Big Bogglers of the Mind

Every now and again life delves out mysteries that just bug the heck out of me, but I’ve found it very therapeutic to share theses troublesome mind bogglers with others. So, here goes.

Why do phone companies charge you to have an unpublished phone number? I mean, it’s not like it costs them more money not to use the ink, paper, and labor they would otherwise use to print your number.

And while we’re on the subject of phone companies, why do they also charge you to have your number unlisted? It seems to me that phone companies should be grateful for every request for unpublished and unlisted phone numbers. It’s that much less work they have to do.

Why does “natural” food, foods with no preservatives, artificial flavoring, artificial coloring, no additives whatsoever, cost more than food that has all that stuff added to it? If that stuff has to be added, shouldn’t it raise the cost of the product?

It reminds of when unleaded gas first came on the market. Back in the day, when there was leaded and unleaded gas at the pumps, unleaded gas was more expensive. But gas is naturally unleaded. Lead has to be added to it; yet, we were paying more for it.

Another thing that boggles my mind happens in theaters. See if this hasn’t happened to you. You’re sitting in the middle row of a theater. You’re the only person sitting in your row, and all the other rows are empty as well. Not long after you’re situated in your seat more people enter the theater and decide they want to sit on the opposite side of the building. What do they do? They cross to the other side right through your row, over you! You’re the only person in the theater, but it doesn’t matter. Your row is the row of choice for traversing to the other side. Now, maybe these people are severely farsighted, I don’t know. What I do know is when this happens to me I want to do the Bell Telephone thing, reach out and touch someone, very gruffly if you get my drift.

Road signs are sometimes befuddling. I saw one in town that raises a lot questions. It’s at a crosswalk and it reads, “STOP FOR CHILDREN IN CROSSWALK.” Is this a problem in Orlando? Are there drivers in town who go through crosswalks whether there are kids in them or not? “Hey look, Ida May, a couple of kids in the crosswalk. You know, it’s bonus week. We get extra points for taking both of them out in one swipe, and the kid on the left would make a dandy hood ornament.”

And why does the sign only mention stopping for children? Are adults fair game?

Speaking of driving, why is it we park in a driveway and drive in a parkway? It’s worrying the heck out of me.

Here’s one last item of business before ending this tirade. While reading a newspaper from another area, I came across a headline that mentioned a certain health organization was returning to “old fashion medicine.” I don’t want that. Noooooo. Frankly, when I’m being treated for a medical problem, I prefer the center providing the treatment uses all the modern medical technology available none of this bleeding the patient or using leaches to rid him of his ailment, thank you very much.

Well, that’s it for this edition of Bagley’s Big Bogglers of the Mind.Now tell me, does life seem a bit more confusing to you? I hope so. Heck, I don’t want to be the only befuddled person in the world.

Flying the Friendly Skies

Recently, I've tried to make sense of what I call airline logic, and I've come to the conclusion that I'll probably never understand it.

For instance, those of us who are afraid to fly would appreciate it if the industry would choose the words they use more carefully. I mean the first thing you see when you enter airport property is the word TERMINAL!

If that isn't enough to make you nervous just look at the language used on those flight information monitors, hanging from the ceiling. On them you'll read about flights that are on FINAL APPROACH. You'll also read about different flights where your city is the FINAL DESTINATION. Let me tell you, these are not terms that ease the anxiety of fearful passengers!

Sometimes even the names of airlines are scary. Remember Total (as in when one totals one's vehicle) Air? Frankly, I don't want total air. I want a total airplane, the kind where everything that is supposed to work does work and a competent pilot, preferably a sober one, is at the controls--if you want to have a little fun the next time you fly, when a flight attendant asks for your drink order just say that you'll have whatever the pilot's having.

And let's not forget the now defunct Hooters Air. You know, the airline that was a part of the Hooters Restaurant chain. Hmmm, Hooters Air, what was their slogan anyway? Maybe I don't want to know. I never did see any of their jets but my imagination has run wild with the possibilities for their paint job. The positive thing about Hooters Air was if your flotation seat (we'll discuss the folly the flotation seat in a minute) should fail, just grab a flight attendant--she'll keep you afloat better than a May West life jacket.

