Loser Report

Ruined (part 4 of 4)

With a new contact case in the travel bag, I connected through Seattle again the next Thursday, venturing into the wilds of Canada for a day-long, Friday session in rainy Vancouver, BC.  Dropping off the rental car after finishing the project, I entered the airport, pushed kiosk buttons and received a boarding pass with my butt located in seat 2A, the same seat I'd occupied on the flight from Seattle to Vancouver (not first class due to the plane being a regional jet without a first-class section).
 
"I'm in 2A, do you have anything in the exit row?"  I asked the clerk
"Do you really want that?"  He asked.
"Yeah, I'd like to get more leg room."
"You know you're already in first class, right?"
"I am?"
"Yes, but I can switch you if you want."
 
Leaving the counter as the clerk and the woman behind me snickered -- what can I say? -- I entered US customs, weaving through the rope maze along with a hundred other shuffling travelers until a plain-clothed agent carrying a hand scanner approached.
 
"One of you is emitting radiation," he said as the portable Geiger counter crackled a series of static beeps.
"Say what?"
"The field scanner detected it.  Which one of you is it?"
"It's me," the gent directly behind me said. 
 
The customs agent pulled him out of line; they disappeared through a solid door without any explanation for the radiation's source.  Cancer patient undergoing treatment?  Scientist who works with isotopes?  Bitten by radioactive spider?  Who knows?  But, clearly, if customs can detect radiation being emitted by a traveler, there's much more scanning and monitoring of what is actually trying to enter America than mere mortals, like me, have any awareness of. 
 
Passing through customs sans additional radioactivity, I sought out some stomach soothing beverage besides the omni-present Fresca and settled on lemon tea.  Tonight's return trip connected through LAX where I'd board yet another red-eye to Detroit to, with luck, arrive in Findlay before another Saturday morning YMCA basketball double header.  Landing at LAX without incident, I exited the Horizon Airlines plane into Terminal 6 -- a place I'd never been (in fact, I'd never connected through Los Angeles before) -- and took a seat in the bus corral, awaiting the shuttle to Delta's terminal.
 
Ten minutes later, a uniformed rep ushered a middle-aged woman and middle-aged sleepy me out of the terminal onto a small metal landing.  Pointing to the tarmac, she told us to go to the bottom of the stairs and wait.  Treading with care while lugging carry-ons and laptop cases down rain-soaked black metal, we stood outside the airport under a small awning, waiting beside a gigantic green dumpster.  Behind us, baggage carts zoomed back and forth as conveyor belts whirled under dim lights, ferrying luggage in every direction; the bowels of LAX will never win any awards for architectural beauty.
 
Boarding the bus with a driver who barely spoke broken English, we plowed into the rainy night.  Bouncing down pock-marked pathways through almost complete darkness, the bus ran into more bumps than your average amusement-park bumper car.  Impossible to discern where we were headed -- but silently praying it actually was Delta's terminal, rather than an off-airport execution site -- we twisted and turned while motoring down ominous, narrow black strips illuminated by what appeared to be strings of tiny red Christmas tree lights.  At one point, the bus stopped to -- and I'm not making this up -- yield the right of way to an actual 747. 
 
After seeing numerous parts of gigantic LAX that I never knew existed -- and don't want to see ever again -- we parked beside Delta's terminal.  Exiting the bus, I breathed a sigh of relief to be back inside the dismal confines of airport civilization, happy to survive the fifteen-minute joyride through LAX's heart of darkness.  With no seating available in over-crowded terminal five, I grabbed some floor space, missed getting an upgrade, but garnered the exit row window seat.  Five hours and two knock out bombs later, I arrived at Detroit, motored home and had time to make a pot of coffee before leaving for another super-fun YMCA basketball Saturday morning.
 
Given back-to-back successful red-eye returns and no missed basketball games, maybe gold elite status does have its benefits and maybe I'm not ruined... maybe.

****
Up next:  A Private Lesson in Adversity

Ruined! (part 3 of 4)

When we scheduled the work, Marc gave me the option of flying out of Seattle or returning to Las Vegas with him and catching a redeye from sin city.  Opting for Seattle, I said goodbye to the blissful world of private jet travel and hello to a shuttle-bus seat.  Reality immediately reared its ugly head:  massive traffic snafus caused the forty-five minute trip to take almost an hour and a half. 
 
Already wishing I'd returned to Vegas, I slumped into a plastic Sea-Tac's terminal seat.  My wonderful new elite status garnered me just as fantastic a seat on the flight home:  last row on the plane, window.  At the check-in counter, I asked the Delta rep if he could relocate my golden tush to better accommodations; numerous computer key strokes showed the plane completely full and oversold. 
 
