Witz Pickz: In-Flight Entertainment

I'm 30,000 feet in the air, somewhere over Colorado, and I've hit that point in the six hour flight where I slowly regress to age six and want to whine things like, "I'm hungry, I'm antsy, I'm BOOORED!" In other words, Witz Pickz is about to get a whole lot sassier (read: crankier).


(frustrated little Witz)

Lemme put this rhetorical out there and see what you think: WHO. THE FUCK. DOESN'T KNOW THE PLANE RULES BY NOW? It's 2010, nearly a decade since, "no liquids, 3 oz containers, and take your shoes off." Granted, I've had both the need and fortunate circumstances to fly a lot since 2001 and consider myself something of a pro. I know my carry ons fit, I have my ID and boarding pass ready, and by the time I get to the x-ray machine, I have my laptop out, my shoes off, and my belt undone-- which in any other situation will get you a great view of the inside of a cop car. STILL. Doesn't everyone know the protocol by now?



The last time I flew, I saw a guy standing in the security line, working on a Big Gulp, suddenly shout, "Wait, what?! Are you kidding me, I can't bring my drink through security?? Since when??" I wanted to tell him, "Since shut up, sir. Since shut up."

Today, I stood there, hearing my plane being boarded, while the woman in front of me pulled one bottle of liquid after another out of her bag, like some sort of clown car act. Just full bottles of shampoo, conditioner, moisturizer, perfume, hand soap, hair gel, it was hilarious and infuriating at the same time. It was almost made worth it when the security woman turned to me and said, "How the SHIT don't she know 'bout this by now? My Jesus!" well within earshot of the offender, to which I replied, "That's about what I was thinking..." and we shared a laugh, her laugh meaning, "The shit I have to deal with," and my laugh meaning, "See? I'm not a terrorist, please let me through security."



I slept for the first few hours of the flight and am now hungry, antsy, and bored. Fortunately, as I'm flying Virgin America, they serve meals on the plane, right? Kinda. My legitimate options are the NY Pastrami Sandwich or the Japanese Eggplant Sandwich. I've never had pastrami in my life, so it ain't happenin' on an airplane. The eggplant sounds good, but it also sounds like I might be running a Solo 4x4 relay to the bathroom for the remainder of the flight if anything goes awry. There is a tapas plate:

"Start with artisan brie, aged cheddar, and Swiss. Then, dip handcut zucchini, etc, etc, in our roasted tomato and herb hummus. Finish it off with sweet green grapes and dried figs."

First of all, we capitalize Swiss cheese? I didn't realize it had citizenship. I must have skipped out on the "proper vs. common cheeses" day of grammar in third grade. Secondly, I'm ok with the zucchini no matter how it's cut. And why specify? Is that the only part of the meal that's handcut? Are they just mass producing Virgin America Tapas Plates, sending logs of cheese through industrial machinery, and then there are people hand chopping zucchini?

"What's the hold up on those tapas plates? We're running way behind schedule!"
"It's the damn zucchini-- we simply can't handchop it fast enough!"

Finally, how about I eat your nine dollar tapas plate in whatever order I want? It's cheese, veggies, and fruit, not salad, steak, and chocolate mousse. You don't have to walk me through the experience, I get it.

Antsy. Not much you can do about that on a plane. When I'm particularly desperate, sometimes I'll wish I had a baby, because that's the only way it's socially acceptable to walk up and down the plane aisle, obviously lulling the kid to sleep. It's kinda the same as when I wish I smoked cigarettes, so that I could go outside with people or take a break from whatever I'm doing*-- having either one is a bad idea, but they might be nice every now and then.

Bored. I slept for a few hours, I read for a bit, and now I'm writing this. Virgin has in-flight satellite tv, but it turns out that daytime television is just as bad on a plane as it is in a living room. I could rent and watch a movie, but the only one of any interest is Sex and the City 2 so I can write about it here, but that's going to lead to, at the very least, the woman and the girl next to me seeing that I'm watching Sex and the City 2, to which my only defense is saying the words, "I'm only watching it for my blog," out loud.



