Friday, June 07, 2002
The Not So Mighty Jimbo, Up The Nose.
Jim Parisi
I saw some pencil-on-grout graffiti in a men's room in Canada. It said, and I quote exactly, "American are idiots." Well, so is Canadians.
(Grammatical humor. I'm a geek, and it's clearly very late).
Jim Parisi
Wednesday, June 05, 2002
I set of the bomb detector at the airport today. I'm serious. I got selected for random security screening, they ran the wand over my roller bag, and the machine went berserk. Whoop whoop whoop! Aaaugah! Aaaugah! Very serious sound, this machine. This was a first for me. 100+ trips to different airports every year, and other than the occasional overzealous security type copping a feel, I have had zero problems. Now everyone in the place was looking at the bald guy and wondering if his girlfriend wore a burka. No one seemed to know what to do. But every security at the airport guard surrounded me in about half a second. I chuckled at the absurdity of the whole thing, but was mentally planning the reorganization of my schedule, and steeled myself for the inevitable body cavity search. That didn't happen, but they did run that little swab over every article in my bags. Not surprisingly, it was a false alarm. Even if I was some psycho vegetarian terrorist, I don't think I'm capable of blowing up any airliners with half a tube of toothpaste, a Norelco, and a pair of running shoes.
Jim Parisi
More of my life at 33K feet. Off to Seattle today. I might drive to Vancouver Friday afternoon for kicks and giggles and shopping at 36% off (gotta love exchange rates). One advantage of business travel: Frequent flyer miles. I have somewhere in the neighborhood of six domestic tickets socked away in miles right now. And it's only June. Weekends of climbing, holiday's in NYC, jetsetting to Miami, Hawaii, Montreal - all within easy reach. The irony of course is when you spend your work week traveling, who the hell wants to travel on a weekend. But I suppose the opportunity that those miles represent makes all that time in seat 14A not so bad. That and it's always sunny at 33K feet.
Jim Parisi
Tuesday, June 04, 2002
Do you read OC weekly? How about LA Weekly? Every city has one. A weekly newspaper, typically hyper-liberal and featuring all the concert dates, local music and details on all the hot club scenes. Ever read those magazines? The rags here in SoCal only include advertisements for laser hair removal, breast augmentation, penile enlargement, Dancers Wanted and 1-900 numbers. Is this because all the porn stars and strippers are hanging out at the clubs and dating musicians? Effective target marketing? I suppose that makes sense. I doubt there is a Journal of Pornographic Sciences in which to advertise.
And what about that laser hair removal stuff? Doesn't the idea of using a laser beam to kill skin cells sound at least mildly dangerous? It's not like we have decades of experience in using lasers to groom the pubes. Sounds iffy to me. And beyond the the obvious pain involved, you gotta think the smell of burning back hair has got to be repulsive.
Jim Parisi
Monday, June 03, 2002
Free Advice: Never drive with a dirty windshield. Life seems terribly bleak when staring at it through a dirty windshield. Regardless of where you are going, it just doesn't seem like a road to opportunity. Hell, for that matter, never drive with a dirty car. You can't feel proud driving a dirty car. Besides, clean cars go faster anyway. Life is always better in a clean car. And do yourself a favor and don't drive an uncool car. Life is better in a cool vehicle. A black Ford pickup is a cool vehicle. Any "K" car is not. A convertible, with the exception of those GEO Metro convertibles, is a cool vehicle. Minivans are not. A jeep is a cool car. A Subaru Outback can be a cool car. A Pontiac Aztec (dear God what drunken incompetent designer created that monstrosity and how did all those inept product managers approve it) is not. And as a general rule, you should never add anything to the exterior of your vehicle. This includes curb feelers, bumper stickers, cheesy chrome naked-girl mud-flaps, neon license plate hangers, or that stupid unpainted tail wing stolen off a dragster some goober decided to bolt onto his 94 Civic. Unless you are the freaky car lady in Venice Beach or on your way to Burning Man, leave your car the f*** alone. And don't leave old food wrappers, half a year's worth of sales demos, last month's newspaper, and twelve "Starbuck's Uber-Grande-Latte" cups in the front seat of your car. You look like a moron when you have to spend ten minutes tossing crap into the back seat just so your friends or clients can bum a ride. And for crissake, buddy, that '87 Sentra you have, the one with the custom rims, should not be doing 110 down the 405 weaving in and out of traffic like a friggin F1 racer. You are not Mario Andretti. Your car isn't a Ferrari. You cannot stop as fast as you think you can. You cannot turn as fast as you think you can. You do not look as cool as you think you are. Please slow the hell down before you throw a rod, blow a tire, and take out a van of five-year-old, hemophiliac orphans from slain war heroes on their way to meet the President at Disneyland. And don't tailgate either. But definitely, don't drive with a dirty windshield. There. I think I'm done.
Jim Parisi
Sunday, June 02, 2002
I got up at six to make my flight. I went to bed at 4:30 or so. I spent the day in Dallas with my family. I missed my flight to OC this evening, and had to change my flight to LAX instead. I am in the zone. The zone of the living dead. The zone where my hyper exhausted body is simply responding to external stimuli. Everything feels like it's in S L O W motion. I must be getting old. This didn't used to be so hard when I was 21. First the hair, now the stamina. What's next? Impotence? God I hope not. I'm sitting in the Admirals Club at DFW typing away, hoping I don't have too many typoes (whoops) and waiting to catch the flight. I upgraded to first class so at least I can sleep before having to drive the rental car all the way home to NB. Consequences, friends. Consequences. Wanna get buck wild - gonna have to take the consequences. I'm just glad I have this Admirals Club membership and the first class upgrades to ease the pain.
Jim Parisi
