Richard Dansky's Blog, page 22
September 11, 2011
Real Content Is Coming Soon. Honest.
In the meantime, here's a review of an Elizabeth Bear novella.
And here's a link to a wonderful review of Driver: San Francisco that just flat-out gets it. Kudos to all the folks at Ubi Reflections for making a kick-ass game.
And here's a link to a wonderful review of Driver: San Francisco that just flat-out gets it. Kudos to all the folks at Ubi Reflections for making a kick-ass game.
September 5, 2011
Two tidbits for your reading pleasure
I should be writing about Prog Day. Or about work. Or about some neat writing stuff that's coming up. Or about Troll Hunter, which I finally saw recently. Or about, well about a lot of things.
Instead, I give you this: my review of a Sherlock Holmes pastiche novel, not to mention the link to this month's Storytellers Unplugged piece on when your writing becomes the enemy of your writing.
Enjoy. I'll be back with more when the workload eases up a bit.
Instead, I give you this: my review of a Sherlock Holmes pastiche novel, not to mention the link to this month's Storytellers Unplugged piece on when your writing becomes the enemy of your writing.
Enjoy. I'll be back with more when the workload eases up a bit.
August 30, 2011
A Cynic's Guide To Getting Rich Off Angry-Making Blog Posts
Step One: Write a superficially inflammatory blog post that's guaranteed to get lots of people up in arms while containing no actually offensive or serious content. Acceptable topics for haughty dismissal include, but are not limited to: Firefly, aspects of nerd culture, groundless speculation as to whether a particular athlete is using steroids, Jonathan Coulton, or taking a strong position in the gaming platform debate. (Note: Mac vs PC used to fit in here as well, but that ship has sailed). Step Two: Publish said blog post, preferably with a highly inflammatory title like "Joss Whedon Blows" or "My Three Days Of Being Bored Stupid By Conan O'Brien And Never Laughing Once and Anyone Who Likes Him Is a Poopyhead" or, well, you get the idea. Step Three: Make sure everyone knows about your post, preferably by dropping references to it into social media spheres generally inhabited by the particular bear-equivalents you want to poke with sharp sticks. Be as snotty and condescending as possible. It gets a better reaction. Step Four: Wait for Nerdrage to erupt. The people you have been mocking will, once you have whipped them into a frenzy, go berserk stampeding to your post to flood your comments section and retweeting the link that will get other people there. Other people will no doubt click through in order to see what their friends are so upset about, get upset themselves, and retweet the link with added indignant commentary. Step Five: Count the increased traffic. If you're getting paid by the click, count your money. Step Six: When the furor dies down (because someone else has been wrong on the internet somewhere else), write some perfectly innocuous posts about how you like cheese or some such. Wait until everyone has completely forgotten you were responsible for a foofaraw, or possibly a hootenany. Step Seven: Start the process all over again.
August 25, 2011
You know that thing?
You know, the thing you needed to do but you forgot to do so now it's been hanging around forever and people need you to do it but even thinking about doing it makes you think about how late you are doing it and how you should have done it ages ago and so, really, doing any other thing in the world at all would be preferable to doing it even though you know that actually going ahead and doing it will take maybe one dozenth of the time you've spent worrying about it and beating yourself up for not having done it yet though you've always had the best intentions of doing it, and...
Yeah. Did a bunch of those today. Feel much better for some reason. Now, about sixty four more of those to go.
Yeah. Did a bunch of those today. Feel much better for some reason. Now, about sixty four more of those to go.
August 3, 2011
Important Lessons Learned At NECON
No good can come of a bottle of amaretto larger than your head. Ever.If Matt Bechtel tells you he's a leprechaun, don't believe him.The words "Oh, look, a yarn shop" hold terrifying mystical power.No, you're not going to find something appropriate for your 8 year old nephew at the art show. Just saying.You will get no reading done in the lobby because everyone will come over and ask you what you're reading. The difference at NECON is, they're genuinely curious.Mixing a drink in a container sized and shaped like a bowling pin is never a good idea for anyone involved.It takes more planning than you'd think to get a lot of people to agree to drown on a schedule.FIFA corruption extends even to the foosball table in the hotel bar.We're not writers because we're good at math. See also: divvying up the check after any meal.Duckpin bowling is New England's raised middle finger to the laws of physics.Once you start trying to quantify the exact number of tentacles in a Lovecraft story, it's all over.
