, she might tell you differently.

So, after returning from yet another weekend spent in at a trashy casino, I decided to head to the grocery store to get my little ducks in a row for the coming work week.

Other than the fact that I did not have to yell at any patrons who feel it is their right to cut in front of me in the Express Lane (with more than 15 items), it was a pretty standard trip: milk, eggs, salt & vinegar Pringles, and a box of wine. You know, the usual.

Anyway, if you've kept up with my blog, you probably know I am in a feud with Ellen Paige by starting a national craze called "wigging." By 'national', I mean me. And by 'craze', I mean I'm crazy.

If efforts to keep this ball rolling, I once again went 'wigging' with one of my new most favorite people of all time. The results were once again flawless:

Well, almost flawless.

My friend may or may not have come out of the entire incident with a small bald spot because I never warned anyone (or myself) that when 'wigging' one should be extra careful when dealing with expensive and beautiful artificial hair.

I knew what I had to do: take this fallen hair extension as a relic from an incredible adventure. Like a movie stub from a great first date... or your first date's watch.

I tucked the little lovely into my back pocket and began thinking of names. Name deciding quickly turned into more drinking, so I pretty much forgot about it...

Cut to a week later and I'm where this story began: at the Kroger, standing in front of Diane, searching for the nearest emergency exit.

As I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, the hair extension fell out onto the counter. Only, my relic (along with my jean shorts they were in) had been through the washer and dryer a few times. It now resembled something a cat would throw up or something you would find in the drain at a trucker stop.

Diane and I looked at each other, and I swiped my Visa and grabbed the hair faster than a tranny on a crack pipe. I avoided any further eye contact and ran to my car.

Also, when I got carded for my wine, I mistakenly handed her my hotel room key. I'm fairly certain Diane has alerted the local authorities as well as the hotel staff of the Holiday Inn Express of Durant, Oklahoma.

In conclusion, my next blog post might be coming from prison... I'll let you know if it is anything like Oz.

UPDATED: First World Problems

People all over the world are suffering from natural disasters, starvation, and oppressive governments... Here in my neck of the woods and among some of my too fabulous gay for words friends, our problems are what we like to call "First World Problems."

I'm not writing this to make people feel bad about the fabulous lives they live or to donate your hard earned money to some charity whose commercial's soundtrack features Sarah McLachlan. I just think these situations are hilarious and everyone can use a little perspective on their lives from time to time...

For instance, one day my friend and I were talking about baking. We proceeded to spend 8-10 minutes talking about how annoying it is that cute ceramic pie plates are usually deep dish and normal pie crusts don't fit in them, but standard Pyrex pie plates are ugly to display at dinner parties. This can also be filed under: "Extremely gay problems."

Left: really cute. Right: What am I a farmer?

The other day, I was a friend's house and he asked me to look at his back because he was afraid he was breaking out after his most recent laser hair removal treatment.

Another friend updated facebook saying, "I'm at the dermatologist. Every time I leave this place I look like an extra from a Wes Craven movie. Urgh."*

Or like when I am driving, get stuck in traffic, and almost pee my pants. I feel wronged, upset, and full of pee. Then I look to my right and see someone waiting for the bus stop... in 106 degree heat... in Dallas.

Here are some other quick First World Problems that continually ruin my life and make me feel like a selfish child who has a temper tantrum at Disney World:

"Crap, I'm at the gym and left my iPod at home... I can't workout without Kelly Clarkson blaring in my head."

Spending 20 minutes at dinner expressing one's disdain "valet only" establishments.

Using valet at said establishments.

Being outside a 4G network.

Absolutely ANYTHING that has to do with rebooting, buffering, or upgrading. ANYTHING.

And, finally, the status update that got this idea in my head and inspired this whole blog post:



As you can easily assume, I love my friends...

*I teasingly commented "#FirstWorldProblems" on what I assumed was some sort of cosmetic trip to the dermatologist. Later, my friend provided another update: "Two ice packs, a fan, eight stitches, & almost passed out, but now my chest is cancer free." #ifeellikeanasshole 

Anything I missed?! What First World Problems destroy your daily life?

all dressed up and no place to DANCE!

There are very few sentences I've written on this blog that fill me with such an overwhelming sense of 'having it all' but here we go... "This past weekend, I took a road trip with some friends to Shreveport, Louisiana."

Yes. That is equal parts jealousy and pity you are feeling. Just go with it.

This picture vaguely captures the glamour of this establishment.

The trip was short, sweet, and full of ridiculous people watching. There's nothing that boosts the self-esteem faster than walking through a casino. Even after loosing $70 faster than a semi-balding woman can light a Virginia Slim while simultaneously feeding her social security check directly into a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, I had developed some sort of freakishly bloated self esteem that is best reserved for reality television or the porn industry. Also, I had been drinking vodka.

I was determined to continue to drink back my losses. Unfortunately the cocktail waitresses were kind of slow. So, my drinks came out to about $35 each.

