WORKING FOR THE WEEKEND

Ugh. I'm finally off to bed after working all day and most of the evening on some music cues, video editing, and MPEG compression for Survivor: The Ride. It sounds all high tech, right? Big entertainment, big studio! Wow! Crew of hundreds, or at least dozens, right?

Nah, it's just me on my PowerBook. And two or three other hard-working minions I couldn't live without working their media-creating magic on *their* various computers of creation. Seriously.

I'll be leaving for San Jose again Thursday afternoon, working at Great America all day Friday and Saturday, returning home Sunday. I probably won't be able to get into The City this trip, because I have to get all the ride programming done this weekend -- so if there are any SJC-centric peeps who wanna grab dinner or come to the park to see the ride in "technical rehearsals" on Saturday or Sunday, drop me a line.

Next Thursday is the press preview, after which it's officially open. Hopefully it won't rain like it did all this week. I have a sh*tload of work to do before then. It should all go okay -- it's just that the last few weeks are always nerve-wracking. Never enough time, out of budget, blah blah blah, same ole story. Strangely, it's how I work best.

After the press day, I'll probably go up to SF for a few days to decompress. More on that later.

XENU!

On the way to the airport this morning, I put my top down to enjoy the brisk morning sun as I stopped at the light on the corner of Van Ness & Hollywood Blvd.

Across the street I saw the building that houses the L. Ron Hubbard Life Exhibition. A few well-dressed employees were circulating outside, trying to draw in passers-by with their patter and pamphlets.

As the light turned green, I raised a fist and hollered cheerfully at the bewildered crowd, "ALL HAIL XENU!", letting out a triumphant wail as I sped off.

EASY AS 1-2-3

You all know the Southwest airlines boarding drill, right? Three rows, A/B/C, in order of whoever checks in earliest and waits at the gate first. It's simple, it's fair, and it usually makes everyone behave like rational adults.

I'm at Burbank airport this morning, an hour before my flight, sitting in the row of seats they have lined up against the windows, with a few early birds in front of me in the A row. You see, both Burbank and San Jose airports have rows of seats lined up roughly where the A/B/C lines will end up going, and people usually use them as ersatz queues to wait in, so you don't have to stand for hours. It's pretty unspoken, and most people follow along with semi-cordial civility, directing people to the end of the seats when they inquire about the lineup.

My plane arrives and unloads its passengers, which is usually a signal for everyone to start queueing into A/B/C rows. As this is happening, a woman comes running down the hallway sidles up right behind me, fourth in line, with at least forty people getting up from their seats behind her.

She's that breed of mid-to-late-fifties, NoCal gal who's dressed in a floppy gatsby hat with a silk flower on it, gloves, and a traveling wardrobe from Chico's. If she were cool, she'd be Diane Keaton -- but she's not cool, as evidenced by the Chico's. She may have been a funky earth-mother once, but now her egalitarian hippie roots have been numbed by her husband's vested tech stocks, and now she probably shuttles between some sort of consulting business in LA and her house in Marin.

"Those people were here before you," I mention politely.

"They're not in line," says the Evil Not Diane Keaton, like I'm holding a small turd under her nose.

"Umm, the seats are the line, they're all layed out to act like lineups for each of the rows. I've been here over an hour, and all those people are in Row A ahead of you," I say politely.

"But they're sitting, they're not in line," ENDK repeats, robotically.

Now, I'm not one to throw down my travel expertise willy-nilly (however, I can almost do any airline/gate prep and boarding while sleepwalking, and probably have), but I thought she needed more discourse on the subject. "It's worked this way every time I've flown Southwest, and I fly out of this airport at least once a week", I shrug, trying to be the big dumb nice guy.

"So do I, even more than you, and I've never seen it done that way," she huffed, silently adding "you know-nothing slacker" in her head, although I heard it quite clearly through the hissing steam escaping her ears. Slacker? To quote Dave White, I'm nice as pie. And I was even wearing a tucked-in collared shirt for once. What's not to like?

"So it makes sense to you that you showed up five minutes before your flight, and yet you're fourth in Row A?" I enquire, smiling like I'm the nicest guy in the room, like I'm trying to make funny small talk. She said nothing, looking like I had slapped her. I chuckled and turned away. The people behind her fumed.

Okay, okay... so I also let out a torrid SBD while she was behind me on the boarding stairs, her face mere feet from my hindquarters. Not surprisingly, her expression didn't change one iota.