July 29, 2011
Oh, Look! Book Reviews
Over at Sleeping Hedgehog. Consider these books on ice cream and absinthe.
There are times when book reviewing is less than enjoyable, when the books are poorly written or unpleasant, when writing something interesting is difficult and time-consuming. And then there are the times when you say "Well, we have to drink a lot of absinthe cocktails to test out this book, in order to be professional."
I'm just saying.
There are times when book reviewing is less than enjoyable, when the books are poorly written or unpleasant, when writing something interesting is difficult and time-consuming. And then there are the times when you say "Well, we have to drink a lot of absinthe cocktails to test out this book, in order to be professional."
I'm just saying.
July 27, 2011
New Storytellers Unplugged Post Up
More advice for the young writer in humorous list form!
Pre-NECON Boggery
Thursday
Melinda and I have spent the morning knocking around Jamaica Plain, as I wanted to show her my old stomping grounds. Some things had changed - more Asian restaurants, fewer coffeeshops and some had stayed the same - the unidentifiable odor in the local organic grocery, for one thing - but on the whole, tromping up and down and popping into stores while I related stories of my misspent years at Boston College was a deeply pleasant thing to do.
Those of you familiar with downtown Jamaica Plain, however, will know that it's not endlessly trompable. In fact, it's kind of short, even if you tack on the stretch from Anson Street up to the local library branch. And so, even with a stopover at my cousin's place for various and sundry purposes not worth going into here, we still found ourselves with a few hours free before we needed to head down to NECON (or, to call it by its proper name, the Northeast Writers Conference. Or something like that). We kicked around a few ideas - Doyles? (No, we'd just eaten) Cambridge? (Wrong direction) Newport? (Seen it, done it, didn't feel like waging Conan-like war for parking spaces).
And then I sparked on a faded memory from days of yore: The Quaking Bog. Apparently down near Blue Hill there was something called a Quaking Bog, and I'd always meant to get there while I was in Boston and never did, and, err, umm, yeah. Quaking Bog.
Was it on the way, Melinda wanted to know.
Yes, I said. Yes, it was.
Then let's go see it, she said. It's a Quaking Bog.
This was, I found out later, to be her first bog. Apparently Missouri is not bog-rich, being made entirely of limestone and thus sadly lacking in bog-friendly geology.
So we did some digging online and discovered that the Quaking Bog - one of only two on the East Coast! - was located next to Ponkapoag Pond. And when Google Maps searches on Mysterious Quaking Bog Of Blue Hill didn't work, we instead zeroed in on Ponkapoag Pond.
Which got us lost. And honked at. And down a dead-end street. And lost again.
Finally, desperately, we stopped at a Dunkin Donuts, because in New England, all answers can be found at Dunkin. Well, that and Melinda needed some coffee. So we went in, and we ordered her some orange juice (she'd changed her mind) and me an iced hot chocolate, and a bottle of water because there was a slim chance we still might find the Fabled and Legendary Quaking Bog Of Blue Hill and it was 97 degrees out and I'd be damned if I keeled over of heatstroke in the middle of a nonexistent and likely mythical bog, and I asked the cashier if he knew where the Quaking Bog was.
He said, and I quote, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The woman next to me, however, who'd just gotten her coffee, heard me. Turned to me. And said, all as one sentence:
"The bog yeah you're not faah from it go outta heah and turn right then take 93 if you hit the 95 innerchange you gone too faah but the exit will be theah you just get off and go ovah the highway again then you pahk and get out and it's a ways down a dirt road but it's theah but it don't quake no more."*
And she was exactly right.
The bog itself, incidentally, is gorgeous. Multiple ecosystems cheek by jowl, chock full of carnivorous plants, wild blueberries, wildflowers and more - and much to my surprise, completely free of any methane or sulfur dioxide funk.
And how did we get into the bog? On foot. Apparently, years before, a professor at one of the local colleges had decided that this loveliness - and it is lovely - must be made accessible to the public, so he laid down a plank path into the heart of the bog, right up to the shores of Ponkapoag Pond. By "plank", however, I mean "plank". Narrow strips of wood, laid down by the wonderfully mad professor and his students, maybe a foot or so across leading all the way into the bog. Halfway out, Melinda started wondering how we were going to get back.
