Don't forget your toothbrush! Or the tickets!

I think it's well established around these parts that your humble TNRLM editor is a bit OCD, and that making lists is the Sun around which the Earth revolves. (Unless, of course, you take it on "faith" that the Sun revolves around the Earth).

There are lists for all the logical things, like the running list of things to purchase at the grocery store. (Everyone keeps a running list, right? Rather than creating one from scratch right before the trip to the store? So when you run out of -- or run low on -- an item, you just add it to the list as you go? Maybe not? Chaos, I tells ya). Or the list of things to pack you make when you go on an out of town trip. Or the wish list at Amazon.com. Or the Outlook Task List for things to do at work. Or the Google notebook list of things you want to reference for a "potpourri" post later that week. You get the idea. Lists are good.

We got into a debate of sorts around these parts earlier this year, when one of my compatriots forgot something that might have been helpful, or even necessary, when attending a major college football game: the tickets.

Back when I was one of the primary drivers and organizers of the tailgating expedition, I developed a handy pre-launch checklist that looked something like this:

And when I travel, I use a checklist (that's both on the PC and the CrackBerry) that looks something like this:

But for those less inclined to generate their own lists, there's a great service that will help you create a travel checklist, called "Don't forget your toothbrush."

All you do is create a quick user ID and password, and the service will walk you though developing a comprehensive list. It's mainly designed for our of town travel, and has some awesome features. Of course, there's the "check off items you want to pack" part. But it also systematically asks you about other pre-trip preparations you might want to make (arrange for a babysitter, what to do about the pets, check your passport to make sure it's current, charge all your batteries, stop the papers, pay bills that will come due while you're gone, empty the fridge of stuff that will rot, turn off the pool heater, adjust the thermostats, set the alarm and lock the doors, etc.). At the end, it will generate a printed checklist for you for all the activities and packing you need to do, AND email you reminders (with associated activities) leading up to the departure date.

Some folks I know might want to add signing up for this service to their To Do list.

Dawgs vs. Bugs: The Weekend Travelogue and Gameday Experience, Vol. V

The extra special extended edition director’s cut of the weekend started off early Wednesday morning, where I got up at 4:00 AM in order to catch a 7:00 AM flight back to the motherland.  Needless to say, getting up at the ass-crack of dawn, only to find an airport and plane full of harried parents and mewling infants, really set the tone for what would transpire Between the Hedges later on.  

The flight and subsequent MARTA trip was relatively uneventful, thanks to A) Bloody Marys, and B) the constant distraction of the iPod.  It took me a long time to join the iPod generation, mainly because I’ve never been one of those music snobs who thrills to discover the little known emo band that seems like they’re speaking directly to me, only to discard them once more than 15 people know who the fuck they are.  Sure, I listen to music on the iPod, particularly when I’m reading, but the thing has been a (insert fictional deity here)send for listening to audiobooks and podcasts.  There are a few “business” podcasts I’ll listen to, but I’ve primarily enjoyed sports and entertainment podcasts.  I admire the hell out of folks who put out the weekly content devoted to their favorite TV show, often for little or no compensation.  Their passion is contagious, and it certainly helps drown out the sound of the chatterboxes on the plane and makes the trip go faster.  (Note to FAA, who may be looking for clues after the next great air disaster:  I willfully disobey the request to turn off all electronic devices during takeoff.  I keep the earbuds in, make a show of hitting some buttons and put the iPod down beside my leg.  I also look and pretend to listen attentively when the flight attendants walk by me.  But I’m really listening to someone rattle on about the latest episode of Battlestar Galactica or Lost.  So if this makes our big shiny winged cylinder of death fall out of the sky, so be it.  To my fellow passengers:  Ooops.  Sorry).

The pick up was fine, though it was a different Freebird chauffeur.  Miz F (along with the WeeFree) grabbed me from the station, and the only problems along the way resulted from the overzealous Georgia Highway Patrol (we didn’t get busted for anything, just moved slowly) and the fact that none of the 6 DVDs in the rear seat player featured the exact Mickey Mouse video that was being vigorously requested.  We stopped along the way at the Redneck Bloomingdales (WallyWorld!) and at 5 Guys for lunch.  I had never eaten at a 5 Guys before, but the burgers were good, and most importantly, the fresh-cut fries were spectacular and plentiful.  We also made a run to the usual stop for the IPTs (Inexplicably Priced Tallboys).  I noticed that the prices went up slightly – but most intriguingly, they went up correspondingly.  So a 12-pack of 12 oz Lites was $10.49 (up from $9.99), but the 12-pack of 16 oz tallboy Lites was also $10.49.  The bargain remains the same.  4 free beers is still 4 free beers.