As I just paused to consider what to do, it occurred to me that I'm hunched over my laptop in a cramped airplane seat, typing furiously and eating the last of the trek mix I brought with me like a squirrel that's positive there's no Winter worth saving for. I definitely look like an insane person. I suppose I'll read some more, or try sleeping, or make up some games to play. The woman behind me has been laughing her ass off and I haven't looked at her yet to try and figure out what she's watching. Given the options, it's a dead heat between Date Night and Death At a Funeral. Or maybe I'll watch House with the woman next to me on her screen and occasionally say too loudly, "That would NEVER happen in real life!" Or maybe I'll snag someone's baby, walk up the aisle, tamper with a bathroom smoke detector, and take a cigarette break. WHAT?? Abducting children and smoking on airplanes is illegal? SINCE WHEN???

So Fly,
Witz


*obviously, I'm referring to times in the past here.

Witz Pickz: The Mile High Club

It's 2009 and I started the day giddy because I finally own a laptop that I can viably use on an airplane. You see, I'm flying to Boston, and my previous laptop sounded more like a jet engine than the actual plane's engine. This made me vaguely nervous about actual plane engines, but also made it impossible to turn on while flying, especially when the battery life lasted about as long as it would take me to say, "No, it's not a bomb per se..." This video is a pretty good metaphor for my old computer's effectiveness in life:


Man Electrocuted On Train - Watch more Funny Videos

My new laptop, however, is sleak, has a great battery, and is incredibly silent. Whichs brings us to this:

I'M ON A MOTHAF*#&IN' PLAAAAAAAAAAAANE!

For some people, The Mile High Club means having sex on an airplane. For me, it means blogging from 35,000 feet. We play with the cards that we're dealt. I'm currently on a plane, on the internet, blogging about being on a plane on the internet-- and it's awesome. In fact, everything is. I feel like Jon Stewart's character in Half Baked: "You ever look at the back of a one dollar bill...ON WEEED?" You ever talk on gchat...ON A PLAAAANE? You ever watch House...ON A PLANE!? You ever make longshot sportsbets...ON A PLANE? I HAVE.

I was talking to my sister, who just had oral surgery, when we had the idea:

Witz: How's your mouth?
Switz: I look like Tim Allen in The Santa Claus.
Witz: Hahahahaha
Switz: Not even exagerating. Skype?

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod-- can we do that?? Is it possible to Skype On A Plane?* I mean, it's a phone call, but it's not TECHNICALLY a phone call because it uses the internet. I'd be on a plane, on a computer, on the internet, on Skype, making a call back to the ground. I wanted to do it, but was concerned that the plane would explode, along with my mind. My face contained a combination of fear and endless possibility:



We both logged into Skype and attempted a call. As it tried to connect, I felt all powerful. If this worked, we'd be achieving things that astronauts have only dreamed of. More importantly, I'd be able to say, "Putting the SKY back in SKYPE," (which is waaay better than their poorly received niche marketing slogan "Putting the K-Y back in SKYPE."). Ultimately, the call failed. Maybe it was our connection, maybe it's still possible, but at that moment I remembered that we are not Gods, we are but humans. Even astronauts have dreams.

Having said that, here are some things that I would like to type, that I don't imagine anyone has ever typed from a plane:

Whoops a daisy
Ragamuffin
Umbros

The bass tabs for the chorus of "Dammit" by Blink 182:
CHORUS (x2)
G[------------------------------------------------------------]
D[------------------------------------------------------------]
A[---3-3-3333333-----------------0-0-0000000------------------]
E[-----------------3-3-3333333------------------1-1-1111111---]


And finally, the lyrics to The Final Countdown by Europe:
"We're leaving together,
But still it's farewell
And maybe we'll come back,
To earth, who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame
We're leaving ground
Will things ever be the same again?
It's the final countdown...
We're heading for Venus and still we stand tall
Cause maybe they've seen us and welcome us all
With so many light years to go and things to be found
I'm sure that we'll all miss her so."

