Further Misadventures in flight. A remix.

I'm convinced that Lindbergh had an easier flight to Paris on the Spirit of St. Louis.  There I was waiting patiently at the gate. In my grubby hands, I hold  a ticket that practically shouts "get on board" before the other rabble.  

A woman picks up a microphone and begins the drill.  "We'll begin with the boarding process. We'll start with anyone traveling with children or people who need extra help getting down the jet way please come to the podium.  

Okay, I applaud that.

She continued, "now our 1st Class Passengers, Gold and Premier Club members."

Sure.  I get that.

And then it was "anyone with am AARP, a CVS discount card, anyone who's had a colonoscopy in the past six months, or who has seen the movie Avatar.

The entire flight pre boarded.  There I was, the sole remaining passenger in line.  Zone 1? How about the Twilight Zone?

I am not a timid flyer.  But the plane I took on the first leg of my trip to Florida was so old, a cadre of scrap metal dealers were appraising it as we were fueling for the trip.  I lovingly named the plane the Buddy Holly.  It was one of those planes that has two seats on one side of the plane and one on the other.  Simple physics tells me that it's a flying teeter totter.  

Lesson #1.  The smaller the plane, the longer the pilot talks.  Our pilot must have set a new record of sharing way too much information.  "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking and behalf of the  flight crew I want to say thanks for flying with us today.  Frankly, I should have retired years ago but some &%#@ executives cut my pension so I'll have to fly this steel bucket till I keel over. Now I'll tell you some incomprehensible flight lingo that will scare you half to death.  P.S.  If anyone is considering laser surgery, don't go to cheap, I did and things are bit blurry from where I sit. Now just sit back and enjoy the flight."

Lesson 2.  The airline wars now have civilian casualties. If you want a meal or a mixed drink, you have to pony up big bucks. On my flight, even the pilot had to pay for his Bloody Mary.

Lesson 3.   The man next to me always looks like he's carrying the Ebola virus.  He's sneezing, coughing and has a vicous liquid cascading from ever pore. He even has an IV drip hanging from the overhead cabin and he says, "don't worry, it's just allergies."  Well, 24 hour later I got the same allergy,  I think it's called the flu.  Allergy is the new buzz word for saying, Intensive Care is a just a day away.

Lesson 4.  The Sky Mall Magazine.  At some point in the flight, you are going to be so bored, you are going to open this rag and discover that you have needs you didn't know you had.  Like a machine that makes hotdogs and cotton candy at the same time.  Or a  cat box disguised as an armoire.  Three pages of Sky Mall and your entire life seems empty,  If only I had that motivation poster with the rowers that visually imprinted the concept of TEAMWORK, I might have made something of myself.  I think I saw a ripped up copy of it in the cockpit.  

Lesson 5.  The airline also has a magazine.  My problem with these magazines is that there's always an ad for the world's best steak houses -- none of which are within 1,000 miles of where I live or where I'm going,  I've had steak envy for over twenty years. 

Lesson 6.   The wonderful buckle-up demonstration.  Maybe it's me but the seatbelt has been out oh, for at least 50 years.  Is this a concept so difficult, that we need a bad performance by a cloyingly bored stewardess or steward?  There are tribes in the rain forest that understand push and click.  They're not telling us that we need to bend our knees when we sit?  What's the statute of limitations on this one? 

Well, we did land safely for our connecting flight which was on concourse "C" -- forty miles away from our gate.  But well worth, the marathon run and the subsequent  defibrillation and life-saving injection of airport-priced Starkbucks.  The good news is that my cat amiore should be arriving next week.

Happy flying

Aging Disgracefully Remix

I made a huge mistake recently.  In a brief flirtation with vanity, I purchased a magnifying mirror.  I bought it because I received an electric razor as a gift and I wanted to achieve the Harry Hamlin -- a permanent five o'clock shadow.  In some social circles it's known as the Flintstone.  This mirror was so powerful it makes a single pore look like the Mariana Trench.  At 6X magnification you can actually see your skins cells die only to be reborn as  liver spots.

Frankly, when it comes to my face, I'm not a fan.  I once accused my parents of genetically engineering the worst two strands of DNA they could find to form my face.  To create a horrible and disturbingly lingering visual for you, I can tell you I am the love child of  Danny Kaye and  Nathan Lane.

For starters, I've developed what I call the Statler and Waldorf.  Suddenly, deep lines have formed from both sides of my lips headed down to the chin.  In other words, a  ventriloquist's dummy.  

Truth be told, the Baker clan doesn't age well.  At 40, we begin to self-destruct on a cellular level.  Add this to a massive metabolism shut down and you've got what plastic surgeons call a real money pit.

Naturally, I immediately made my way to the super-mega-pharmacy hunting  for serums, moisturizers, unguents, ointments, humectants, lubricants, balms, creams, wipes and puffs. 

There were four aisles of hope.  