The rest of the “holiday” was rather languorously uneventful.  Lasagna was made and eaten.  Some unbelievable “red velvet” cookies were made and eaten.  I wound up talking to someone dear, and as usual, it was intriguing, delightful and wound up going nowhere.  A turkey cooked all night (with a wake up call to pull it out of the Big Green Egg) and it was delish.  The football games on TV were a colossal SUCK, with barely watchable blowouts running rampant across the screen, and no amount of Crown, crushed ice and water could make them any better.  House reruns, and my 42nd viewing of The Lord of the Rings on TNT, alleviated some of the boredom, as did the new CrackBerry.  Google Reader on the handheld (especially coupled with wi-fi) is just about the greatest thing since the invention of the TiVo.  I also added a micro-SD card with 4 gigs of memory, and now have an option of which tiny device I want to use to listen to podcasts while smoking on the porch.  Two quick things about that:  4 gigs of memory on a tiny, tiny card?  When I graduated, my first computer (a Mac) didn’t even have built in memory for storage.  To save files, you had to use a floppy disc (remember those?) or an external hard drive.  I bought one, that was about the size of a VCR circa 1985, that had 20 megs of available storage.  That new 4 gig card in my phone holds 4096 megs, or roughly 204 of those ancient, humungous external drives.  It seems like my waistline is not the only thing to have expanded exponentially since graduation.  Second, if I had had this CrackBerry about 10 years ago, I might be married today.  One of the constant wedges in that relationship was my complete and palpable boredom during soul-sucking regular visits to DSW or an antique shop.  Had I had the ability to listen to audiobooks or podcasts, surf the web, blog, twitter or watch videos from my fucking phone, then I might still be up to my ears in mind-blowing sex.  Well, as a tradeoff, I guess I can just watch porn on my phone.

Gameday arrived, and it was wet, rainy and overcast.  Not particularly cold, just tangibly dreary.  We drew the short straw again for a televised game, and had a noon kickoff.  The Freebird woke up with a continuing, skull-crushing headache, and we didn’t even pack any IPTs or a cooler, if that tells you about the enthusiasm for the game.  (Before you get the wrong idea and think we were starting a 12 step program, due to the rain, we were meeting and “tailgating” at a bar).  The ride down to the motherland was odd, in that we didn’t spend an hour and a half dissecting the game, talking about how to defend the triple option or wondering why the fuck it’s so difficult to keep a kickoff in bounds.  Nope, we got caught up in a miasma of soap opera drama and social niceties that turned out to be much ado about nothing.  The Freebird and I also received an offer to play George and Weezy, and “move on up” to the SkyClub for the game.  We weren’t going to leave one of our troops alone in the rain, but once we knew he had some equally rain-soaked companionship, we took advantage of the kind offer and were only too happy to ride the elevator up to the De-Luxe Apartment In The Sky.  We scalped our 4 “regular” tickets to the game for $10.  $10 TOTAL.  (In hindsight, you get what you pay for).  We undercut the hustler trying to sell two blissfully dippy chicks a pair of tickets for $10.  Sign of the recession, bad weather forecast or foreknowledge of the outcome?  As the good Doctor would say: “Goff Prices……Goff Product!”

The best thing about the game itself was the spread of delicious chocolate chip cookies in the SkyClub.  That game, and in essence the whole season, was nothing short of an EPIC FAIL.  We were out-hustled, out-manned, out-schemed, out-coached, out-rushed, out-played and obviously, OUT-SCORED.  It breaks my fucking tiny, jaded and cynical heart that MoMass played the best game of his career and left his guts strewn across that field in his last time clad in red and black, and had to suffer the indignity of losing to the Trade School.

