So about this new Dirty Gig … As mentioned previously, this is the second assignment in New Zealand in the aftermath of yet another earthquake. My colleagues and I are working in a secure storage facility that pretty much had its salad tossed.
It is a pretty good gig … getting paid for a hard aerobics workout moving boxes with minimal danger, in a foreign land, albeit English speaking. Speaking of English, all of my workers on this job speak English, although it is not everyone’s first language. No … my team on this Dirty Gig is like the United Nations … or maybe the Euro contingent of the UN. On my team there are 3 or 4 Germans all of which I refer to as Deiter after the old Saturday Night Live skit “Sprockets.” … “Uhnd nau we donce!” (if you recall…)
What can one say about 18 hours in a plane? I mean, it is pretty cool crossing the International Dateline and skipping a day. But that long in any confined space is cruel and unusual … Thank goodness I knew what to expect when I stepped on board my first connection on the way back to New Zealand. And I knew the beautiful country waiting on the other side of the world …
Ha … I am in New Zealand, yet I have just now found time to jot down thoughts on my previous journey to Seattle.
I’ll be brief. Many of you know this travel blog is funded in part by my “Dirty Gigs” — disaster recovery jobs I do on the side. As I have said before, “Mother Nature” is my travel agent … I go to and write about places where she has had her way with the locals … businesses … infrastructure.
Most recently, the DGig was in Seattle at a major manufacturing firm. I was there only a couple of weeks before being called away to New Zealand and only had one day out on the town. I didn’t go back to the original Starbucks or see the famous troll statue under the bridge. I DID NOT see Curt Cobain’s grave. Nor did I pay my respects to Jimi Hendrix. But … I did work with a new friend — an Apache Native American named Chris from Arizona who visited the sacred burial grounds for both … LOL … He is a film buff and insisted my retro mutton chops make me a dead ringer for Peter Fonda in “Easy Rider.” I consider that a great compliment. (I also find this most ironic, since I just put Peter Fonda shots on this blog a few weeks back at The Dallas International Film Festival.)
Too often I rage on a plane because of man’s inhumanity to man … but today has been a glorious flying experience, or GFE, on American Airlines. First of all, I am not squeezed into the seat next to any sort of circus performer or social misfit. Praise the Lord and pass the peanuts … Oh, wrong airline.
Or, maybe I am in a great mood because finally, after several Wi-Fi-less flights, this plane is all a-Gogo with wireless Internet service. What could make more sense? Did I even blink when asked to shell out $9.95 for a 4-hour flight from Fort Worth to Seattle? No way Jose! I said bring it. It’s what I do … and it lets me do those other things too … all at once … all multi-taskin. Ha … I will get my money’s worth and then some.
I don’t understand it. How did I become … this? The early years were decent. I worked hard, “I helped little old ladies cross the street” … but somehow, now, I really need to join a support group.
My approach to viewing films at festivals is pretty nonchalant. Why stress out over seeing the best film, at the first showing, fighting the crowds and seeing everything under pressure. Instead, just get a pass, go to the theater and take a seat when I am good and ready and watch whatever is showing. If nothing else, my method assures me of a great cross section of the features. And yes, I sit through some bad ones … but the other day I totally scored.
Filmmaker Clay Jeter’s work “Jess + Moss” is simple … or is it? I’d say it’s one of the most interesting I have seen. It isn’t an extravagant production. On the contrary it is shot on Jeter’s family’s farm, with two characters primarily, and it relies heavily on improv dialogue and only a few special effects. But it works.
Last night the PingTeam shot yet another Red Carpet event at the Dallas International Film Festival. It was great fun and pageantry. The Dallas star of the evening was badboy J.R. — Larry Hagman of “Dallas” fame and my more favorite “I Dream of Jeannie” back in the day.
Among the luminaries on the Red Carpet last night at the Dallas International Film Festival was the original “Up Against The Wall Redneck Mother” Jerry Jeff Walker. (Did you know he wrote “Mr. Bo Jangles” too, although arguably most associate the song with The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band … HA! Or even Sammy Davis Jr.)