Exotic stuff like eye lifting serums, thermal skin polishers, tone enhancers, night recovery treatments, deep penetrating foam, intense hydrating cream, and pore redefining scrub, shea butter, co-enzyme Q10 and copper.

The smaller the bottle, the higher the price.  My fear was  that my eyes would look seven years younger -- but my the rest of me would look like  a Komodo Dragon.  So I put away the corrective foaming protective redefining  hydrating balm.  Then,  I returned home, gazed  in the mirror and noticed  the Rose Kennedy dowager’s hump growing on my back.

There was  time when I used to dream about being chased by scantily-clad wood nymphs carrying large pepperoni pizzas, now I just dream of well-endowed Medicare Part B plans.  Ah, the good life.

Thanks mom and dad for the DNA.

Procrasticise! Remix

It'll all started innocently enough. I grabbed three bags of groceries and started walking up two flights of stairs to my apartment.  Halfway, I stopped -- desperately in need of a Sherpa and an oxygen mask.  Like Sir Edmund Hillary, I bravely carried on -- making it to my personal Everest, a nice little hovel that is quickly becoming a rest home.

I took a good look in my magnifying mirror (see Aging Disgracefully) and realized that if you add two tusks, you'd have a Sea World Exhibit. 

Obviously, it was time to go to Defcom 4, which in my family is called exercise.  So, I grabbed a Crispy Cream from the grocery bag and set out to create a personalized exercise regimen that would melt off the pounds off like a glacier in the age of Global Warming.

In my younger years, I was thin as a whippet. You could actually see my ribs. I had the body fat of a Romanian gymnast.Now cut back to present day: I've strategically placed a statue of Buddha in the bathroom just to have a benchmark of how well I'm doing.  I stopped exercising about six months ago because the equipment was becoming a burden.  No the exercise machines, the personal do dads that made life bearable on the treadmill.  I had an IPOD, a set of ear phones, a heart monitor strap, a squeeze bottle of water, and a shirt that read "My other body is an athlete." Frankly, I looked like Don Knotts in the Reluctant Astronaut.

I even tried free weights.  The problem with free weights is that most of people using them look like they belong in The Mr. Universe Pageant or in a prison gang.  So, I moved on to circuit training.  This involved doing "reps" on 10 large and expensive machines.  The bugaboo in this method is that you have to remember your individual settings.  Typically, I will get the machine after a 80-year-old.  She will have the bench press set at 150 pounds.  I have to slip it back to a more manageable 50 pounds.

Ever been taunted by a 80-year-old with bulging muscles? It's enough to drive you to an all-you-can-eat buffet. 

 Then came the new rage -- Pilates.  My task was to strengthen my "inner core."  Well, my inner core looks and feels like a Twinkie.  It's like doing a permanent sit up.  Walking is no picnic either.  I usually run into people walking their dog -- to a dog, I look like like large bag of kibble.  So,  I finally devised my own program -- it's called Procasticise.  I've already lost 5 pounds, just thinking about what exercises to actively avoid.

So don't buy my DVD, visit my web site or purchase my Procasticise book. Put everything off and you soon take a lot of it off.  Ask Kirstie.

An Afficianado's Guide to the Flu Remix

2009, was the season of the flu.  So while BakerMuse is on vacation, I am adding 4% new material to a fan favorite -- an Afficiando's Guide to the Flu. My advice:  Don't frolic with mince pie after midnight.

If my sources are correct, influenza (flu) is from the Greek-- roughly translated as "Put Dr. Kevorkian on Speed Dial."  As a dedicated flu aficionado , I am to the flu what a sommelier is to wine. Many a Saturday night I have staggerd across my living room looking more haggardly ill than both Mcqueen and Hoffman in Papillon. I can sense the subtle flavorings of each flu strain.  Some have a hint of nausea with a whisper of migrane.  For example, I can tell you the difference between the horrible effects  Spanish Flu or the surprisingly vicious but short-lived Uber Schenectady Flu.

The Baker Clan has been a favorite host and subsequent victim of the flues since the great plague. 

For my non-flu oriented friends, I have compiled a list of my favorite influenza strains and their symptoms.

 1.   Hugging the Porcelain God  (HPG)

This flu has a mysterious ninja-type quality.  One minute you're craving bizarre foods -- something like poached loin of Yak with a seaweed demi-glaze, then suddenly you're making love to the nearest commode.  This flu turns your stomach into a massive Yak tsunami. Should you be in the clutches of this flu -- drag the nearest futon into your bathroom and place it next to the toilet.  The HPG flu is what we experts at BakerMuse call the Spew and Snooze.

This flu is so vile, you will be throwing up food you had as a child -- like Gerber's famous strained peas and liver.  The worst part of this flu is that once the spewing is over the dry heave phase begins.  The stomach clearly knows there's nothing left to toss, but feels compelled to repeat the act over and over again.  I once found my entire stomach lining in the sink drain.