Some airlines have toyed with the idea of serving frozen microwavable pizza to its passengers. Now, I don't have a problem being served Tony's Pizza or even Red Baron Pizza. But I do draw the line on being served a TOMBSTONE pizza, especially while flying on Total Air!

Another thing, the next time I fly from Orlando, Florida to Denver, Colorado, I don't want to hear about how my seat will float should we be forced to land in the ocean. First of all, I'm thinking, "this must not be a direct flight." Really, what ocean lies between Orlando and Denver? It would go a long way to ease my fears if flight attendants would tell me about a seat that's going to bounce out of a farmer's field!

And I have never quite figured out the purpose of those emergency landing instructions. Passengers are instructed that during an emergency landing they are to put a pillow in their laps, bend over, and put their heads into the pillow, face first. What is the purpose of that, to muffle their screams before hitting the ground?

Notice I used the term "emergency landing." That's what the industry calls it. Losing control of a jet at 33,000 feet in the air, at the speed of 500 mph, and ending up on the ground in tiny pieces does not constitute an emergency landing. No in my book that's a CRASH!

Oh, and by the way, if by chance you survive an emergency landing and you happen to be sitting by an emergency exit (which is an industry sugar-coated term for a way to get the @#%*! out of here before the thing blows up!), you're instructed to pop open the door and help everyone else out before you disembark. Riiiiiiiight. You know, I'm a pretty nice guy, but I can't see me standing at the emergency exit of an airplane, one that has just performed an emergency landing, and saying to several hundred people that I don't even know, "I ain't got nothin' to live for, why don't you go first?"

No, I'll never understand airline logic, but maybe it's just as well. If the day ever comes that I do comprehend it, I may start traveling via the ashen dog--Grey Hound.

More Motel Blues

Every once in awhile, life delves out an experience that reminds me I’m not as sophisticated as I might think I am. Such was the case at a motel in Colorado.

After twelve hours of driving on very little sleep, I knew I was suffering from sleep depredation when I caught myself telling jokes and laughing out loud at them. So, I figured I’d find a motel at the very next town and catch a few hours sleep before continuing my journey.

It was 2:00 p.m. and I’d just crossed the border into eastern Colorado when I pulled off the interstate after spying a fairly nice motel. It wasn’t fancy but it met my criteria—it was inexpensive.

The motel manager handed me the key to my room, and after parking my truck, I entered my sleeping quarters. When I saw the queen-size bed in my room the desire to plop my weary body down on it was overwhelming, and I couldn’t unload my truck fast enough.

But it wasn’t until I tried to relax on the bed that I realized the circumstances I found myself in were less then ideal to suit my purposes. The room I was given was right behind a tire store. In fact, the paper-thin wall behind the headboard of my bed was also the back wall to the garage of the tire store.

All afternoon, as I tried to sleep, I laid bug-eyed on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to shut out of my mind the loud ZIIING, CLANK, CLANK, CRASH, CLUNK, ZIIIIING of the tire men, working on customers’ vehicles on the other side of that thin barrier of a wall between us. It proved to be a very long, sleepless afternoon.

Sometime in the evening, when things quieted down after the tire store closed its doors, I finally dozed off and caught a few hours sleep.

At 12:a.m. the following morning, the alarm clock in my room awakened me from a deep slumber. Foggy headed, I made my way toward the bathroom in anticipation of a nice, long, hot shower. Now, this shower was not your typical motel shower. It was humongous! Heck, you could've fit the whole graduating class of a small high school inside of it.

I was still feeling exhausted from my long drive of the day before, and I felt like collapsing in the shower, letting the hot water rain down on me in hopes of revitalizing my tired, worn out body. But I didn’t want to sit on the floor of an unfamiliar shower, so in my murky state of mind, I grabbed something I could sit on while enjoying the comforts of a hot-water massage.

Now, I know I’m not the most traveled person in the world, but I thought I was somewhat intelligent, that is, until this incident.

