Why was the Terminal a bad movie? Cause everyone hates airports...

So as I previously alluded to, the Atlanta airport and I have a relationship that has worked out about as well as Tiger and fidelity. I think I read somewhere that the Atlanta airport is now the busiest in the world, which would make one believe that it would excel in efficiency and information control/supply. Pfft, what a naive and Utopian conjecture. My last two trips through the joyous Hartsfield-Jackson International airport have been sullied with ridiculous delays, which alone are not aggravating as I understand backups happen when you are running so many damn planes, coupled with a pathetic lack of updates and mass confusion and hysteria. I would have most likely sworn off the airport long ago if one of the aforementioned trips hadn't included a conversation with Ne-Yo which left the entire airport wondering if I was Justin Timberlake or some sort of powerful record executive, most likely the former.

Prior to my recent trip to the Dirty Dirty, I flew through ATL on the way to visiting a friend in Phoenix for Spring Break. Entering the trip, I was mildly annoyed as I had a prodigious 2.5 hour layover in Atlanta before heading on to Sky Harbor (I had to name drop cause that could be the best airport name possible. I think they had George Lucas name it). This quickly became a positive as "inclement weather" caused Atlanta to ground all their planes. Thus I figured my time buffer would allow me to safely and casually roll into Atlanta, despite the delay, and still board my flight, no problem. But as I sat in Dayton's sparse, driving through the cornfields of Indiana-level boring (seriously, every airport needs a variety of diversions more exciting than Max and Erma's) airport, I suddenly became mildly concerned. Time was passing and I watched the flight before me leave and realized it had to fly to Atlanta and back before we could depart. Wow, so as I watched yet another overweight couple shuffle by wearing an OSU sweatshirt and either stonewashed Levi's or ill fitting stretch pants, I texted my friend in Atlanta to get a grip on the weather situation. He informed me that the skies were clear and he was on his porch grilling out. Ok, now I was just peeved. I went to the bookstore and flipped through a photo spread of the newest MTV reality skank and attempted to stay calm. Finally, a fortnight later, we boarded and departed the Dayton airport, a place I had now spent more time in than Miami's King Library.

We touched down in Atlanta a full 3 hours later than scheduled, and as the flight attendant announced the local time and that cell phones could now be used, there was an outbreak of wailing, tearing of clothes, and gnashing of teeth. If a good old fashioned stoning was tossed in, the plane could have been mistaken for biblical Jerusalem. While I attempted to crawl under my seat in an effort to escape the overreactions of these cretins, I called Delta's customer service number to check on my flight status. Much to my amazement, I actually caught a break, and my flight out of Atlanta to Phoenix had been delayed by an 1:15, so it actually was not scheduled to leave for 45 min. I breathed a sigh of relief and sank in my seat while people around my frantically punched in numbers and made phone calls, presumably saying goodbye to their loved ones, cause clearly potentially missing your flight is a fate worse than death.

But wait, if this story ended here, it would just be your standard airport aggravation but happy ending story. Nope. We then proceeded to sit in the plane for a full hour waiting for a parking spot, I kid you not. I didn't even know this kind of shit happened. Its like driving around a packed Wal-Mart parking lot for an hour looking for a parking spot on Black Friday, getting sheisted along the way as your spot gets stolen by a rusted out 87 Corolla, but I was missing my connecting flight, not a $35 food dehydrator. So as the minutes cruelly ticked away, I saw my flight get delayed another 15 minutes, aka just long enough to stroke me to hopeful erection, before leaving me with blue balls like my cuckolding Senior prom date as the flight left 5 min before I stepped off the plane. So now, flightless, I made my way to the Delta help counter. There I was greeted with a squalid mass of annoyed people in two lines that stretched so far into the distance, they merged like an annoying optical illusion at a Children's Museum. I joined these somber little urchins in this Depression era bread line as we waited to approach the counter only to have some Delta employee punch a few, likely fictional, keystrokes only to tell us we were f-ed harder than a guy whose girlfriend already has advanced tickets to "Valentines Day". So after a pleasant wait which was about as enjoyable as showering in battery acid, the gate agent flashed me a fake smile and handed me a bag of complimentary toiletries which basically said: "Thanks for paying hundreds of dollars for this plane ticket so you can now be rewarded by finding a place to sleep in this overcrowded, stressed airport like a transient hobo. Hope you brought your bag on a stick!" So I spent a fitful night sleeping for a combined 45 min as I constantly worried about having my possessions pilfered by airport leprechauns or missing my 745 flight the next morning. This worry, coupled with the fluorescent lights that never dim, making it feel like I was sleeping on an operating table, makes airport slumber a nonexistent reality.

