So, you want to fly First Class?

So you think you want to fly First Class? Do you feel bad that you are stuck in coach, squashed into the back of a plane while the First Class cabin enjoys free drinks, good food and happy, successful people? It must be one heck of a good time. Well, let me tell you something………

I’m a casual traveler, and hate to fly, with most of my flights from Los Angeles to the East Coast. Now, back in the day coach was just fine. The people I met were generally polite, if not actually friendly. And yes, even the food was decent (as much as people complain about the food on planes, I rarely see people decline it). But I had always dreamed of being one of the chosen few who gets to sit in First Class.

“What is it like to be among the elite?” I thought.  Well, I finally got my chance. A few years back was my first time. I received a sacred “mileage upgrade”. Wow! I get to board first, enjoy a cocktail, talk to interesting people (maybe even celebrities!)- I even get a hot towel before dinner. And in fact, I did occasionally sit in a cabin with celebrities (LA to Atlanta, or LA to New York tend to have the most). I even recall one flight in which the Backstreet Boys boarded, and I sat there wondering why they were carrying guitars, as I had no idea any of them could play instruments. But alas, celebrities don’t really impress me. I’ve been in the biz and the shine wore off long ago. But still, I was flying First Class!

After the first trip, I was somewhat addicted, even without the shine. I scrambled to get miles for upgrades, and when that failed, I’d pony up a few extra dollars to pay for an upgrade. After all, if I’m going to be on a plane for four or more hours, it’s a small price to pay for a slightly larger seat and a few extra amenities. But what mattered most was that by being in First Class, I felt like I was First Class. I needed to board before anyone else, just to show everyone in the waiting area that I was First Class! I could imagine them thinking “who is this guy with the spikey hair and funny clothes, what band does he play in?”. And in fact, I usually got asked that by other First Class cabin mates, as well as an occasional airport screener.

And then it happened- the day I had to fly in coach again. How could this happen? What will I do? I’ll have to suffer with the common folk, in the back of the plane, eating bad food and enduring endless babble about the latest tabloid sensation. I won’t even get to board first. This was a disaster.

So I worked myself into the back of the plane, with a window seat so I could look out and dream of being up front, with the chosen ones. And then a gentleman sat down next to me, with a DVD player, looking as far from rock musician (which is how I look) as one can get. Great, I thought, he’s going to watch some mindless DVD and probably won’t even be polite enough to get up when I need to go pee. I say hello, and we’re about to take off, which is the part I hate, and he tells me he’s a flight engineer from the Coast Guard, and if something’s going to go wrong with a plane, it will be right about NOW. He doesn’t seem concerned so I relax. I end up spending the next couple of hours watching his DVDs. It turns out he was a flight engineer on a helicopter that did rescues during Hurricane Katrina, and his DVDs were of their missions. It was the most entertaining movie I’d seen on a plane, and he turned out to be a really cool person to chat with. The flight ended, I got off, and dreamed of getting back to First Class. But…..

A funny thing happened on the way back to First Class. I flew coach a few more times, including all the way to Europe. Sometimes people were friendly, sometimes quiet, but no one ever griped when I woke them up so I could go to the bathroom (remember, I like window seats), or made the flight attendant reach over them to pass me a drink or food. But, I still dreamed of First Class…..then it happened.

UPGRADE! I got an UPGRADE! I was back. I was going to get to fly with my people! The chosen ones, who deserve bigger seats, better food, and free drinks. So I flew First class, next to a person who wouldn’t move so I could go to the bathroom (this was apparently a very important person with a VERY large discount store chain that shall go unnamed so I don’t get sued). One the second leg of my flight, the gentleman I sat next to was able to muster about two full sentences in 2 hours, both about him. And then it hit me. First Class wasn’t very pleasant.