"Maybe it curves around," I said.
It doesn't curve around. It's just a narrow plank path with no rails and no room for error, and if a body going in meets a body going out, they're either going to get friendly or someone's getting marinated in bog juice.
But it was 97 and Google Maps can't find the place, so there was nobody else out there, and we were safe from that.
What we were not safe from, however, was me. Or at least I wasn't. We got out to the end of the path, and there were two final planks there, side by side. They reached out from the bog into the lovely blue waters of Ponkapoag Pond, which were blue and lovely and most un-bog-like.
Melinda stepped gingerly onto the first one, barely putting any weight on it. It started to sink into the water. She pulled her foot back, and turned around to admire the boggy scenery.
I decided that since the first one was mushy, the second one - which was, after all, closer to shore - was likely to be solid. And so I gingerly put my foot down on it...
...and nearly went straight in, which caused my calf to seize up, which caused Melinda to think I'd blown out my ankle when really all it was is that I had suddenly gotten nature all over my foot, as opposed to on television where it belongs.
And so, with one soggy foot out of four, we hiked back to the car, tossed the fairly volcanic remains of the frozen hot chocolate (terrible) and orange juice (slightly better) and headed off to NECON.
*That may not be exactly what she said, but regardless, we are in that woman's debt.
Melinda and I have spent the morning knocking around Jamaica Plain, as I wanted to show her my old stomping grounds. Some things had changed - more Asian restaurants, fewer coffeeshops and some had stayed the same - the unidentifiable odor in the local organic grocery, for one thing - but on the whole, tromping up and down and popping into stores while I related stories of my misspent years at Boston College was a deeply pleasant thing to do.
Those of you familiar with downtown Jamaica Plain, however, will know that it's not endlessly trompable. In fact, it's kind of short, even if you tack on the stretch from Anson Street up to the local library branch. And so, even with a stopover at my cousin's place for various and sundry purposes not worth going into here, we still found ourselves with a few hours free before we needed to head down to NECON (or, to call it by its proper name, the Northeast Writers Conference. Or something like that). We kicked around a few ideas - Doyles? (No, we'd just eaten) Cambridge? (Wrong direction) Newport? (Seen it, done it, didn't feel like waging Conan-like war for parking spaces).
And then I sparked on a faded memory from days of yore: The Quaking Bog. Apparently down near Blue Hill there was something called a Quaking Bog, and I'd always meant to get there while I was in Boston and never did, and, err, umm, yeah. Quaking Bog.
Was it on the way, Melinda wanted to know.
Yes, I said. Yes, it was.
Then let's go see it, she said. It's a Quaking Bog.
This was, I found out later, to be her first bog. Apparently Missouri is not bog-rich, being made entirely of limestone and thus sadly lacking in bog-friendly geology.
So we did some digging online and discovered that the Quaking Bog - one of only two on the East Coast! - was located next to Ponkapoag Pond. And when Google Maps searches on Mysterious Quaking Bog Of Blue Hill didn't work, we instead zeroed in on Ponkapoag Pond.
Which got us lost. And honked at. And down a dead-end street. And lost again.
Finally, desperately, we stopped at a Dunkin Donuts, because in New England, all answers can be found at Dunkin. Well, that and Melinda needed some coffee. So we went in, and we ordered her some orange juice (she'd changed her mind) and me an iced hot chocolate, and a bottle of water because there was a slim chance we still might find the Fabled and Legendary Quaking Bog Of Blue Hill and it was 97 degrees out and I'd be damned if I keeled over of heatstroke in the middle of a nonexistent and likely mythical bog, and I asked the cashier if he knew where the Quaking Bog was.
He said, and I quote, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The woman next to me, however, who'd just gotten her coffee, heard me. Turned to me. And said, all as one sentence:
"The bog yeah you're not faah from it go outta heah and turn right then take 93 if you hit the 95 innerchange you gone too faah but the exit will be theah you just get off and go ovah the highway again then you pahk and get out and it's a ways down a dirt road but it's theah but it don't quake no more."*
And she was exactly right.
