Uh huh, uh huh, I like it, etc.

Hee hee! CBS Sportsline likes Baz better than Vince Young. I'm going to giggle about this for the rest of... my life. Hee hee hee...


The assist here, of course, goes to Deadspin.com.

This is the Jump.

Conversations I Wish Happened, III

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Only if you do it with a cigarette-holder and a pince-nez. And polio."

This is the Jump.

More Random-Ass Observations

First (officially) in a series of things I noticed, but don't have a specific point about. Yet.

Yesterday, on the El, I saw a Garbage Pail Kid sticker stuck to the - what do you call it on the train, bulkhead? Wall? Poisson? Anyway, It was stuck there, in sort of a niche. I thought to myself, first, how long has it been there, since 1990? And no one dealt with it? This this sticker was weathered, but something gets that indistinct weathering on public transportation in about 47 seconds on a train, possibly instantly in the winter or inclement weather (objects have been known to appear weathered and grungy by the suggestion that they might at some point in the future be taken onboard the Western bus). That thought process made me realize that someone could've procured a Garbage Pail Kid sticker recently, which is more bothersome than the idea that someone stuck a sticker to the interior of a train and that had the staying power of, say, 15 years. Because I hated those things when I was in kindergarten, and they haven't left? Or, God forbid, they're coming back? I suppose I could do a little research, but I'd rather not find out. I'd just like to use the Internet for what it was invented for: complaining.

This is the Jump.

I Was Then Free to Move About the Country

This was brought to you by Gamblor, the god of Southwest’s “try your luck” seating arrangements.

I, in my infinite wisdom, managed to have the most delightful airport experience, in an overall sense this weekend. The trick to flying Southwest is apparently to check in at your home as soon as you can, and then wander up to the print your own boarding pass kiosk at the airport and have it spit out a boarding pass, with an A on it, if you’re doing well for yourself. The bestest way to fly these croupiers of the sky is to have a connecting flight, soon the second leg of your journey, you get an A pass immediately. Then you grab some food and/or your Sudoku and camp out in the A lane. Good times all around.

Then Gamblor intervenes.

Blah blah blah, jumpnesss:

You’ve found a seat you like – I, for example, got to do my “exit row dance” twice on the way back to Chicago – and you have to hope that somebody who’s well-adjusted sits next to you. Somebody who isn’t actively drooling is a plus. I prefer people whose eyes both point in the same direction, as well. One can make their own determination of seat-mate viability. But you don’t know who’s going to grab 13D and E, and short of looking slightly unhinged, yourself, there’s nothing you can do about it. I have to find some way to be massively uninteresting, because FAA regulations prohibit me from carrying on a scary-looking hatchet, and I haven’t the time to take up ventriloquy and introduce the rest of the passengers to my “friend” “Achmed,” who is prone to shouting “WHAT?! Are you prejudiced? Just because I’ve been fashioned with a turban doesn’t mean I host a children's show on Al Ja-cedar!”

But I digress.

I had the good fortune to sit next to a pair of retirees who were content to let me read my book and chat good-naturedly about the weather and such things on the way from Harlingen to Houston. On the way from Houston to Chicago, Gamblor smote me. I am eminently approachable, I guess, and people like to talk to me. Which is usually fine, because I don’t mind talking. This nice lady and I started talking about what we did, and I made the fatal mistake of admitting that I was an actor. Now, often, I will lie, and say that I make bombs for the U.S. Government, or am a teacher, or I’m in banking, or retail, or studying at the University of Saskatoon. I’ll avoid saying I’m an actor, because the responses are sort of odd, sometimes. This time, I failed to see any warning signs, and said, “she seems interesting and non-judgmental, I’ll just tell her.” Sure enough, this middle-aged engineering recruiter was fascinated by my admission. She was a team-builder and a speaker and a teacher of sorts, and how does one remain “present,” and “in the moment,” and crap like that? Get me talking about acting, and say that I carry myself well, so obviously I must be good at blah blah blah, and I’ll talk forever.

This was a mistake of epic proportions. It turns out that her “teaching” and “public speaking” were euphemisms for “leading a “give me all of your money” seminar. And for only $1100, a friend and I could be part of this team-building exercise that would show us how to value ourselves and make money to accomplish our dreams. Crap. I said that I was thinking about starting a theatre. Please don’t remember that, please don’t…

“So, what about this theater/school that you’re starting?”

Dammit.

I had half a mind to pull the emergency exit and jump out of the plane and hope for the best. Another 2 hours, of thrust-and-parry, and intervention-style, “get the mark to say yes,” “I’m not going to say yes, dammit, not even to, ‘did you like my dried fruit?’” Which, in retrospect, was a total salesman ploy and I’m a total, total dimwit. So, I was more non-committal than Congress in early 1944. Which was hard to keep up for 2 hours, I’ll tell you. But she was very nice, and I don’t want to burn any bridges, because she seems like she knows people, including, possibly, actor-directory types, and those contacts I don’t want to spoil. So, this would seem as good a time as any to post my “I can’t turn away a solicitor,” treatise, which will appear on this site soon.

The only good thing was when she said “So. Would you be willing to help out with my dream?” and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I managed to return with, “Well, that depends, will you throw in a set of steak knives?” But Gamblor and I broke even on the way back to Chicago this time. I anticipate our next battle with… anticipation. Or something.

If you’re wondering, the “exit row dance” apparently isn’t something that the flight attendants see very often.

This is the Jump.