Ya know what, maybe I have joined the Mile High Club, because if this isn't masturbation, I don't know what is.**

We Fly High, No Lie, You Know This, Ballin,
Witz

*The dramatically underwhelming sequel to Snakes On A Plane.
**I do know what is.

Witz Pickz: Weekend Happenings OR How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Blog

Last night, as I hobbled with a pulled hamstring from Walgreens to my car, a homeless woman in a wheelchair, rather than asking for money, simply said, "Take care of that leg." THAT'S where I'm at in life-- the crippled homeless are wishing ME well. In case you were wondering, I made things more uncomfortable with the worst reply possible: "You too."

In a job counseling interview recently, I was once again asked how I find things to write about. I'm beginning to think they find me.

After being in Seattle for the weekend, I flew back to San Francisco on Virgin America, and had a very unsettling experience. Instead of getting the "Thanks for flying Virgin" message from the flight crew or simply over the intercom, the pilot, who's name was allegedly Bill, stood in the center of the aisle, and asked everyone to look up front to where he was. He said that he had two important things to say and I immediately thought, "We're not going anywhere."

"Hi, my name is Bill and I am the pilot for your flight today on Virgin America. Boy, are we happy to have you with us-- how many of you have flown Virgin before?" My "Cool Kid" instincts were still secure from high school, so I totally DIDN'T raise my hand even though I HAVE flown Virgin before. "Well gosh, that's great, that's great. Thanks for coming back, and for the rest of you, we welcome you aboard!" He smiled that special smile that says, "I stab the homeless!" and prepared to deliver his next bit of information, which I had narrowed down to three options:

1) We were all about to child molested by our new friend Bill.
2) We were all about to be hacked to bits by our best buddy Billy.
3) Our plane wasn't going anywhere until we all prayed...or Pilot Bill would blow us all up.

Instead, Bill simply said, "Next, I want to tell all of you to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight, which should be..." I prepared for the inevitable, "delayed for a mere five hours!" but got, "An hour and thirty minutes of actual flight time," from Bill. He then turned and went to fly the plane. Somehow telling us to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight sounded a lot like a threat. I would have felt more at ease if he'd just told me which horrible death he had planned for me.

Witz: Why do I feel less comfortable now that he's spoken to us? (translation: Hi, let's be friends)
Middle Seat Guy: Definitely. That was creepy.
Witz: I thought we were going to have a delay. (translation: I have every intention of using your body as a human shield for any knives, bullets or explosions heading towards me via our cheery pilot.)
Middle Seat Guy: I don't know how I feel about that guy flying our plane.
Witz: Me either. (translation: furthermore, judging by your clothes, age, and general demeanor, I believe that you are expendable and I will not feel bad about using you and your western shirt as said human shield, nor will I hesitate in my action to transform you thus.)
Middle Seat Guy: Weird.
Witz: I guess that's why they give us tv's...(translation: and you'll never see it coming.)

To the detriment of this post, the flight went off without incident, but I did manage to see one of my favorite INSANE television commercials during the trip. The General is an Auto Insurance company-- the hook being that The General DOES NOT GIVE A FUCK. You can be a horrible accident prone drunk driver, and The General's gonna hook you up for around $59. These commercials have to be regional, so here's a great introductory example:


Now, as you'll see from this shitty line chart I made in paint, everything's going along fine right up until The General makes his first appearance at the 20 second mark.



That isn't the commercial I saw, however. The one I saw was this:


What the hell is going on in this commercial? Is there a big market for people who want to purchase car insurance late at night? "If you smoke meth...AND NEED AUTO INSURANCE...The General is for you." And if he's been in the other room for a while, why did he, "JUST log on to The General.com?" Porn city. If, "Logging onto The General" isn't a euphamism, then I don't know what is. Fortunately, once he clicks over, it only takes him a minute to buy his dirtbag auto insurance, so he can go back to the horrid disembodied voice who inexpicably requires CHEESE PUFFS.