There was a superstition when I was a kid in which you were assured of rain on the farm if you killed a rattlesnake and hung it on the “bob wire” fence. Or wait, was that a coyote? And speaking of barbed wire lore, it was a sign of respect and remembrance if you hung a cowboy’s boots on the fence, after he passed.
I was reminded of these rituals as I washed the Texas Panhandle dust off of my car, because everyone knows in the country or city, fresh auto hygiene pretty much ensures precip. of one sort or another.
And while I was pondering these deep thoughts, I drove by Amarillo’s world famous Cadillac Ranch. Hmmm … I wondered what happens if you climb over a fence and deface one of the Cadillacs planted in the ground. Surely that must grant you a wish or ensure good karma or something. I mean, thousands of people stop every year to write their names on this monument to all things road trip! They must get something out of it.
How about if you brand the Cadillacs with your company logo? Instant notoriety? Riches? “Fame, fortune and everything that goes with it?”
Well, as my football coach used to say, “I ain’t superstitious, I’m just not takin any chances.”
So, the other day I cruised over to to The Cadillac Ranch and had my way with it and a few cans of spay paint. It’s okay, the owner doesn’t mind. (Hope that doesn’t take the fun out of it for all you rebels.) I even took time out to run by the Amarillo offices of one Stanley Marsh 3, in advance, for permission. (More on SM3 at a later date ….) Marsh 3, collaborating with a California group called The Ant Farm planted the cars back in the ’70s. And, well … the rest is graffiti … er … history.
Unfortunately SM3 wasn’t in the office when I stopped by, but one of his staff told me to go for it. Ha … He also showed me a chunk of dried, layered spray paint pulled from the cars — it was about 3 inches thick. That’s a lot of aerosol parties, chief.
Best of all, we exercised the time honored tradition of good hospitality — at least in my culture — and traded t-shirts … a PingWi-Fi in an adventurous paprika for a sensible blue Cadillac T or two.
So anyway, in between visiting family and camping on what I call the PingWind Farm … I stopped by to ping the Caddies and to just talk with the other travelers drawn to this American original.
Several tourists took my photo as I painted. Ha … they had mistaken me for an artiste! One lady told me bluntly that me painting the Cadillacs “was a heck of a lot more interesting, than when I pulled my shirt off in the video.” Thanks for that constructive voice, you “rhymes with witch” (to borrow an insult from a former First Lady).
“Back to the ranch,” as another coach used to say, er rather the PingWind Farm … I did more defacing on my own tribal lands, I suppose … Pitching a tent in a wheat field … blasting cedar posts with firearms … Chasing a barn owl from a shack … riding my mountain bike around in circles inside a dry livestock tank. (I did that just so my brother would find the tracks later and wonder about his little brother.) You see, for me, one thing has not changed since I left the farm so many years ago. In “them parts” sometimes you have to manufacturer your own fun.
Lately, I have been revisiting the farm and doing fun things that I missed somehow when I lived out there … such as camping … Maybe in younger years I just had more sense and a better appreciation for rattlesnakes. Or maybe it is more of a case that skyscrapers have made me appreciate the Panhandle’s endless horizon, in all its sunset and sunrise hues. And the coyotes howling at night, overheard in the tent … magnifico, maestro!
Ha … and speaking of sunrise, in my most recent campout I got the full “dude ranch” treatment with my own personal cattle drive. As I was enjoying breakfast around a very carefully controlled campfire, a neighbor’s cattle wandered into our wheat pasture and ambled over to see what was cooking. I think in the laws of the Old West it was perfectly permissible to just shoot them and throw steaks on the barby if they strayed into your pasture … but I exercised restraint and drove them back to their home … me on foot, not on the mountain bike.
I had to laugh that I could still do the whooping, territorial cowboy yelps taught to me by my dad, a cowman, and my brothers so long ago. It was as if I used my native tongue, silenced for years, but still a part of me deep inside. Only now my voice didn’t crack … And, magically, the cows interpreted my intentions correctly, high-tailing it to escape this crazed, yelling man.
Another item scratched off my “old home week” list was a bicycle ride from the family farm to the growing town of Vega. (I took note that the city limit sign says there are 50 more residents since I lived there more than a decade ago … now swollen to 880 or so souls.)