The trip back was uneventful, save for my Ne-Yo chat sesh, so I thought I had paid my dues and future trips through that airport would be clean, clear, and under control. This was further reinforced by my flight down which actually arrived ahead of schedule. I had developed a sort of karma-induced travel swagger so as I left for the airport to come back to Chicago, I wasn't very worried, even as it poured rain and reports of thunderstorms and tornadoes swirled about the Peach State. I got to the airport, went on through security, and was relieved to see that my flight was still on schedule for around 5:45. Haha, fuck you weather and weather related delays. But as I got settled in to wait for the last hour or so till my flight, I started to feel ominous vibes that shit was about to go down. This started when I went to my gate and saw that the flight that was 2 before mine, and was supposed to have left 20 min ago, had yet to board. Then, after hours of consistency, my flight finally got bumped to "delayed" by an hour. Son of a whore. I then realized not only was the weather affecting the situation and making travel a bit dicey, the airport decided to ignore all forms of communication updates with their passengers. Thus flights were still listed as on time even though they were 10 min past their boarding time and their gate was occupied with the 2 hour past due flight to Poughkeepsie. It was also at this point that I could see the emotions, attitudes, and temperaments of the people in the airport change, like when the first survivor is bitten in a zombie movie and the air just changes.

Stressful situations, like travel difficulties in an airport, really seem to bring out the true nature in people. And their reactions and performances in said situations are really quite a treat to observe. For example, look at the gate agent, whose only responsibility is to tell you what seat you are in, print out a boarding pass for those on standby, or tell you "No, you dirty hippie, there are no Vegan meals on this flight, we are not in Oregon." They, contrary to popular belief, do not operate the control tower, schedule when flights leave, or, even more confusing the collective dumbasses of the American public, control the weather. It's no wonder that these people have short tempers and are difficult to work with even when things are smooth. They deal with chromosome-mutated mouthbreathers who don't understand how transportation works unless you put Dale Jr's number on the back wing and tell them they are actually at Daytona. No, you walking past the line of 20 people to the side of the counter to inquire about why things are delayed is not going to help. No, complaining loudly to everyone in line how you NEED to catch your flight is going to make any difference you pompous, cowboy hat wearing idiot. No, telling the gate agent you are never going to fly their airline again is not going to make a difference, they will probably thank you for not having to deal with you and the fact that your fat ass takes up 1 and a half seats ever again. They also don't control the update monitors, so leave them the fuck alone.

I mean, I really do feel bad for some people. Like the couple I spoke to with the incredible patient and well behaved, though extremely tired and cranky children, who just wanted to get home to Baltimore after traveling all day. It's bad enough that they have to go back to Baltimore without the fact that their flight got moved back even farther than mine, and to a different gate, which they were not quite aware of, because the airport didn't feel like updating the monitors and the only notification was this big on a scrolling bar at the bottom of the gate screen, going about as fast as the heart rate of the people screaming at the gate attendants if they found out
they would not be receiving a complimentary soft pretzel for their troubles.

However, I did not feel bad for the cocksucker who decided to take out his frustrations on the staff of the Sam Adams Brewhouse. Naturally, when the delays began to pile up around dinner time, this place got SLAMMED. And the staff was rushing around, doing the best they could while being extremely pleasant. Well, the aisles in the place were about as wide as a cokehead's hips, so you would occasionally get bumped which was always followed by a prompt apology. Well, some douche, who ironically was wearing a church youth group's polo, took offense to being bumped for the second time. Besides the fact that he was sitting sideways, Paul Wall style, with his legs in the aisle, he had no reason to get upset. But he proceeded to call the waiter an asshole and utter other nonsensical statements causing him to almost be removed from the restaurant. I mean, what the hell. I hope the next time he goes to a restaurant, he acts this way before his food comes, not after, and some crusty line cook urinates on his patty melt.

All ridiculousness aside, my flight was finally announced to be departing at 9:05, so I sat down and began to watch people board. I also got to watch the gate agent, who by this time had morphed into a stereotypical angry black woman, threaten to throw multiple people off the plane if they didn't settle down. Meanwhile, next to me, two LARGE women, the kind I mentioned before that could take up most of an exit row themselves, began to gripe about the number of carry-ons people boarding had. Before, they had been complaining because they had been charged extra cause their claimed bags were barely over 50 lbs. I mentally called shenanigans on their weight approximations because listening to them talk, they were also probably the ones who would describe themselves as "curvy" or "voluptuous", instead of the more appropriate "morbidly obese" or "possessing a gravitational pull". Well they tsk'd as a woman boarded with a small duffel, a purse, and a wristlet.

"That agent ain't complainin' about that. She got 3!"
"Mmhmm, typical white woman bullshit. We best get our 3!"