"I've put you on the waiting list to get upgraded," the clerk said, "but it doesn't look good."
"Can I get someone's seat if he gets upgraded?"
"You could, but none of those are exit row seats."
 
Four hours spent waiting for the flight's scheduled departure reinforced the benefits of a corporate jet:  with one, I'd have been home before I even boarded tonight's return trip.  The choice to leave from Seattle proved a poor one:  the upgrade failed to materialize as did any opportunity to relocate to a semi-comfortable seat.  Boarding, I squished my oversized frame into 33-E's cramped quarters and, with the rest room right behind me, found myself unable to recline the seat.  A super-sized person took row 33's middle seat along with a quarter of mine and, once the plane took off, the gent in front of me planted his bald head in my lap.  Knees crushed into the tiny space, I removed the contacts and swallowed a couple knockout bombs in a failed attempt to get some dismal sleep.
 
Landing at Detroit at 5:50 am, people deplaned as I waited in the last row, trapped.  The logjam began clearing and I reached into my pocket to grab the contact case.  Once I left the plane, I'd stop in the bathroom, do a thorough cleaning and reinsert the lenses.  Without them, as dedicated readers know, I'm close to legally blind.  Pulling out the case, I found it had popped open during the flight -- not good -- and -- even worse -- the left contact had disappeared.  Taking a deep breath, I started a slow, meticulous search for it as the people in my row stood to leave.  Designed to compensate for my congenital eye condition (i.e., keratoconis), the one-of-a-kind hard contacts take upwards of two weeks to manufacture and cost more than $100 each.  While I carry a back-up set everywhere, the prescription is always one behind the current one:  in other words, losing a contact is a major headache. 
 
"Sir, you need to leave the plane," the flight attendant said.
"I'm looking for my contact lens."
"Everyone is off the plane and you need to leave."
"The case opened in my pocket and I want to find the lens before I move."
"You can search your pocket once you deplane," she replied.  "You need to leave now."
"Just wait a minute," I replied, knowing that if I left and failed to find the lens, I'd never get an opportunity to re-board. 
"You need to leave, now, sir."
"Hold on.  Have a little patience, all right?"
 
The current situation was a long distance, and not just in miles, from yesterday's private-jet experience.  Not once in this less-than-friendly dialogue did any of the three flight attendants hanging around the galley offer to help look for the lost lens.  For sure, many other tasks occupied their time, but, if they wanted me off the plane so badly, why not assist with the search?  I was, after all, Delta Gold Elite, right?  A minute later, blind stubbornness bore fruit:  I found the contact inside my pocket.        
 
Pushing through my front door at 8:30 am Saturday morning, dazed, groggy fingers sorted through the mail mess until red eyes spied another Delta flyer.
 
Right, Delta, right.

*****
Tomorrow:  completing the road to ruination

Ruined! (part 2 of 4)

Finishing an afternoon presentation, I ventured to the strip's Paris Casino for dinner with the company; the firm's CFO, Marc, wore an Affliction t-shirt (Tapout's cage-fighter clothing competitor).  After a lively discussion of my favorite sport, we finished eating and Marc told me to be ready at 6:00 am tomorrow morning to be picked up by the company's pilot, Mike.  When the sun rose, for the first time in my less than glorious travel existence, I would enter the world of corporate-jet travel (aka, real elite status). 
 
At six, I strolled out of the Grandview Hotel into chilly desert morning air, hopped into the black SUV driven by Mike the pilot and began what can only be described as a day within the travel twilight zone.  Traveling via private jet transforms everything.  For instance:
 
- You park inside the private-jet terminal, not at some garage or an off-airport facility
- You avoid all security screenings, x-ray machines, pat downs and TSA personnel
- No one asks to see your ID or boarding pass or tells you your carry-on is too large
- Your shoes, watch, belt, rings and grill -- if you have one -- all remain on
- Your wallet stays in your pocket as do any kleenex and other stuff like lint balls
- No one wants to touch yours or anyone else's "junk" 
 
The private terminal's lobby contained a wide variety of "free" gourmet coffees, teas and snacks.  Grabbing a hot chocolate, I strolled across fifty yards of concrete, ambled up the corporate jet's stairs and plopped my tush into a super-comfortable leather seat similar to an over-sized lazy-boy recliner.  No lines, no waiting, no hassles:  it was that ridiculously easy.
 