I guess this time of year is when we’re supposed to give “thanks.”  And I do have some things to give thanks for, such as the dear friends who pick me up, put me up (and put up with me).  Or the neverending wonders of the tiny CrackBerry.  But looking at this game, here is a list of things I do not give thanks for:

• A third quarter where we were outscored 26-0.
• A defense that, according to their own players, took things for granted at halftime and thought they had the game locked up.
• A DC that could seemingly skin puppies alive at the 50 yard line, bludgeon crippled orphans with a piece of rebar, play “Iowa Fan” with 14 year old girls, and give up 30+ points and a gazillion yards week in and week out, and remain steadfastly confident about his continued employment prospects.
• Confidence in the kicking game, such that going for it on 4th and 7 seems like an infinitely better option than a field goal attempt.
• Kickoffs that have all the precision of a scud missile launched from a giant rubber band, and can’t seem to stay in bounds even though there are 53.3 yards of width to play with.
• That if you did a search on “tackle football,” the first part of that phrase would filter out any reference to the 2008 Georgia Bulldogs.
  

Look, maybe we all got too jacked up and excited about our prospects for this year.  And there will be plenty of time to exhume the rotting corpse of this season and perform an autopsy.  (One pleasant housecleaning result is that I can now throw out all the preseason newspapers and magazines I've been keeping for posterity).  But there was no way to leave the stadium Saturday without feeling bitter and wondering about what might have been.  Keep in mind, there was no “Jasper Sanks” call or other shenanigans going on.  We didn’t show up (at least for two of the three phases of the game – can’t pin this one on the “O”) and got our asses handed to us.  Give the bees their props, tip your cap to them, and move on. 

Other than the offensive fireworks that were not quite enough to compensate for our 11 man (and one DC) sieve, here was the only other highlight of the game:

If you can't tell from the pix, that's Larry Munson being honored.  Thanks for all the memories, Larry.

As for the post game, the walk back to the car was dryer than we expected.  The chili was tasty.  The company and camaraderie was wonderful.  The texting was terrific.  And this quote still amuses me, even though I was at the bottom of a flask and can’t exactly remember the context:  “Can't fix me a liquor drink and tell me to take my shoes off!”

This puts a perfect capper on the weekend:  I got an upgrade for the flight back home.  Boarded early, and started quaffing a few bloody marys.  There was some delay in getting the rest of the flight boarded, so I built up a nice little buzz and enjoyed my spacious accommodations.  We finally take off, 45 minutes late, but the weather is so bad across the entire east coast that they decide to keep everyone seated, with no cabin service, for the whole trip.  No cocktails.  So, not only is this big cigar tube of doom flopping all across the skies for a good 90 minutes, causing me to get arthritic from vice-gripping the armrests, I also can’t have any whiskey that might mitigate the stomach churning terror I’m experiencing.

Oh, and also, for the first time in 20 years of traveling, Delta lost my bags.  Yep, give thanks, y’all.

Of mojitos, MARTA and Baghdad Driver's Licenses. And Dan Blocker played "Hoss."

Okay, I’m in the midst of my first “away game” for a “home game” trip. So far, so good. My recent string of calamitous luck hasn’t reared its ugly head thus far.

I’m sitting on a porch, looking out over a valley and the mountains, enjoying a cup of joe and a “half price” ciggie (well, compared to the prices I pay in my new adopted homeland, the ones purchased back here in Georgia are half price. Discount Tumors! Whee!) We probably won’t start packing up the vehicle with tailgating goodies for another few hours, but the spirit and excitement for the first game of the year is palpable.

The travel yesterday was relatively stress free. I did my first airport parking off site at BWI, and it’s pretty much the same as I was used to in the ATL. Car to curb service, you can get a car wash while you’re gone – fairly easy. And I didn’t get lost! (Thank you, Nuvi!). Airport security did have a new “rule,” though. (Note from yesterday’s post: no, I had no problem bringing the Zippo. Or breast milk). I have a wallet that I’ve used for years now, and it has one of those handy little removable “flaps” with clear faces that allows you to conveniently whip out your license and insurance card and show it to any interested parties (kind of like Fox Mulder flashing a badge). Used it in airports for years now, no problem. However, now the TSA wants you to pull your license OUT of the little flap so they can hold it in their sweaty, grubby hands. Why you ask? Good question. I posed that same query to our nation’s friendly TSA employee, and she said “because you have to take it out.” Okay, thanks for that Com-castic! response. Because the license is a careful forgery, printed not on license card stock, but instead on the crystal clear covering, and by removing it from the flap, they’ll see through my devious, terroristic forgery? Because real, official identification contains tiny Braille-like bumps so small and sensitive they can only be felt by the trained human hand of our nation’s finest security detail? Because a perfectly clear pane somehow obscures the critical information (oh, like say my weight) that this crack detail of counter-terrorism agents needs to see? Because a driver’s license printed in Baghdad utilizes special inks that can only be seen via the top secret decoder contact lenses worn by airport security, and these “made by Q” lenses won’t work through the “filter” of a perfectly clear holder backed by leather? Or, just to slow the lines even further and piss me off? Hmmmmmm.