You see, in every motel I’d ever stayed in the rooms always had an aluminum framed gizmo (luggage holders I later learned), with nylon straps that, when the gizmo is unfolded like a camping stool, creates a flat surface on which to set your luggage, as opposed to setting it on the floor. This motel was no exception.

I’d always wondered what these little gizmos were for, but in my not-so-clear state of mind I decided the little contraption in my room would make a dandy shower stool to sit on, and it did. There was just one problem.

Unbeknownst to me the hot water from the shower caused the black die on the straps to bleed. I’m not talking about a little bleeding here either. No, I’m talking a series of black stripes, two inches wide, traversing my hand quarters.

To this day I don’t think ex-wife believed my explanation for those confounded stripes across my derriere: “You see, honey, it was raining really hard and I was crossing the road to help a stranded motorist when I slipped and fell. It was then that this big ole truck from out of no where ran over me, and the tire marks from it soaked right through my pants. I was lucky I wasn’t killed.”

Hey, I didn’t want to appear to be too stupid. A guy has to keep some dignity you know.

Motel Blues

As Willie Nelson once sang, I’ve been “on the road again.” And once again, I’m reminded that not all hotels are created equal.

A while back, I stayed at a hotel which had to be the worst. It wasn’t until the desk clerk handed me a scrub brush that I understood what was meant on the marquee out front, “Clean rooms inside.”

The clerk told me that to receive their advertised low rate for a room I would have to make my own bed. I thought that wasn’t too unreasonable. Then he handed me a hammer and a saw. And speaking of the bed; it was like sleeping on the mattress equivalent of a Venus fly trap. The thing not only sucked me into its mouth it swallowed me whole. You talk about an orthopedic nightmare!

Now, the room I was given wasn’t too bad, except for its size. It was so small that when I smiled my teeth touched the wall. I mean to tell you, I didn’t have room enough to change my mind.

Bugs! You talk about bugs. That was the only hotel I’ve ever stayed in where the bed bugs complained to management about the infestation of human beings. After crawling into bed I immediately grabbed the phone and called the front desk. The clerk asked, “What’s eating you?”

I answered, “That’s what I want to know!”

The hotel restaurant wasn’t much better.

After I was seated at a table, a waitress approached me to take my order. I only like one brand of root beer. So when the waitress asked me for my drink order, I asked “What kind of root beer do you have?”

She said (and I’m not making this up), “Brown.” She worried me.

How this restaurant kept from being shut down by the board of health I’ll never know. The cooks’ idea of a salad shooter was a shot gun and a head of lettuce. The food was so bad the cook wouldn’t even lick his own fingers. Flies would buzz into the kitchen to commit suicide. It got to be so bad that the flies that didn’t commit suicide all pitched in to repair the kitchen screen door. Actually though, I shouldn’t have been surprised about the lousy food. The guy staying in the room next to me told me that I could eat dirt cheap there; and he was right—the dirt was cheap.

Not only was the hotel and its staff unsettling, but the type of clientele housed there worried me too. Just after I checked in, I noticed a man and his son looking over the hotel elevator. Evidently, this family didn’t get out to town very often for these two guys acted as if they had never seen an elevator before. As they were looking it over, an old, grey-haired lady hobbled up and pushed a button on the wall. The elevator doors opened; she stepped into the elevator; the doors closed, and numbers above the doors lit up…2…3…4…5. There was a pause, and then the numbers above the doors lit up in the reverse order…4…3…2…1. The elevator doors opened up, and out stepped a beautiful young blond woman. The father looked at his son. The boy looked to his father, and then he asked, “Daddy, did you see that?”

The father answered, “Shore did, son. Now go git yer mamma: we’ll put her in that.”

Needles to say, I found a new place to stay the following evening. It was a motel just down the road a piece.

Let’s see, what was the name of it? Oh yes, the Bates Motel.

Ain't Love Grand?

It was a trip of firsts. It was the first meeting with my fiancé’s family. It was the first time I saw Niagara Falls and Lake Ontario. It was my first visit to Eastern Canada, and it was my first experience with the inhumane winter weather of Toronto.