The bog itself, incidentally, is gorgeous. Multiple ecosystems cheek by jowl, chock full of carnivorous plants, wild blueberries, wildflowers and more - and much to my surprise, completely free of any methane or sulfur dioxide funk.
And how did we get into the bog? On foot. Apparently, years before, a professor at one of the local colleges had decided that this loveliness - and it is lovely - must be made accessible to the public, so he laid down a plank path into the heart of the bog, right up to the shores of Ponkapoag Pond. By "plank", however, I mean "plank". Narrow strips of wood, laid down by the wonderfully mad professor and his students, maybe a foot or so across leading all the way into the bog. Halfway out, Melinda started wondering how we were going to get back.
"Maybe it curves around," I said.
It doesn't curve around. It's just a narrow plank path with no rails and no room for error, and if a body going in meets a body going out, they're either going to get friendly or someone's getting marinated in bog juice.
But it was 97 and Google Maps can't find the place, so there was nobody else out there, and we were safe from that.
What we were not safe from, however, was me. Or at least I wasn't. We got out to the end of the path, and there were two final planks there, side by side. They reached out from the bog into the lovely blue waters of Ponkapoag Pond, which were blue and lovely and most un-bog-like.
Melinda stepped gingerly onto the first one, barely putting any weight on it. It started to sink into the water. She pulled her foot back, and turned around to admire the boggy scenery.
I decided that since the first one was mushy, the second one - which was, after all, closer to shore - was likely to be solid. And so I gingerly put my foot down on it...
...and nearly went straight in, which caused my calf to seize up, which caused Melinda to think I'd blown out my ankle when really all it was is that I had suddenly gotten nature all over my foot, as opposed to on television where it belongs.
And so, with one soggy foot out of four, we hiked back to the car, tossed the fairly volcanic remains of the frozen hot chocolate (terrible) and orange juice (slightly better) and headed off to NECON.
*That may not be exactly what she said, but regardless, we are in that woman's debt.
July 19, 2011
The Reason I Do This (Sorbet Division)
So it's getting on eleven or so, and Melinda and I are standing in the kitchen. She's holding the paddle from our ice cream maker; I'm holding the wooden salad scooper thingie* I've repurposed to transfer sorbet from the ice cream maker to the (also repurposed) yogurt containers I store the stuff in. We are both giggling like maniacs. She's licking freshly made cherry sorbet off the paddle. I'm scooping some off the, well, thingie with my finger. "You know," she says. "We're like a couple of nine year olds who just made a cake."
"Yeah," I say. "Isn't it great?"
'Yeah."
And if there's a better reason to eschew sleep occasionally to make sorbet, I haven't found it yet.
The cherry, incidentally, came out great, even after an unfortunate accident involving a stick blender, three cherry pits, gravity, a strainer, centripedal force, a bottle of Simple Green, two very confused cats, and a lime.
Did I mention the stick blender? I'm pretty sure I mentioned the stick blender.
*Seriously, I have no idea what this thing is called. It's sort of curved but not enough to be a spoon, and it's rounded on one side, and it's, err, well, it's really good at getting sorbet into containers. The hell with salads. It got a promotion.
"Yeah," I say. "Isn't it great?"
'Yeah."
And if there's a better reason to eschew sleep occasionally to make sorbet, I haven't found it yet.
The cherry, incidentally, came out great, even after an unfortunate accident involving a stick blender, three cherry pits, gravity, a strainer, centripedal force, a bottle of Simple Green, two very confused cats, and a lime.
Did I mention the stick blender? I'm pretty sure I mentioned the stick blender.
*Seriously, I have no idea what this thing is called. It's sort of curved but not enough to be a spoon, and it's rounded on one side, and it's, err, well, it's really good at getting sorbet into containers. The hell with salads. It got a promotion.
Prisoners of LaGuardia
Last Sunday, I flew up to Toronto for work. My connection was through LaGuardia, because there are only a couple of direct flights from Raleigh to Toronto, they cost so much you go straight from "arm and leg" to "critical internal organs", and they're very small planes. So LGA it is, and I confess, this generally isn't a problem for me. I like LaGuardia. it feels like an airport, instead of a shopping mall with planes attached. It feels like 70s cop shows and the video for "Sabotage" and Peter Graves and bongos. And I don't have any more or less trouble connecting through there than I do any other airport.