I started to think back on my First Class experiences. Sure, the food was decent, but not much better than coach (maybe 10 years ago but not now). And yeah, the seats were bigger, but I still had to get the person in the aisle seat to move if I needed to use the restroom. And for some reason, in First Class, people don’t want to do that. Why? Because they are Important! Yes, they are the movers and shakers, the people who pay the wages of the type of people who sit in coach. They also seem to be some of the unhappiest, uncommunicative people I’ve ever met. No, I don’t want to spend 4 hours on a plane talking to every stranger. But I do want a modicum of politeness. Maybe it’s the economy, and a lot of these people are worth a lot less than they used to be. I’m not sure. What I can tell you is that while there may be more comfort in the seats, it’s offset by the discomfort of the personalities. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure some nice, relatively normal people like me (my friends would disagree with that statement) sit up there- I just haven’t met them.

So next time, I might just save my miles and fly coach. The odds of having a pleasant neighbor seem to insist on that. And the next time you feel bad that you sit in coach and not First Class, just remember that, based on my experiences, most of those in First Class don’t really seem to be that.

Zombie Girl Scouts

I went to the store on a Saturday afternoon, and was delighted to see the girl scouts were selling cookies. I always buy a few boxes, so I put my groceries in the car and came back to buy. There were two girls holding signs, and one says to the other, as I’m standing in front of them, that she would get the next customer. When she stopped talking she began looking past me, as if waiting for someone better to show up. I finally broke the awkward silence and told her I’d like to buy some cookies. She looks at me with disgust and motions behind her with her thumb “they’re right there”. So I step behind her to the table, where the table attendant just looks at me with a blank stare.

Apparently this is the zombie Girl Scout troop.  I tell her I want to buy some cookies. She tells one of the junior officers to help me. They finally take my order for 4 boxes, and hand me the cookies. Now I guess everyone is supposed to know how much they cost, but I don’t keep that kind of stuff in my brain. I have enough to worry about than to try to remember what Girl Scout cookies cost a year ago. Besides, who’s to say the price is the same every year? After an awkward pause, I ask how much. Again, with attitude, senior bitchy scout says “16 dollars”. Obviously I have inconvenienced them- maybe they were all Facebooking when I showed up. Or, being the zombie troop, were just waiting for nightfall. Whatever the deal was, next year I’m avoiding that troop. I came across this photo on the web- I think this girl was in the troop……..

Drowning thoughts

I like to surf.  I’m not some kid that shreds with lots of turns and cutbacks, but I can hold my own in some pretty sizable surf.  Or so I thought. California had an El Nino winter during 2009/2010. what that means is the storms that generate waves tend to be more or less direct hits on Northern and Central California. And that means the waves tend to have more power and size. In layman’s terms, they are big, fast, walls of water instead of the normal slower, rounded and sloped waves in a normal year.

I’d already been out to one of my favorite point breaks a couple of times during high-surf periods. these are the times the reporters are all warning people to stay out of the water, and there are signs all along the beach warning of the high surf. I think you see where this is going.

The first couple of times were physically demanding, but I was able to paddle out and ride some big waves. The waves on those days ranged from 8-12 feet (measured from the back, not the face so the face is usually larger).

The third time, well, didn’t turn out so good. The waves were about the same size. Reports said 9-13 feet, so the faces would be up to 15 feet. I started to paddle out thinking I could manage, because I’d done it before. But I failed to take into account one critical point. There were no lulls between sets. That is why only about a dozen guys were out at a place that normally sees 100.

Without the lulls, it’s incredibly difficult to wrestle a longboard out to sea through waves that large. In fact, it’s damn near impossible. And then the fun began.

The currents drove me along the shore, until I was dangerously inside. “Inside” means I’m sitting where the waves are breaking, and I’m getting concerned as I see a line of huge, Hawaii-syule walled up waves moving in. I realized there is no way I’m going to be able to paddle out past these monsters, and decide to save my energy and air to deal with them when they hit. Maybe not my best choice.