I immediately tuned them out because such stereotypically accurate noggery does nothing but infuriate me, and I was very pleased with my calm demeanor all things considering. However, my ire for them was reignited as I saw them begin to board themselves. Each woman had a wheeled suitcase, no lie, that I could have folded my 5'10 self into. They were BIG. Additionally, they each had a large duffel that was more than borderline too large and a big, Mary Poppin's style bag. Now I was ticked. And they had the nerve to complain about their checked bag being too heavy? You cheap skanks. Now they were trying to board with luggage, which in addition to their prodigious girths, could take up an entire first class cabin. Luckily their protests were in vain as the gate agent forced them to gate check their shipping trunks. Of course, I managed to sit right behind the more vocal woman as she lazily and inconsiderately tossed her duffel bag into the overhead bin. My main pet peeve on planes is people with oversized luggage who accompany it with an attitude or sense of entitlement. My suitcase is borderline big, and I worry every time I board with it, and try to take up as little space as possible. Meanwhile, people are shoving coffins into the overhead compartment and complaining if the FA DARES to move it. Selfish clowns. I read somewhere that deregulation was the worst thing to happen to the airline industry. Cause now derelicts, who should be taking their sweaty unwashed asses cross country on a Greyhound, are ruining air travel with their cheapness and disregard for anyone who may brush up against their Looney Tunes t-shirt. It's time to thin the herd...

Most times that I hear a REALLY good song by a respected artist, chances are when I check out the CD, there will be at least one or two other songs I truly enjoy. Not the case this time. I heard Hometown Glory by Adele on some crusty British TV show I was watching and was immediately struck by its awesomeness. Haunting, beautifully melodic, great piano riff. I was hooked. So I copped her CD because I had heard a lot about her. While it may be very good for the genre, I was utterly and completely bored by it. I couldn't listen to it on the train for fear of becoming comatose and injuring myself. It's just very blah. Hometown Glory is amazing and I highly recommend it, but she just isn't my cup of tea. Then again, I think Michael Buble is HORRENDOUS, talented, but his music makes me want to put cobras in my ears, so what do I know about this sort of stuff.

"Is there anything I can do for you dear, is there anyone I can call?

JW

Only stupid people are breeding...

So while I have a full Atlanta airport tirade in the works, I felt the need to share a bit of the insanity that I have to deal with in the workplace on a daily basis.

My company's main business is "call diamonds" which are sent out on memo. Much like a doctor, these diamonds are called when needed, to fill a customer's potential order cause the store doesn't normally carry a large inventory. The normal memo terms are 10 days, planning a day on each end for shipping and then a week for the stores to work on the stones. Well, certain diamond dealers are inpatient covetous bastards, so after 3-4 days, they begin calling me to pester me about their stones. Despite years of business with them, and them understanding how our business works, they assume we are either hoarding all these diamonds to swim in like Scrooge McDuck, or that by some bending of the laws of time and space, we are able to receive the diamond from them in NYC, and send it to a customer in say, California, and give them time to show it to a customer, and get it back to us, all in 3 damn days. Its absurd and unnecessary.

This brings me to the delightful experience I just had. Most companies we work with are either owned/staffed by Israelis or Indians. Don't ask me how Indians suddenly became big players in the diamond game, but in the last few decades they have. Israelis by nature are rough, impatient, and demanding, if sometimes incompetent (they can fire machine guns and defend against terrorist attacks, but they cant properly run a computer program), while Indians are more laid back and understanding. This particular customer of mine is Indian and they are usually great to work with as we keep their stones for weeks at a time, they are flexible and accommodating, and things work smooth as silk. However, they have a trade show coming up, so they need their inventory that we have back so they have it for display. So they are in a tizzy cause the show is coming up soon, so soon!...its in the first fucking week of March. Its still 3 weeks away, calm your curry-infused asses down. This lead to the following exchange today with a woman there named Patricia...

P: Yes, I am calling to check on (random stone number), I need the status or we need to have it back.
J: Umm, Patricia, we just got that stone from you on Tuesday, the store has only had it for 2 days, they are working on it.
P: Yes, but we have a show coming up and I told you we needed these stones back promptly.
J: I understand this, but we still need to let these stones breath a bit. I will get them back as soon as possible.
P: No you don't understand, we have a show coming up! Plus, you have a bunch of our larger stones, which are specifically what we need back the most.

At this point, I am starting to get pissed. Yes, Latika, I know you have a show coming up. But verbally hanging me up by my thumbs and tasing me is not going to get me to confess to cheating... i mean, get you your stones back. Oh yeah, these "large stones", usually that is stones over 2 cts, we had nothing over 1.25 cts, which is very averaged size. So she is getting her sari in a bunch over a bunch of false information.

J: Ok, I am doing the best I can. I will stay on top of it. But we don't have anything large and the stone you asked about will need to see after the weekend.
P: Can you get it back today?
J: No! They told me there is a customer coming in to see it this weekend, so I will know on Monday.
P: So you can't get it back today?
J: *sigh* It wouldn't be back till Monday anyways cause its Friday...
P: Just know that you guys have alot of goods, and we need them back, cause we have the show.
J: Fine.
*Click*

Side Note: This is all in heavily accented English. It was like arguing with the dude from the internet classic "You kicked my Dog", except it was an irritated female.

Now I know it is just her reacting to pressure from her superiors, but lets be honest, she doesn't know how to handle any sort of pressure. And her grasp of the workings of these memos seemed to be as tenuous as my grasp on their worship of bovines.

TGIF.


JW