"How should we end this commercial?"
"Ummm, have her demand something."
"Like what?"
"I dunno man, I'm really high right now."
"Me too, hand me some of those cheese puffs."
"..."
"THAT'S IT!"
"THAT'S IT!"

Watching this commerical reminded me of a commercial I'd heard on the radio earlier in the day while driving with Dolan Out the Pain. It was a Qdoba commercial for their "any two items" deal. You see, you could pick out ANY TWO items and make it a combo. The girl in the commercial starts naming combinations to see if the foods will work together: "Um, how about a cheese quesadilla and a taco?" DING! It's a good combination! "An enchilada and tortilla soup?" DING! "A burrito and nachos?" DING!
....
....
IT'S MEXICAN FOOD! IT'S ALL THE SAME STUFF! Rice, beans, cheese, meat, repeat! You know how the eskimos have, like, a thousand words for snow? Well, Mexico has a thousand words for taco. Do you want a hard taco, a soft taco, a flat taco, an enclosed taco, a soggy taco, taco triangles, taco salad, taco pie, or taco soup? It's all the same! I love every bit of it, but hooooly shit people, let's all take a second to acknowledge that we see the man behind the curtain. It doesn't matter which two items you pick, you ain't swinging by Qdoba on your way to go camping.

I Like My Beans the Way I Like My Pro Athletes-- Refried,
Witz

Witz Pickz: Gillette Fusion, Virgin America Airlines

In the last week I've flown miles, rocked out at The Retox Lounge, played in a soccer tournament, finished one of the best books I've ever read (Shantaram) and discovered that Elliott Smith had a band called Heatmiser that is just as good as one would hope. AND YET NOTHING has been as exciting to me as the:

Gillette Fusion Razor:
A year or so ago, my friend The ATX told me that he tried shaving with what was then the newest razor from Gillette-- a razor that was battery powered so it shook when you shaved. He said it was weird because you didn't feel anything and it kind of numbed the skin. I told him I wasn't going to visit when he ended up with early onset multiple sclerosis. You see, up until that point, I assumed shaking razors was a bad idea, not unlike that weight loss belt that shocks your body into pretending it's in shape. There are electric razors for that, no need to make my regular razor shake, right? WRONG.

Big-time wrong. Since I flew sans checked luggage to Seattle, I couldn't bring my razor and was forced to buy one there. Guess which razor was on sale? Yep. The new Gillette Fusion-- a razor that not only has FIVE BLADES, but also SHAKES thanks to the AAA battery that is included. Let's break this one down. First of all, five blades seems excessive. It reminds me of a Dollar Store being undercut by a 99 Cent store. Or "7 Minute Abs." Some marketing wizard must have said, "How can we beat the razor with four blades-- oh, wait, here's an idea-- five of em. Pay me, bitches." Now let's talk about how the thing shakes. Obviously, it seems unnecessary, especially since there are now five separate blades that can cut you instead of 1-4 blades. The addition of the battery (which actually makes the price a pretty good deal-- like, if I needed a few AAA batteries and was in a pinch, I'd buy three Fusions) adds bulk to the razor, and when I say bulk, I mean that it turns a regular hand razor into roughly the size of a hammer. But I guess that's why you have to try it.

Because the moment I put that sucker to my face, my life changed-- and I don't mean that I scarred myself or did irreparable damage to my jawline. I mean cue "A Whole New World," give me a new lease on life to sign, and let's get me a new haircut. The Gillette Fusion is not just a battery powered razor-- and it was bad marketing to portray it as such. It's an Acoustic Electric Razor. With that marketing I would have tried it years ago, and would have been pleasantly surprised. The numbing is definitely a plus, and the shaking blades actually DO help cut more hairs without cutting or causing neck bumps, which for me (and I'm pretty sure most Jews I know), makes it similar to the Ark in Indiana Jones (yes, I did just equate neck bumps with nazis). When I got back to California (without it again because of baggage), I actually went to the store and bought ANOTHER one, just so I wouldn't have to go back to the reality of a lesser bladed, acoustic razor so quickly. I'm sure I will have to someday, probably when they prove that the Fusion causes cancer or makes you go blind or has free will and has begun killing its owners, but until that day, I'll live my new acoustic electric life.