So off I went, riding my fancy-pants Giant hybrid bike a few miles north on Landergin Road to Interstate 40 (Old Route 66) and on to Vega. It is a bit of a haul. Thank goodness bicycles have come a long way since I was a kid. I wouldn’t have dreamed of riding 15 miles back then, especially on dirt roads, caliche, and the like. Pity. Along the way, I scared up a cock pheasant from some CRP (reserve grassland), stampeded a neighbor’s cattle — accidentally. (Haven’t you guys seen a headband and/or a bicycle before?) And I was chased for a bit by a lonely bull who I think wanted to become intimate.
All in good fun … great relaxation after months on the road, back East. And of course I had to fire up my Nikon D7000. At least in my mind, it transforms shacks and weeds and junk … to art. I snapped photos of outhouses, rusted farm equipment labels, dilapidated sucker rods, stray cows, tractors, critters and the like — a “picker’s” delight.
At the time I left Boston, the plan was for me to return. That has changed. So this blog closes that chapter. Bummer …
In this heightened security era, of course I was at Boston’s Logan International Airport a couple of hours before my flight … and yes, I fired one up. A laptop, not a fatty! Dang … I didn’t even get a pat down. I digress …
At Logan, audio commercials were playing on the public address system touting the FREE Wi-Fi. Sounds like my kinda place. But when you log on to their hotspot, there is a catch. Not a big deal. The Wi-Fi is free, unless your time is money. You have to agree to watch one video ad.
Let me point out that making me watch an ad is both a good idea to pay for Wi-Fi free services, and well …. silly. When the ad plays … who is going to sit there and watch it? … I am sure most people merely open another window and upload some video and tweet or whatever. Or, like me, people may use the opportunity to strike up a bizarre conversation with a total stranger. I like that … a conversation with a time limit, since the ad only lasts 60 seconds. Well … wonder what the ad was selling. Regardless, thanks for the free Wi-Fi.
Logan Wi-Fi — free for the taking, supports free enterprise and not socialism, which true Americans prefer, and the connection was great allowing me to tweet my goodbyes, 6 pings.
Soon I was headed for my flight, which on this day was on US Air. … Wondered if the plane would have Wi-Fi. I remained hopeful, although this was a bad sign. I saw the pilot standing in the little tunnel to the plane, just offboard the jet. He was filching some Wi-Fi signal from Logan on his phone. But like I said, I remained hopeful.
I boarded and soon learned there was no Wi-Fi to be had. It got worse.
Of course I can’t fly without sitting by someone who doesn’t understand they get an allotted amount of space, which coincides pretty much with where their seat ends. Crossing over to my fly zone is akin to my 5-year-old sister putting her feet on my neck during a road trip back in the day … “Are we there yet?”
Ha … after I somewhat short/somewhat diplomatically gave the traveler “Courtesy 101” lessons about getting his elbow off of me … he retorted quite strategically “Well, this is going to be a fun flight.” My sentiments exactly, Mr. Space Stealer Guy:)
Listening to a podcast of New Pornographers on the plane, via iPad made the time pass a little quicker I must say.
I wondered, “Should I offer the dude some gum as a peace offering?” Ha … no way, he would want the entire pack. Yes. I was feeling guilty. I am a bad, bad man …
I survived without further incident and made a connection. Next step – Charlotte to Dallas.
Is it any wonder I don’t gamble when I am in Vegas? Call it bad luck or karma meltdown or whatever. But after complaining about a mere discourteous invasion of my air space on the first flight, for the second flight, there was an overall assault. On the way to Dallas, I was not sitting with just a large wannabe Dallas offensive lineman. I was sitting with a future superstar in the world of sideshow carneys — he could easily make a mint as the “500-pound Elvis boy.” (I am not exaggerating … except maybe about the sideburns …)
Bless his heart! I don’t mean to be mean. I felt really sorry for the kid in his late teens. But the harsh reality was he was 100 percent in his chair and 75 percent in mine too. That is too many percents! What could I do?
