What is it with British Airways? This airline flew me to and from Italy recently but didn’t give me the typical modern-day service experience I’ve come to expect in air travel, in which flight attendants offer thimbles of tepid water free of charge and pretzels for purchase at around $10 per handful.
Unlike my unhappy experience flying United Airlines from Hawaii two years ago, when I was given a small cup of water and no more “because we only have 18 bottles of water on the plane,” British Airways fed me and my family a full-blown “hot supper” of curried chicken, garden salad, roll with butter, and a cold chocolate pudding for dessert, plus, they threw in a couple of wee-bottles of red wine. No credit cards were involved. There were fresh blankets and pillows on every seat, and coffee or tea at the end of the meal. When I woke up from my brief slumber hours later, there was juice and coffee, and little breakfast snacks. I half expected to find myself among clean-shaven men in suits and women wearing fancy hats and bright red lipstick, like it was the 1950s and Pan-Am ruled the skies.
It may be worth my asking Hache Verde to rate his airlines experiences, as he travels far and wide. Same goes for Mook, who allegedly was in Israel recently, no doubt eating falafel on our tax dollars.
Next time I fly, it won’t be across the ocean, and I’ll probably get the same no-food or drinks treatment, as well as no blankets or pillows. However, I won’t complain, lest I get dragged down the aisle, bloodied and beaten.
Now that the US Military has dropped “The Mother of All Bombs” on ISIS in Afghanistan (without scratching a single innocent civilian!), and Russia claims to have “The Father of All Bombs,” I might as well admit that I’ve long been working on The Uncle of All Bombs.
My bomb is a balding old fuddy-duddy of a bomb, with a comb-over and yellowing teeth. It sometimes forgets to zip its fly and makes stupid jokes that causes adults to cringe and teenaged girls to throw up.
Is The Uncle of All Bombs going to dismember or liquidate people? Probably not. It mostly inflicts an emotional and psychological toll on its victims. But when people see my boring old tippler of bomb come stumbling its way across the sky at the end of a long day of drinking Lambrusco, hiccupping and belching, they’ll clear out of the area in short order.
Winding through the cobblestone streets of Venice (no, not Venice Illinois, Nebraska, or Ohio), down narrow alleyways, across stone bridges, past gondoliers, one can’t imagine a place less likely to contain a water park. With water everywhere, we don’t need no stinking water park.
Instead, we go to tourist central to see of the Basilica and Piazza San Marco. While listening to an audio tour of the piazza, my American wife suggests to her American family (of which I am a principal member) “Let’s head to the canal – the water side.” My nine year old daughter hears this and remarks, “Huh. The canal has a water slide.”
Sounds absurd, until you find that greater Venice (Italy) does indeed have one of those. (Not to mention that they are such good cooks that they've succeeded at frying land here).
Just because my father once owned a business called “Nugent Income Tax Service” doesn’t mean I was ever related to Ted Nugent. I’m sure that disappoints you. It certainly disappointed my friends in grade school. At the time, Ted Nugent was merely an insane rocker who would dress like Tarzan and swing from ropes onto the stage. In my little world of 6th grade boys, Ted was famous for his album Nugent Comes Alive (just joking – it was actually titled Double Live Gonzo) for banter in which he asks the crowd, “Does anybody want to get mellow?” And then adds, “Anyone who wants to get mellow can turn around and get the fuck out of here, alright!” He then launches into his seminal “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang” (OK, not really seminal at all). We all thought it was so cool the way he swore and rocked out.
Some years later, my mother had heard that Ted Nugent was against drugs. She told me this because I was in a rock band and she thought that having a famous rocker come out against drugs would keep me from dabbling in illegal substances. My response, as a smart-assed teen, was, “Ted Nugent is an argument for doing drugs, Mom, not against doing them.”
All these decades later, some of us (not me) still think he’s cool, the way he wants you to have whatever kind of firearm you’d like with no restrictions. Others (like me) think he’s a dink.
The only thing you need to remember from this post is that I’m not related to him, nor to Timothy McVeigh, despite the fact that more than 20 years after a truck bomb killed 168 people on Oklahoma City, store clerks still mention Timothy McVeigh when they run my credit card.