A couple of days ago I was in LA to take a couple of meetings with some media companies that *might* be interested in taking that fucking collossal albatross piece of shit movie off our hands. (Stupid fucking movie).
The official line is this: I woke up early, got to YVR, and caught the morning flight to LAX and landed in the early afternoon, got my rental car, did my meetings and flew back home that same day.
The actual facts are that I think I'm losing my mind, and here's why:
Last week I was booking these important meetings for Friday (this was like, last Wednesday) and I apparently told my travel agent to book the ticket for Thursday. (I'm such a fucking knob sometimes). So Friday AM, I get to YVR, and check in only to find that the check in kiosk can't locate me, so could I please talk to a staff member at check in. I waited in line, then talked to staff member at said check-in. The conversation went like this:
Me: Hi There. The machine can't find my reservation.
Her: Hmmm you're not on the flight manifest
Me: That's weird because I've booked the ticket through my travel agent who never makes mistakes.
Her: Ah. Here you are. Your flight was yesterday. Not today.
Me: What?
Her: Yep.
Me: You're kidding.
Her: No Sir. I'm not.
Me: That can't be right. (I then pulled out my paper copy of the flight reservation and handed it to her).
Her: Sir - this reservation was for yesterday's flight, not today's. The dates are even highlighted on it.
Me: That's impossible - there must be uh, some, uh... (looking at the highlighted dates on the paper clearly showing Thursday, NOT Friday)... um...
Her: Giving me the patented customer-service-lazer-beam-of-death stare.
Me: Uh, I'm calling my travel agent. Just give me a second.
I called Dave, my travel agent at 8:20 AM on his cell phone. (I think I woke him up as well - I don't think he was very pleased either).
Me: Dave, it's me. I'm at the airport. My flight was for yesterday, not today!
Dave my travel Agent: Yes - That is correct Sir. Why are you at the airport then?
Me: WTF? I'm at the fucking airport for my flight! It was for Friday morning, NOT Thursday morning!
Dave: Well don't get mad at me! I didn't know you meant to fly on Friday, if I had known, I could have changed your ticket.
Me: ...I'm having a brain hemorrhage. I'll have to call you back when I stop bleeding from my ears.
This whole thing was my fault. I'm such a fucking idiot. King of the idiots. Sometimes I think they should name an adjective after me like Woody Harrelson's Roy Munson in Kingpin. As it was, I wound up paying an exorbitant amount of money in the form of a change fee, talked my way onto the plane and off I went.
I landed at LAX at 1:30 - my first meeting was at 2:30, and it was in Santa Monica which isn't that far from the airport, so no problem I tell myself - I've got time. I get to the car rental place, and just when I am disembarking from the shuttle bus, a chill colder and stabbier than any 2 foot long icicle suddenly stabs through what can only be construed as what remains of my manhood - the car reservation was for the day before as well! Sure enough, I get inside and they are sold out. No cars. Nothing. Nada Senor. No Habla. I get back on the phone with Dave, and no soap. I'm in LA and due to a particularly large brain fart - I'm stuck just outside of the LAX, an the first of a couple of important meetings happening in about 45 minutes from now, and no fucking rental car to get there.
Dave however, (and after only I'm assuming having a massive coronary), somehow finds and reserves a car at the same place. he calls me with the confirmation number, and I give it to the gentleman at Thrifty. No reservation, no reservation, no reservation... I call Dave back, Dave confirms it to me again. The rental car guy tells me that new reservations can take up to 30 minutes to ping their way through Thrifty's reservation network. But miracle of miracles - about 15 mins later, the new reservation popped up, and I was gone like a shot. I was only about 5 minutes late for my first appointment after all that, and the rest of the day went as well as it could seeing as how I fought Friday afternoon rush hour traffic from LAX to Santa Monica, to Brentwood, to Westwood, to Venice, then back to LAX.
Upon returning to the airport, I discovered that my flight was full, so I decided to pay $50 to upgrade to business class at the last minute so I wouldn't be touching thighs with a total stranger for the next 3 hours. (This was wise, else the airplane homicide rate might have risen dramatically that evening).
There was a rather attractive (female, to boot) flight attendant taking care of us, (especially to the brain dead passenger in seat 1F from LAX to YVR), and while I was walking around and stretching, we got to talking to kill some time. After a little while, I returned to my seat, and she came over & delivered to me an unasked for cocktail - and also dropped a note in my lap saying it was nice talking to me, and such.
After the day I'd had, I just had to chuckle. We never got in touch, - she didn't even enclose her phone number - but she sure made me smile all the same. So thank YOU Miss Hot-30-something-flight attendant - you totally made up for what was a colossally volcanic day. As it was, I landed in grey, overcast Vancouver, found my car, and drove out into the rain for the drive back home.