That nuisance aside, the trip really did go quite well. I had First Class for my flight down, and I took full advantage of that by enjoying Delta’s new cocktail menu. Oh, sure I started off with the usual pre-flight Crowns. But once up in the air, I sampled their new mojitos (good!) and a fizzy, light concoction of mango vodka and Fresca (Judge Smails would be proud). And I indulged my new “take my mind off the fact that I’m in a big metal tube with no business being in the air and it’s probably going to fall out of the sky in fireball of jet fuel carnage” hobby – working moronic crossword puzzles. And by “moronic,” I mean “TV Guide.” Hey, both my parents were top notch crossword fanatics. But I just don’t have the experience to make working a “real” crossword pleasantly diverting. So while I’m no Will Shortz, I do have an encyclopedic knowledge of TV trivia, therefore I got a big ass book of “classic” TV Guide Crossword puzzles. So, between the fizzy drinks, remembering the cast and key plot points of Bonanza and a spacious seat for my ample ass, the flight was rather enjoyable. (Though sadly, I think I now have an Avril Lavigne song burned into my head. No amount of vodka can change that, dammit).

After the landing, I had my first experience with MARTA. (disappointingly, it was NOT this “Marta”). Being a long time Atlanta suburban dweller, I really had no use for public transportation. I enjoy the freedom of my own ride, and didn’t think that MARTA would ever construct a specially designed cabin featuring non-stop smoking, cup holders, 24/7 sports-talk radio and the A/C cranked down to 65. But, now being a guest in my town and looking to make the logistics for my travel benefactors go smoothly, I tried it. And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. Once the pompous douchebag decided that my ass deserved a seat more than his camera bag (hey, Ansel Adams – I don’t think you’re going to capture any award winning shots at the Five Points station), I sat down, chewed a pack of gum and read the latest SI. The timing worked out perfectly, as both Freebird’s car and my train pulled into the station at the exact same moment.

Now, I’ve been up for three hours happily perusing the latest web news and watching a glorious sunrise on gameday. What could be better?

Back later this weekend, with reports from the tailgate, the game and the trip home…

"I'm here to shoot a pilot"

I saw this story picked up on various newswires, and couldn't believe it. Director Mike Figgis (helmer of TNRLM of all-time favorite and Life Plan 3.2 Leaving Las Vegas) was detained by LAX security officials for over 5 hours, because he told them his reason for being in the city was "I'm here to shoot a pilot."

Surely this is misreported or some kind of urban legend. I mean, it's LA. And it's a director talking. (the first comment in the linked article is priceless -- a classic bit from Pulp Fiction). And would a "terrorist" really answer that straightforwardly to a simple "why are you here" question at a security checkpoint? Without vicious attack dogs? Without waterboarding? Without Jack Bauer using the components of a table lamp or a dry cleaning bag to get more information?

Do they assume there is no other context for that phrase? Do they expect someone to respond: "Oh, you got me. I was going to use a match to light a shoe bomb. Damn you and your harsh interrogation!" Or "I was going to assault the flight crew using a spork." Good thing LAX officials didn't question Jack Shepherd during the "flash forward" of last week's magnificent Lost. "Actually, I was praying that the plane would break into two pieces and crash on a mystical, wacky island to hopefully never be found." Or "I'm here to ensure that most of the passengers on this plane die in a fiery crash, and that the barely surviving pilot gets torn apart by a 'smoke monster.' By the way, there are plenty of tarps and water bottles on this plane, right?"

I feel much safer boarding an airplane now that I know English directors will not be nefariously threatening our skies with their new TV shows.