The first waves breaks a few feet out, and drives me down into the blackness. I relax to conserve the oxygen in my body. As I surface, I see yet another wave about to break. I try to paddle into a better position but the wave is too quick. I’m sucked up into the lip of the wave and thrown back down to be impaled on my board. I surface again and, you guessed it, wave number three drives me so far down my ears pop. I find my way back to the surface and see waves 4,5,6, and more coming in. I am completely screwed and I know it. As wave number 4 destroys me, I am out of air and strength, and realize I might actually drown.

Here’s where it gets weird. I wasn’t worried about the things I haven’t accomplished yet in life, or about my family and friends. No. My thoughts were about how embarrassing it would be if I nearly drowned and had to be rescued.  I’d never be able to surf there again! The second thought was how the hell I was going to afford to pay for the rescue and medical bills. Wow. I had to find the strength to get to shore, or I was going to be really embarrassed and broke if I didn’t end up dead.

I stopped counting on the ninth wave, as there were more coming. I managed to maneuver myself into a position to be driven towards the shore when the next waves broke. It was rough going, but eventually I found my way to show.

I crawled up on the rocks, bruised, bleeding, and in a great deal of pain. But I wasn’t going to be embarrassed. I had gotten myself out of there.

My Bad Ass Hike that Wasn’t

In my never-ending quest to stay in shape, I recently took up hiking. Los Angeles is a great place for this. There are trails all over Southern California. Some have waterfalls. Some have cliffs. Some have amazing views of the area. And some…….have a bunch of freaking hippies with couches (I guess I need to explain though for people that live in LA there is nothing odd about that statement).

I discovered a hidden hiking trail one day in the hills above the Hollywood reservoir that leads to a lone tree that can be seen from most of Los angeles.  It’s a steep, rocky trail that seemed best suited for rattlesnakes as opposed to people. But this was a man’s hike, and I reveled at the challenge.  I hiked to the pinnacle of the hill, 1700 feet up, and looked out over the entire Los Angeles area, all the way to the ocean 25 miles away. This was my new retreat.  A place I could go to escape the city. A place that few other people went to. Yep, this place was my place, until that fateful weekend.

It was a hot day as I began my ascent up the hill. As I looked up I thought I saw a person at the top, near the “tree”.  The tree is a bit of a landmark, and the only one on top of the hill. You can see this tree from anywhere in the LA basin, and there’s even a guest book at the base of the tree for visitors to sign and write down their impressions.

As I reached the top of the ridge, soaked in sweat and looking something like an unshaven, dirty serial killer, I saw a mirage. There were four girls sitting on a couch by the tree. And they were drinking wine. Now, the reasons I thought this was a mirage were multiple. This was my private place (with a guestbook), and it was a manly hike to get up there. There was absolutely no way what I was seeing was happening.

I walked along the path at the top of the ridge, towards the mirage, but the mirage remained as I approached the girls.  Finally I had to accept what I was seeing. There was indeed a couch. And there were four girls sitting on and around it drinking wine. My brain was not getting it. Maybe it was the heat. I was, after all, feeling hot and dehydrated. But there was no denying it was real when one of the girls asked “are you one of the musicians”?

I was not sure how to respond. Yes, I am a musician but no,  I’m not one of the musicians, whatever that meant. They offered me wine and asked if I wanted to stay. My first thought was that they were probably offering me poison for some hippie or witch ritual. My second thought was why in the hell someone would offer a hot, sweaty hiker wine. That seemed to be a sure way to get hurt while hiking back down.

While still bewildered,  I thanked them and turned to walk along the ridge. It was then that I noticed backpacks and coolers piled under the tree. So I asked the girls what is going on, and how they got the couch up there. One began to speak but was quickly hushed by her friend. Now it was getting spooky.

I hiked away, along the ridge to another part of the mountain. As I completed that part of the journey and turned back to head back down the ridge to the hiking trail,  I noticed more people, along the side of the hill…..and another couch. Okay, now this is ridiculous.