At first I sat down, mortified that I was going to have to dig around down there to find my seatbelt which was buried under a quarter-ton of bootay. The kid, with his Elvis sunglasses on top of his head and his black skull-covered attire did not budge. Maybe he couldn’t, being wedged in so tightly. He had one leg in the tight space in from of his seat. And the other leg was in the tight space in front of what was supposed to be my seat. He wouldn’t look at me or acknowledge my presence. Bless his heart, he was too embarrassed. Somehow, I wedged partially into my seat.
At least Elvis5X was not enduring this embarrassment alone. There was a tiny gray-haired old man, partially visible in the third seat in the row, pressed up against the window. What could I do? I was sitting there with my arse in my chair and his arse in my chair. My legs pinned up against his, and my upper torso was forced to lean, curving my spine toward the open aisle beside me.
After a few minutes of this, I squeezed out of the seat and motioned for a flight attendant to join me at the back of the plane. I spoke quickly and quietly to be discrete and I am pretty sure the flight attendant thought I was some sort of security threat. Quickly, I whispered to him that he had to do something. I could not fit into my seat, since it was unofficially occupied.
In all seriousness, I was a little worried whether that the plane might not fly right with a decidedly heavier load in one quadrant of the plane. (I kid you not, I saw something about this on some educational tv show …)
I was not optimistic about the flight or my seating outlook. And, did I say I felt so sorry for this kid and his poor old shriveled up companion? Well … I did until he followed up with the most socially unaware thing I have seen on a plane.
Another flight attendant came over to the pair and said their tiny dog, which had been totally undetected, obscured from view, had to go under the seat. “Was this a pet or take out?,” I had to ask myself. The two shuffled around. I was standing in the aisle beside them, just finishing up my negotiations with the staff for a seat to call my own, when the kid shoved his tiny dog in the little cage into the leg space that was mine, technically.
I almost came unglued, and that is not pretty.
The Elvis of Girth finally spoke. He said happily, “You won’t mind will you?”
Are you kidding me?
Ha. I am usually pretty easy going. But I have my limits and I can be blunt. Guess which Ping persona reared its ugly head at this point.
“Mind? Mind? Well of course I will mind. That is where I am going to attempt to squeeze in one of my feet.”
Both flight attendants rolled their eyes at the small man, large boy and jetsetting pet.
They seemed to have had their fill of the passengers from the previous leg of this flight.
The attendants talked a little bit more about the situation, saying that there was nothing they could do … which was awkward, as the boy listened in. They continued to watch each passenger still boarding the plane … everyone involved praying for an empty seat.
Finally the cabin was closed up, the last grandmother and grandfather teetered all the way, slowly, to the back of the plane and claimed the two empty seats in the vicinity of this little ticketing fiasco.
Darn the luck I thought. And then, the clouds cleared, a ray of sunshine came through the windows of the plane. I think there was an angelic choir singing outside … because miraculously, the attendants spotted an empty seat 10 rows forward.
“Darn the luck,” the one passenger in that almost empty row must have thought, as I moved in to what he thought was going to be an entire row to himself. I apologized and explained the situation, because i now felt sorrow for this guy. He had it made, and I was messing that up for him. The Big Boy Domino Effect, I called it. This poor man, no doubt, had been watching nervously for twenty minutes, in anticipation, hoping to get lots of room for his flight. I could relate, because I have had comfort ripped from my grasp before on many a flight.
I gave thanks one more time. Thank goodness I didn’t get seated by the passenger from my first flight. I would be forced to apologize to him and tell him what a lesson I had learned on tolerance. That guy was one row in front of me. Close call.
The rest of my flight was quite comfortable, although I cannot believe an airline that can magically sneak aboard a 500-pound Elvis boy cannot provide Wi-Fi.
Oh well … I was in a seat with a view and some leg room and everything … and then guess what?
It became readily apparent that one of my new travel companions was a HAF — a habitual airplane farter. Oh the life of a travel blogger.
So about this new Dirty Gig … As mentioned previously, this is the second assignment in New Zealand in the aftermath of yet another earthquake. My colleagues and I are working in a secure storage facility that pretty much had its salad tossed.