That's right. This Florida boy left his 70 plus degree Thanksgiving holiday temperature for five days of the cold, frigid, Canadian winter. And, as with many true Floridians, I had no winter clothing. Ain't love grand?

Since flying into Buffalo, New York and driving to Canada was much cheaper than flying directly to Toronto, we decided to meet in the States and drive the roughly two and half-hours, following much of the Lake Ontario shoreline, to Sweetie's home in Toronto.

Everything went off without a hitch. Even my flight was on time, and once the pilot gave us the OK to disembark, I grabbed my carry-on luggage and made my way out of the plane into the airport terminal, my eyes constantly searching for Sweetie.

We spotted each other at about the same time. She let out a shriek of excitement and came running toward me as I dropped my luggage and held out my arms to envelope her, a sweet reunion to be sure. I then gathered my belongings and we headed toward the airport parking lot.

"Holy Moly! How do you people live in this stuff?!" I cried as we were greeted outside the terminal with a sharp blast of subzero air, carried on the wings of a ferocious wind. It was as if the Gods of winter were mocking me, saying, "Welcome to Buffalo, you warm-blooded-softy-of-a-Floridian you. Oh, and for a dose of reality, here's a shot of real winter weather for you. HA!"

"Heck this is balmy. Wait until we get to my house," sweetie replied with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin on her face. She'd forewarned me that she lived within walking distance of Lake Ontario, and the cold wet winds that blew off of the Lake could make an Eskimo's teeth chatter. Within a few hours, I was going to have the pleasure of experiencing it for myself. I could hardly wait.

Now, you just know that Sweetie couldn't find a parking spot as close to the entrance of the terminal as possible. Noooo, all she could find was a spot as far away as one could get from the building (I secretly believe it was a sadistic plot on her part to pay me back for bragging about the warm Florida sunshine I had been enjoying back home). By the time we reached her vehicle, I felt like a side of beef in a meat locker.

"On our way out of town, would you like to stop and walk around the Falls [Meaning Niagara Falls of course]?" she asked--by the way, when Viagra doesn't work for a man, is that called Viagra Falls? But I digress. Oh, what a wicked sense of humor she had. She knew that once her auto's heater began working its magic and the marrow in my bones actually thawed, nothing short of divine intervention was going to get me out of that vehicle. No, I was just fine viewing the Falls from the van, thank you very much.

Sweetie's comparison of Buffalo's cold versus Toronto's was right. Compared to the cold wind that blew off of Lake Ontario, the weather in Buffalo was more than balmy it was down right summer like! You see, not far from her home we stopped at a local supermarket to pick up a couple of items. As I opened the car door and stepped outside I suddenly realized I'd made a huge mistake.

Now, you have to understand, I was used to stepping out into the heat from a cool, air-conditioned car, not the other way around. Out of habit, I'd stepped right out into that screaming Lake Ontario winter wind without a coat! If I could have moved my frozen lips I would have let out a horrific scream, stemming from the pain of having all my bodily fluids solidified by the wicked blast of arctic air that dang near knocked the breath out of me.

After Sweetie maneuvered my rigor-mortis like body back inside the van and tightly shut the door, I thawed out and pulled on my thinly insulated leather jacket. It wasn't much but it was all I had, and you can believe me when I tell you it was of little help. It did, however, provide just enough protection from the wind to prevent frost bite while quickly moving between store and vehicle.

Well, as you might guess, while visiting that frozen tundra of a country, I was the butt of many a winter joke. I couldn't count the times I was asked, "is it cold enough for ya?" And if I had a Canadian Loonie for every time I heard, "bet you don't get weather like this down in Florida, ay?" I would have a nice little nest egg when retire.

But do you think I learned my lesson and refused to go back up there until summer thawed everything out--somewhere around August, I believe? Not a chance. Heck, before I left that winter wonderland for home I'd booked a flight from Orlando to Toronto for Christmas day.

As I said, ain't love grand?

NOTE: The above mentioned relationship went the way of the Canadian winter, cold.