But last Sunday, well, that was special. The sequence of events once I hit the main terminal went something like this:
7:45* - Gate change from A7 to A5.
7:55 or so - Plane shows up. Air Canada folks suggest it will be a few minutes to allow current passengers to deplane, and then cleaning, and then we'll board.
8:05 or so - We commence boarding. It is a very normal boarding process.
8:25 - Takeoff time. The cockpit announces we're still waiting on a couple of passengers and will be taking off soon.
8:35 - We have the passengers. We push back. We stop. The cockpit announces we're maybe 15 minutes from takeoff.
8:55 - The cockpit announces we're waiting for some signoffs from maintenance before we can take off. But we will take off soon. Honest.
9:15 - The cockpit announces there's something wrong with the plane and that maintenance is fixing it. It will, they say, be fixed soon. Really soon.
9:45 - Not so much with the fixing. The small children in the back of the plane have, sensibly, had enough.
10:00 - The cockpit announces we will be attempting to reboot the plane to fix the unspecified thingie that is wrong.
10:02 - They shut down the plane. It gets very dark. Also, very warm. Also, very loud.
10:05 - Hostess circulates with water. At least three people ask for vodka instead.
10:07 - The plane gets turned back on.
10:08 - The cockpit announces that the reboot did not work and that we'll be heading back to the gate soon.
10:15 - The cockpit announces that we've lost nose to wheel steering, and will need someone to come tow us back to the gate. This will take roughly half an hour.
10:20 - The cockpit announces that we are actually sitting right next to an active runway, and as such, all of us really need to turn off our cellular enabled devices.
10:27 - Guy in front of me decides he is special snowflake to whom rules do not apply, and debates air hostess. Air hostess heroically refrains from dumping pitcher of water on his netbook.
10:55 - Tow starts
11:15 - Tow ends. Tow ends nowhere near gate. Tow ends, in fact, in the middle of an entirely different stretch of tarmac. Begin to wonder if we've been brought out there so Air Canada can hide the evidence.
11:20 - We deplane and are hustled onto a couple of buses. The buses pull out and proceed to make a grand tour of LaGuardia. I become reasonably certain we're actually being bused to Citi Field so the Mets can rummage through us and hopefully find some relief pitching.
11:30 - Arrive at the terminal. More accurately, arrive at the front of the terminal, where ticketing is. This is where we will be rebooked and presumably get our hotel vouchers and whatnot. We file in and line up. The friendly Air Canada employees, who are no doubt just as enamored of the situation as we are, begin shouting out people's names to get them to come up to get their rebooked tickets and whatnot. All of this means that A)we are in a line for no reason B)the people at the back of the line cannot hear the Air Canada employees shouting their names because it is LaGuardia and even in the middle of the night, the place sounds like someone is dumping snarling wolverines into a cement mixer every fifteen feet. I am, of course, at the back of the line.
11:35 - I notice that the kid next to me is hanging onto a Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark poster. The cursed nature of the night's travel is now made clear.
11:45 - Also becoming clear is that the Air Canada folks have thoughtfully booked as many of us as they can onto the earliest flight out in the morning. Said flight leaves at 6:25 AM. Since it is an international flight, this necessitates being at LaGuardia at 4:25 AM. Expressions of panic begin to appear through the crowd. The AC folks say that if anyone has a trouble with their booking, they can stick around and get it modified after everyone's gotten their ticket. Nobody wants to stick around and look like a crybaby. Slowly, the crowd drifts past the 24 hour Au Bon Pain and down to baggage claim.
12:00 - My name is called. I am on the 6:25 AM flight. In addition, I have been given two vouchers. One is for dinner at the hotel, and is in the amount of $15. Now, I am a fairly experienced business traveler, and at this point I am well aware that A)most hotel restaurants do not stay open past midnight and B)most hotel restaurants do not have dinner entrees on the menu that are within shouting range of fifteen bucks. I don't particularly care, mind you - my meals are covered on the trip - but it seems a cruel thing to do to my fellow travelers. As for the second voucher, it's for seven bucks for breakfast. Most hotel restaurants start serving breakfast at 6 AM. We're going to need to be back at the airport at 4:30. Oops.
12:05 - I decide I don't want to look like a crybaby and drift down past the Au Bon Pain.