2.  The Sasquatch 

If you wake up and you feel as if a 7-foot, hairy version of Claude Akins is dancing on your chest, you've got the Saquatch.  Forget about breathing my friend because you've just exchanged lungs with a 54-year-old waitress from Yuma who's single-handedly kept the unfiltered Camel Brand alive.  First, your voice will automatically lower five registers -- so that you sound exactly like Susanne Pleshette.  Then, as the Sasquatch works its way through your bronchial tubes you will begin to cough up a lung, and in some cases your body will turn completely inside out. North Pole Elves have their own version of this called Tinsel Lung.

3.  Fire in the Hole  (FITH)

As the name implies, you might as well Velcro yourself to the toilet, because this will be an extended stay. This nasty virus goes straight to your intestines and begins to propagate like rabbits on a triple dose of Viagra.  The so-called "friendly" bacteria are wiped out turning your colon into a large section of PVC pipe.  Depending on which version of "FITH" you get, the variations are labeled as followed.  The Howizer.  This should be self-explanatory. In fact, this is a flu best investigated  by the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.  Caution:  Hold on to the toilet seat or you will be rocketed into the nearest attic.  The Calcutta.  This awful flu combines the worst features of both Howitzer and the Hugging the Porcelain God.  Should you play host to this double whammy, I would suggest a pair of asbestos diapers.  Mrs. O'leary's Cow.  This is the worst.  It's a five alarm fire and you're sitting on it. You feel as if a million Habanero peppers are partying in your lower intestine.  Some conspiracy buffs believe this may be the major cause of Global Warming.

4.  The Short Circuit  

This may be among the most mysterious of all the flu bugs.  It is gender specific.  This flu attacks the kind of men who are bubbling cauldrons of testosterone.  Men who get up a five AM, put on some natural hemp underwear and go out fishing with nothing more than a bent nail and dental floss. 

Unfortunately, this flu short circuits the brain and suddenly this man's  whole life is the LifeTime Channel. This man will put on a comfy robe, sip chamomile tea and watch movies with names like "The Stranger I Married," or "My Husband, my 2nd Cousin" and weep all the way through it.  This phase can last up to three days.  If the man starts talking about a desire to knit a tea cosy, call 911.

5.  The Wack-a-Mole or Deja Flu

This strain of the flu begins with a case of the sniffles. A box of Puffs with aloe is a small investment in your cure.  But then your throat begins to feel like coarse sandpaper and a dry cough begins to emerge..  So, in go the lozenges and you've only spent a $1.99 and added to the Smith Brothers  coffers.  Then, the cough turns into a nerve wracking hacking and finally into something resembling the mucous version of the movie Krakatoa, East of Java.  Over night, the sniffles are gone only to be replaced gymnastic stomach. This is when you begin binge drinking Pepto Bismol.  Take my word for it, this is not the time to take the family portrait.  At this point, the aforementioned Fire in the Hole takes over.  The wack-a-mole feature is that these symptoms can appear in any combination at any time.  Even weeks later when you've got what I call deja flu.

I have about 49 more of these viral personalities catalogued. I write them down all now, but the Lifetime Channel is on and I think Tory Spelling is starring. 

The BakerMuse Guide to Writing a Best Seller

Yesterday, I was trolling the aisles of my local bookstore when I saw two enormous cash cows. The post Legosi Vampire Section.  And the “Business & Management” juggernaut.

Since I am a tad claustrophobic, the prospect of napping in a coffin for most of the day would be a hardship. So today, I am focusing on business, which is really about napping in the infinitely adjustable and curiously expensive Aeron Chair.

Basically, there are writers who are pulling down pots of money by using my patented method of book naming.  They simply combine the trend du jour (Wiki or Social) and some vague promise that sounds like a Zen koan.  “The art of doing more with less, more or less.”

So now that Thanksgiving is nearly upon us, I am honoring the tradition by sharing my opus: The BakerMuse Guide to Writing A Best Selling Business Book.  Also, available via Kindle, E-Book and Scent-o-Vision.

Just combine any of the words from Column A with C from the chart below. Use column B to begin the title or connect A & B.  For example, select Oprah from A and Nomics from C and you’ve got Oprahnomics.  Just add the Zen subtitle “How the big “O” can take you from has been to want to be.”  Voila.

Or maybe you want to get fancy. Take a renaissance name – oh, let’s say Copernicus from column A and the word Effect from C.  Toss “The” into the front and you’ve got The Copernicus Effect.  Add the Zen subtitle:  How Heliocentric thinking is radically transforming the economic landscape.” Double Voila.  

You can also pull a Black Swan.  Which is basically to create a color and then an attribute from an obscure animal to sandwich your premise.  For example, the Chartreuse Aardvark. Basically, the Aardvark has an incredible tongue which can scoop upwards of 50,000 termites or ants.  The business connection?  Well, scooping up customers with a single marketing move that it virtually spins gold and paper money -- which fixes up the flimsy Chartreuse  

Oh, and be sure to out a TM or SM after the title so you can rake in even more bucks from frivilous law suits.