Virgin America:
Apparently Virgin America was created on a single principle: "Cool people aren't able to look cool enough on planes, and it's time somebody did something about it." And it's true. How cool can you look when you're waiting in line, shuffling bags, feeling dehydrated, getting frustrated by delays, searching for your seat, getting stuck in the middle seat, feeling nauseaous, reclining slightly, eating on a tray, or popping Wheat Thins Crisps? The answer is not very cool. Virgin America has changed all that.

As you enter the plane you notice two things right off the bat-- the crew and pilot don't look old enough to have authority over your life, and there is mood lighting. Purple mood lighting. You also notice, as your ears perk up, that there is soft techno playing-- like the techno equivalent of smooth jazz or elevator music. If you're anything like me, you immediately wonder if you're cool enough to be on this flight. You're not a club guy or gal, and all of a sudden, you're very aware of being underdressed for your Club Flight-- under armor and shorts not the usual attire to get you on the guest list. You start to think back and realize that you should have known something was up. In the terminal, Virgin America gave very little information, barely announced the flight, and didn't seem even vaguely concerned about boarding or leaving on time. "They were too cool for that!" you realize, too late, and hope that the pilot doesn't skip out on the landing gear just to impress the 18 year old perky flight attendant.

As you sit down in your seat, next to the chic, pseudo-friendly girl flying from New York City, you notice that she's punching decisively at the in-seat entertainment system, Red. Red has live tv, movies you can pay for, music, music videos, a flight map, video games, and a menu to order food and drinks from. You'll probably use that as an opportunity to make some conversation:

"Man, have you ever flown these guys before?"
"This is the first time, but I've been flying from NY."
"It's....definitely interesting...clubby..."
"Yeah, it's fucking awesome. This Red this is awesome."
"Cool...how do you..."

And all of a sudden you're the very uncool older dude who doesn't know how to use the VCR. You're the Dad in the club, and as far as the cool person next to you is concerned, you're the Dad in the club who needs to put in ear plugs and stand in the corner until his daughter is ready to go home. That's why you're in the middle seat-- you don't belong there. Like me, you might opt to pull out your iPod instead of listening to music on Red. Because you're old school and "the music just SOUNDS better." Instead of watching golf, tennis, soaps, or whatever Kathy Griffin has to offer on Bravo (live tv on a plane at 1:30pm is JUST as bad as live tv at home at 1:30pm), you choose to read a book. You're now the Dad, standing in the corner with preverbial earplugs in, waiting for his daughter to finish dancing, reading a book.

Before the flight takes off, you watch a safety video, with an apathetic voice narrating over a series of mundane facts that you know are boring and redundant, but that the airline typically does not admit. The images are pencil sketches, hip and unconcerned, and even though you know that it's a lot like a Daniel Johnston sketch style, you don't want to say anything to NYC girl because she's cool enough not to know who that hipster reference is. Fortunately, you don't have time to worry about it, because it's time for the super peppy gay asian flight attendant to announce the flight. As he talks, cheerleading the flight, and getting giggles and quick hand claps out of the girls on the flight, you realize what's so odd about the whole thing-- it's exactly like what The Future was supposed to look like in bad 80's Sci-Fi films. Campy, cheesy, brightly colored. Or even more so, it's like if The Fifth Element cinematographer designed an airline. Purple lighting, techno, gay asian men, it's all straight out of a movie. The announcements end, the flight takes off, and you lean back in your seat, turning on your iPod and enjoy the rest of what is actually a very smooth, relaxing flight. Maybe you can get into this club atmosphere. Maybe you're cooler than you think. At the low prices, you better at least fake it. And maybe, just maybe, you'll giggle along, when you land at your destination and hear the over the intercom, the joyous, effeminate, "We landed, WOO HOO!" that lets you know you can leave.

A Baby Seal Walks Into a Virgin America Airlines Flight,
Witz