As I reached the trail to hike back down (remember, this is a “bad ass, manly hike” in my mind) a girl appeared at the top, wearing a sundress and moccasins. Yes, she hiked all the way up in freaking moccasins.   Wow, these hippies have amazing powers! She then asked me where the drinks were, so I pointed her on her way and headed down. Apparently one of their powers isn’t flying, at least not physically.

During my hike down the hill, I came across every variation of person imaginable. There were musicians dressed as though they were about to play the Roxy Theater, hauling instruments  and asking one question, every single time I came across one. “How much further”? I told everyone they were almost there, regardless of how far they had to go. I didn’t want them to lose faith.  But wow, there is nothing funnier than people dressed for a night of clubbing hiking up a steep trail in 100 degree heat.  The girls who didn’t get the memo were just precious looking with their makeup melting and running.

I guess the group was well-intentioned, but they weren’t very good at cleaning up. The couches will probably just rot up there. And apparently they also spread the news about the wonders of MY spot, because on July 4th I hiked up to watch fireworks, only to find at least 100 of them cooking hot dogs, drinking and smoking pot. I didn’t see anything on the news afterwards, but there is no way they all made it down in the dark, in an altered state, without someone getting hurt!

It went this way most of the summer. They even put a zip line up so they could ride from one part of the mountain to another. Not that I ever tried it. I’m not trusting a bunch of stoners to put up a proper zip line. But now that summer has waned, I guess they have gone back into hiding, and I have my tree back.

Key West

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I decided to take a vacation to Key West, and while there visit the church where my grandfather had been a minister. I set out to visit the church on a weekday, and I was concerned that it might be locked up, but I’d give it a try.

Now, back in those days I was a recent California transplant. I’d been a professional musician in Florida and moved to California to pursue my career. Of course, I’d adopted a more punk California look. It was somewhat menacing- long black hair, black t-shirts with skulls and other unpleasant images, long black shorts, and the ubiquitous black combat boots. My mom once commented that she would cross the street to avoid someone who looked like me. Even the first band I recorded with in California consisted of members of a band called Christian Death, who’s singer eventually died of an overdose. So I didn’t look like the type of person who would visit a church.

I arrived at the church, soaked in sweat thanks to my all-black outfit and combat boots during the middle of a summer heat wave, to find the front door locked. I walked around the church looking for an open door. Eventually I found one, and as I stepped inside I saw about a dozen elderly women, having a nice lunch, go from happy to terrified in an instant. They all looked at me as though they were waiting for me to pull a gun and ask for money. I smiled politely, and one of them asked if she could help me.

Inside the church

I asked her if I could see the parsonage. Now, your basic devil-worshiper, petty thief or punk-rock robber wouldn’t generally know what a parsonage is. And in fact, I’m not sure why I used that word other than I remembered my grandmother calling it that. At that moment a couple of the women went from terrified to curious, and one of them asked why I wanted to see it.

I told them my name, and mentioned that my grandfather had been a minister there. Immediately the fear was gone and all of the women smiled. One stated “your grandfather married me”. Then another said the same thing. My head began to spin! Had I just discovered that my grandfather had numerous wives? Even with just those two and my grandmother that would make THREE just in Key West. Suddenly the shoe was on the other foot. I apparently looked stricken while the elderly women began laughing. It was at that moment that I realized they were using the term “married” as a verb. Which was kind of obvious since he was THE MINISTER! For a moment, I lived up to my outfit.

One of them escorted me into the church, and told me I could stay as long as I wanted. I took some pictures and thought about what it was like to live in Key West back then without air-conditioning. As I left I thanked the women for their hospitality, and they told me it was a pleasure to meet me, though I imagine they discussed my sense of style and clothing for some time after that. They then told me that the church was closing the next week. Sometimes you just have to wonder why things work out the way they do.