12:06 - I join the throng of passengers waiting for their luggage at carousel #3. Larry King, whom I thought had been banned from the airwaves, is yammering about something on the prominently posted televisions. The belt sits suspiciously still.
12:15 - The baggage carts from the plane pull up outside baggage claim. Inside, two people have had visions of Larry King as celestial being.
12:30 - We take a shuttle over to the Marriott. The staff there is friendly, courteous, and mildly shell-shocked by what's been dropped on them. They generously note the hotel restaurant is open until 1 (although the kitchen is mostly closed) and that folks can use their breakfast voucher money now (read: for drinks). They also set up a lot of 4 AM wakeup calls.
12:45 - Determined to use my voucher, I order a salad. Because I can.
1:15 - I go to bed.
1:30 - I realize I can't sleep.
1:45 - Do the "You know, I might as well stay up all night at this point" rationalization.
2:00 - Sleep anyway.
All that, being said, the end result was a twelve hour delay in my getting to Toronto. This is not a travel "nightmare". A travel nightmare involves men with guns storming the bus you're on as you're driving along a muddy road on the side of a mountain sitting next to a little old lady who's holding a live chicken in her lap and talking to it in fluent Klingon. It's having to cross the Rockies by covered wagon in winter following the directions your cousin got you from this really awesome pathfinder he knew named "Donner". It's your car breaking down near a castle just outside of Denton during a thunderstorm and Richard O'Brien answering the door when you ask if you can use their landline because his tree ate your cell phone. It's not being shuttled over to a nice hotel for a couple of hours while there's an unavoidable interruption in the program while hard-working people do their best to try to mitigate the fact that your travel plans have gone awry. So, a tragedy this was not. A horror story? Not that, either. An amusing story? Hopefully.
And when I was flying back home, and my flight from LaGuardia to Raleigh was announced as being delayed at least a half an hour because of an unspecified mechanical issue, all I could think was O NOES NOT AGAIN.
*Note: All times are pulled completely out of my derriere. If you want actual timestamps on this stuff, check my twitter feed from last Sunday. It's got a better sense of what the hell happened than I do.
But last Sunday, well, that was special. The sequence of events once I hit the main terminal went something like this:
7:45* - Gate change from A7 to A5.
7:55 or so - Plane shows up. Air Canada folks suggest it will be a few minutes to allow current passengers to deplane, and then cleaning, and then we'll board.
8:05 or so - We commence boarding. It is a very normal boarding process.
8:25 - Takeoff time. The cockpit announces we're still waiting on a couple of passengers and will be taking off soon.
8:35 - We have the passengers. We push back. We stop. The cockpit announces we're maybe 15 minutes from takeoff.
8:55 - The cockpit announces we're waiting for some signoffs from maintenance before we can take off. But we will take off soon. Honest.
9:15 - The cockpit announces there's something wrong with the plane and that maintenance is fixing it. It will, they say, be fixed soon. Really soon.
9:45 - Not so much with the fixing. The small children in the back of the plane have, sensibly, had enough.
10:00 - The cockpit announces we will be attempting to reboot the plane to fix the unspecified thingie that is wrong.
10:02 - They shut down the plane. It gets very dark. Also, very warm. Also, very loud.
10:05 - Hostess circulates with water. At least three people ask for vodka instead.
10:07 - The plane gets turned back on.
10:08 - The cockpit announces that the reboot did not work and that we'll be heading back to the gate soon.
10:15 - The cockpit announces that we've lost nose to wheel steering, and will need someone to come tow us back to the gate. This will take roughly half an hour.
10:20 - The cockpit announces that we are actually sitting right next to an active runway, and as such, all of us really need to turn off our cellular enabled devices.
10:27 - Guy in front of me decides he is special snowflake to whom rules do not apply, and debates air hostess. Air hostess heroically refrains from dumping pitcher of water on his netbook.
10:55 - Tow starts
11:15 - Tow ends. Tow ends nowhere near gate. Tow ends, in fact, in the middle of an entirely different stretch of tarmac. Begin to wonder if we've been brought out there so Air Canada can hide the evidence.
11:20 - We deplane and are hustled onto a couple of buses. The buses pull out and proceed to make a grand tour of LaGuardia. I become reasonably certain we're actually being bused to Citi Field so the Mets can rummage through us and hopefully find some relief pitching.