My friends and I got ourselves together and headed to a charity event which was pretty much just more drinks for me, but free this time. Then we blew that Popsicle stand and headed to what Shreveport considers a gay bar.

This is where my luck continued to fail me.

Drag shows in most gay bars are spectacles of glitter, duct tape, drunken bachelorette parties, and some of the most stereotypical gay music you've ever heard. This place, however, was exceptionally terrible.

I'm about four years shy of my restaurant and hotel management degree and my only experience in food service is one summer in high school waiting tables at the Cotton Patch Cafe. But, a note for any owner or manager of a gay bar of any kind: homosexuals love to dance.

This bar was so borderline pathetic, its tiny dance floor doubled as its drag show stage. Now, I could see this working if the show was 30 to 45 minutes, but these queens dragged this spectacle out longer than a slow-motion explosion in a Michael Bay film.

That self-esteem I had mentioned earlier (AKA drunkenness) was in full swing as my friend and I decided we would debut our routine we had choreographed an hour earlier... in the bathroom... of the bar!

In middle of a performance of Madonna's iconic 'Vogue,' my friend and I decided it was our time. I use the term 'performance' loosely because she was wearing a white pants suit with gravy stains.

We were hitting the 1s and the 5s and already anticipating the receipt of the proper accolades from our peers, when we were pushed of the stage and flipped off by the Madonna-wannabe. Lucky for her, we were ready to leave anyway too drunk to put up a fight.

One very sleepy cab ride later, I opened my eyes to my friend paying the driver and carrying my other friend to the lobby. Dance or not, I guess the night was a success.

Epilogue: We may have left half a case of beer in the fridge, my toothpaste, and my friend's car keys in the hotel room. But, I would have hitch hiked all the way back to the El Dorado Casino had I forgotten this little gem:

It is a wig. I did not scalp Kate Gosselin.

On a semi-related note: I got to see a REAL woman that knows how to own a REAL stage: Sia. Late last night, as I was sitting down to watch Skyline with my roommate, my friend text me saying their extra ticket for Sia was mine for the (free) taking. Being that I only knew like 3 of her songs, and only like 2, I was hesitant.

I decided to go and am now Sia's number one fan of ever. 'Breath Me' live was practically a religious experience. I was crying, some woman gave birth to a mixed-race baby, and I think the people on the front row went blind.

Unfortunately, in order to be Sia's new BFF I think I have to become a lesbian, because boy-howdy that crowd was full of them.

one of three ways

What in the world is wrong with kids these days? I'll tell you, it's their parents. A lot of modern-day parents are raising a generation of sheltered, over-protected, and coddled wusses who have a highly disproportionate sense of entitlement.

I recently read an article posted on The New York Times about how 'safer' playgrounds and may be detrimental to development, because when kids get hurt or semi-traumatic things happen to them, they learn from it.

I have posted multiple times about how my parents have traumatized me and inadvertently turned me into the strange quirky person I am today. Quirky is endearing. But I have realized that it taught me to be a functional, awesome person.

Yeah, my mom may have almost left me in a Wal-Mart and I may have received severe burns on my chest from a time I was semi-unattended by a hot stove. But, my parents raised me to be smart and tough enough to persevere through their few missteps. They were very few (if any), because most of my faults were self-inflicted/deserved because I was a pretty terrible child.

I mean I may have 'accidently' broken my older brother's arm in my attempts to stop him from killing my bounce on our neighbor's trampoline. He got a broken arm and had to bathe with a garbage bag on his arm for a few months, and I got spanked till my father lost feeling in his arm. But I think we were both better for it. I think he even developed this double jointed action that would serve him well should he ever pursue a career as a street performer.

Which brings me to another great aspect of my mom and dad's 'accidental' parenting. My mother was a nurse. She worked in ERs, nursing homes, and hospice. So, the fact that I smashed my head falling out of a tree house or slammed my finger in a car door was pretty much a non-event for her. She knew whether or not I needed to be sent to the ER or if my cries were just early attempts at attention grabbing. For the record, I only went to the ER once, the rest were just The Boy Who Cried Wolf... annoyingly.

Thankfully, this 'tough love' approach is not lost on my siblings' children either. One night while sitting around the dinner table at my brother's, my two nieces were running around the house playing, and we all heard a loud crash that sounded like Ty Pennington just unleashed  wrecking ball in the guest bedroom. We all sat there and clutched our wine glasses and heard my niece yell out.

No. Not blood curdling cries of a toddler who was staring Death in the face. She simply, calmly yelled "NO BLOOD!" and continued defending her American Girl dolls from the oppressive Galactic Empire with her imaginary lightsaber.

THAT, my friends, is parenting.

Finally, I'm 99% sure I shouldn't procreate or even adopt, but I don't know if I want to even raise a child in a world where playgrounds don't have monkey bars. But, if I ever do have children, rest assured, they will be spanked, never go to the movies or restaurants with linen tablecloths until they are old enough to drive themselves, and they will kick all kinds of sweet ass in one of the following three awesome ways:

OR

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