"Since this is your first time on here, let me tell you about the plane's safety features," Mike said before we took off.  After explaining the location of the exits, oxygen, rest room and where to find the on-board snacks, drinks, fruit and bagels, he ended with, "so basically, the bottom line is that if you see me running off the plane, just follow me."
 
Landing in Anaheim, we exited through California sunshine right into a company vehicle.  No standing in the jetway for gate-checked bags, no trip across the airport to baggage claim, no loitering at the curb for the shuttle bus, no waiting in lines at the rental-car center.  Nope, none of that, just a direct trip to the company's Anaheim facility.  After completing the session, we hopped back in the car, cruised through the In-and-Out Burger drive thru -- grabbing lunch for the pilots too -- returned to the private-jet terminal and, for the second time today, breezed right through it.  Two minutes later, we were airborne, en route to the day's second meeting.  Private jet travel is the antithesis of commercial:  the jet waits for you, not vice versa. 
 
"You know, Marc," I said while shoving a french fry into my mouth, "I could get used to this."
"I was opposed to getting the jet," he replied.  "It's a big expense for the company.  But once we started adding locations all over the country, it made sense.  When someone needs to get somewhere quickly, we can do it." 
"Flying on your jet is going to ruin me."
"I know," he laughed.  "I can't fly commercial anymore and hate it when I have to."
 
Two hours later, we touched down at a small airfield an hour north of Seattle and drove five minutes to the firm's office for the day's second presentation.  Without the corporate jet, we couldn't have made it to the first session, let alone completed two in the same day.

*****
Tomorrow:  back to commercial reality

Ruined! (part 1 of 4)

The happiness of most people we know is not ruined by great catastrophes or fatal errors, but by the repetition of slowly destructive little things
-- Ernest Dimnet
 
Life is short, but it's long enough to ruin any man who wants to be ruined
-- Josh Billings
 
Fingers foraging through the mail pile found this envelope near the bottom.
 
Big whoop, right?
 
Since relinquishing dual citizenship in January 2010 -- Silver Elite on both Continental and Northwest in 2009 -- it failed to surprise me that I'd reached the less-than-lofty status of Delta Gold Elite (50,000 miles of -- as you are well aware -- pure, unadulterated mirth).  Earning elite status in any frequent-buyer program, as far as I'm concerned, indicates failure more than success.  Take, for example, this conversation with a check-in clerk at a Rhode Island Holiday Inn. 
 
"Welcome, Mr. Bado, as a Gold Elite Member, we're glad to have you back."
"I'm doing better this year," I muttered as the wall clock behind the counter ticked past midnight, eliminating more of the dwindling supply of sleepy time, "last year I was platinum."
"Better?"  The clerk replied while handing me a bag stuffed with frequent stayer "goodies" that, more often than not, never leave said bag.  "But platinum is better than gold.  You want to be platinum don't you?"
"No, I don't.  Platinum means I've stayed fifty nights with Holiday Inn, that's forty-nine too many."
 
Especially too many given Hilton elite status too. 
 
Ripping open Delta's envelope, I found these new benefits would now be mine:
- Priority seats
- Same day standby
- Priority boarding
- Unlimited complimentary upgrades
 
Newfound "elite" importance swelling puny chest, I failed to snag a first-class upgrade on a trip to Las Vegas the next Wednesday, but managed to finagle an exit row aisle.  For the return trip, I grabbed the same seat to enable my drawing arm to swing into the aisle rather than into the middle-seat innocent beside me.  Before boarding the return flight, I stopped at the Vegas concourse TapOut store to buy Emily a green cage-fighter t-shirt.  Spying artwork on the wall behind the register, I asked the collage-aged clerk if he wanted to see some man-love scrawls.
 
"Wow, that's an awesome Jake Shields, dude," he said.
"You want it for the store's wall of brawl?"
"Yeah, for sure, I'll take it.
 
The next Tuesday, I stood in Detroit's A Concourse for a return trip to Vegas.  Upgraded to first class, I strolled out of the jetway and took a quick detour into the concourse TapOut store.  The Jake Shields scrawl, of course, was nowhere to be found.  
 
Look for this on Shields' walk-out t-shirt at UFC 129 (he's fighting GSP for the welterweight belt as you, of course, already know).

****
Tomorrow:  enjoying the private jet skies

Man Love Gallery Updated

Lots of new scrawls added to gallery and, incredibly, the order has been reversed so the new hack jobs will be the first stuff you see (wow, technology, lol).
 
In addition to this Bridges' bro, cick on the gallery to see Carlos Condit, Melvin Guillard and the "normal" 30,000 foot trash.