11:30 - Arrive at the terminal. More accurately, arrive at the front of the terminal, where ticketing is. This is where we will be rebooked and presumably get our hotel vouchers and whatnot. We file in and line up. The friendly Air Canada employees, who are no doubt just as enamored of the situation as we are, begin shouting out people's names to get them to come up to get their rebooked tickets and whatnot. All of this means that A)we are in a line for no reason B)the people at the back of the line cannot hear the Air Canada employees shouting their names because it is LaGuardia and even in the middle of the night, the place sounds like someone is dumping snarling wolverines into a cement mixer every fifteen feet. I am, of course, at the back of the line.
11:35 - I notice that the kid next to me is hanging onto a Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark poster. The cursed nature of the night's travel is now made clear.
11:45 - Also becoming clear is that the Air Canada folks have thoughtfully booked as many of us as they can onto the earliest flight out in the morning. Said flight leaves at 6:25 AM. Since it is an international flight, this necessitates being at LaGuardia at 4:25 AM. Expressions of panic begin to appear through the crowd. The AC folks say that if anyone has a trouble with their booking, they can stick around and get it modified after everyone's gotten their ticket. Nobody wants to stick around and look like a crybaby. Slowly, the crowd drifts past the 24 hour Au Bon Pain and down to baggage claim.
12:00 - My name is called. I am on the 6:25 AM flight. In addition, I have been given two vouchers. One is for dinner at the hotel, and is in the amount of $15. Now, I am a fairly experienced business traveler, and at this point I am well aware that A)most hotel restaurants do not stay open past midnight and B)most hotel restaurants do not have dinner entrees on the menu that are within shouting range of fifteen bucks. I don't particularly care, mind you - my meals are covered on the trip - but it seems a cruel thing to do to my fellow travelers. As for the second voucher, it's for seven bucks for breakfast. Most hotel restaurants start serving breakfast at 6 AM. We're going to need to be back at the airport at 4:30. Oops.
12:05 - I decide I don't want to look like a crybaby and drift down past the Au Bon Pain.
12:06 - I join the throng of passengers waiting for their luggage at carousel #3. Larry King, whom I thought had been banned from the airwaves, is yammering about something on the prominently posted televisions. The belt sits suspiciously still.
12:15 - The baggage carts from the plane pull up outside baggage claim. Inside, two people have had visions of Larry King as celestial being.
12:30 - We take a shuttle over to the Marriott. The staff there is friendly, courteous, and mildly shell-shocked by what's been dropped on them. They generously note the hotel restaurant is open until 1 (although the kitchen is mostly closed) and that folks can use their breakfast voucher money now (read: for drinks). They also set up a lot of 4 AM wakeup calls.
12:45 - Determined to use my voucher, I order a salad. Because I can.
1:15 - I go to bed.
1:30 - I realize I can't sleep.
1:45 - Do the "You know, I might as well stay up all night at this point" rationalization.
2:00 - Sleep anyway.
All that, being said, the end result was a twelve hour delay in my getting to Toronto. This is not a travel "nightmare". A travel nightmare involves men with guns storming the bus you're on as you're driving along a muddy road on the side of a mountain sitting next to a little old lady who's holding a live chicken in her lap and talking to it in fluent Klingon. It's having to cross the Rockies by covered wagon in winter following the directions your cousin got you from this really awesome pathfinder he knew named "Donner". It's your car breaking down near a castle just outside of Denton during a thunderstorm and Richard O'Brien answering the door when you ask if you can use their landline because his tree ate your cell phone. It's not being shuttled over to a nice hotel for a couple of hours while there's an unavoidable interruption in the program while hard-working people do their best to try to mitigate the fact that your travel plans have gone awry. So, a tragedy this was not. A horror story? Not that, either. An amusing story? Hopefully.
And when I was flying back home, and my flight from LaGuardia to Raleigh was announced as being delayed at least a half an hour because of an unspecified mechanical issue, all I could think was O NOES NOT AGAIN.
*Note: All times are pulled completely out of my derriere. If you want actual timestamps on this stuff, check my twitter feed from last Sunday. It's got a better sense of what the hell happened than I do.