The nice thing about being in an airplane is that once you break through all the clouds - the sun is usually shining somewhere.
The official line is this: I woke up early, got to YVR, and caught the morning flight to LAX and landed in the early afternoon, got my rental car, did my meetings and flew back home that same day.
The actual facts are that I think I'm losing my mind, and here's why:
Last week I was booking these important meetings for Friday (this was like, last Wednesday) and I apparently told my travel agent to book the ticket for Thursday. (I'm such a fucking knob sometimes). So Friday AM, I get to YVR, and check in only to find that the check in kiosk can't locate me, so could I please talk to a staff member at check in. I waited in line, then talked to staff member at said check-in. The conversation went like this:
Me: Hi There. The machine can't find my reservation.
Her: Hmmm you're not on the flight manifest
Me: That's weird because I've booked the ticket through my travel agent who never makes mistakes.
Her: Ah. Here you are. Your flight was yesterday. Not today.
Me: What?
Her: Yep.
Me: You're kidding.
Her: No Sir. I'm not.
Me: That can't be right. (I then pulled out my paper copy of the flight reservation and handed it to her).
Her: Sir - this reservation was for yesterday's flight, not today's. The dates are even highlighted on it.
Me: That's impossible - there must be uh, some, uh... (looking at the highlighted dates on the paper clearly showing Thursday, NOT Friday)... um...
Her: Giving me the patented customer-service-lazer-beam-of-death stare.
Me: Uh, I'm calling my travel agent. Just give me a second.
I called Dave, my travel agent at 8:20 AM on his cell phone. (I think I woke him up as well - I don't think he was very pleased either).
Me: Dave, it's me. I'm at the airport. My flight was for yesterday, not today!
Dave my travel Agent: Yes - That is correct Sir. Why are you at the airport then?
Me: WTF? I'm at the fucking airport for my flight! It was for Friday morning, NOT Thursday morning!
Dave: Well don't get mad at me! I didn't know you meant to fly on Friday, if I had known, I could have changed your ticket.
Me: ...I'm having a brain hemorrhage. I'll have to call you back when I stop bleeding from my ears.
This whole thing was my fault. I'm such a fucking idiot. King of the idiots. Sometimes I think they should name an adjective after me like Woody Harrelson's Roy Munson in Kingpin. As it was, I wound up paying an exorbitant amount of money in the form of a change fee, talked my way onto the plane and off I went.
I landed at LAX at 1:30 - my first meeting was at 2:30, and it was in Santa Monica which isn't that far from the airport, so no problem I tell myself - I've got time. I get to the car rental place, and just when I am disembarking from the shuttle bus, a chill colder and stabbier than any 2 foot long icicle suddenly stabs through what can only be construed as what remains of my manhood - the car reservation was for the day before as well! Sure enough, I get inside and they are sold out. No cars. Nothing. Nada Senor. No Habla. I get back on the phone with Dave, and no soap. I'm in LA and due to a particularly large brain fart - I'm stuck just outside of the LAX, an the first of a couple of important meetings happening in about 45 minutes from now, and no fucking rental car to get there.
Dave however, (and after only I'm assuming having a massive coronary), somehow finds and reserves a car at the same place. he calls me with the confirmation number, and I give it to the gentleman at Thrifty. No reservation, no reservation, no reservation... I call Dave back, Dave confirms it to me again. The rental car guy tells me that new reservations can take up to 30 minutes to ping their way through Thrifty's reservation network. But miracle of miracles - about 15 mins later, the new reservation popped up, and I was gone like a shot. I was only about 5 minutes late for my first appointment after all that, and the rest of the day went as well as it could seeing as how I fought Friday afternoon rush hour traffic from LAX to Santa Monica, to Brentwood, to Westwood, to Venice, then back to LAX.
Upon returning to the airport, I discovered that my flight was full, so I decided to pay $50 to upgrade to business class at the last minute so I wouldn't be touching thighs with a total stranger for the next 3 hours. (This was wise, else the airplane homicide rate might have risen dramatically that evening).
There was a rather attractive (female, to boot) flight attendant taking care of us, (especially to the brain dead passenger in seat 1F from LAX to YVR), and while I was walking around and stretching, we got to talking to kill some time. After a little while, I returned to my seat, and she came over & delivered to me an unasked for cocktail - and also dropped a note in my lap saying it was nice talking to me, and such.
After the day I'd had, I just had to chuckle. We never got in touch, - she didn't even enclose her phone number - but she sure made me smile all the same. So thank YOU Miss Hot-30-something-flight attendant - you totally made up for what was a colossally volcanic day. As it was, I landed in grey, overcast Vancouver, found my car, and drove out into the rain for the drive back home.
The nice thing about being in an airplane is that once you break through all the clouds - the sun is usually shining somewhere.
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