Monk See, Monk Do

So I went to a blood lab to have my blood drawn to see if I’ve finally gotten my cholesterol level lower than my S.A.T. score. I dutifully handed the receptionist my paperwork and proceeded to the empty seat nearest the least objectionable looking person in the waiting room. The little, old lady sitting next to me knitting didn’t look like she’d be any trouble, although I swear she glanced approvingly at my ass as I sat down next to her. Just as long as she didn’t jab me with a knitting needle we’d get along fine for the next 15 minutes. And although she had a weapon, I was pretty sure I could take her in the battle for the shared arm rest.

The waiting room is nearly full and I think to myself, “This is going to be a bit of a wait.” I begin to scan the room looking for a good magazine or newspaper left behind. As my eyes roam, scanning the coat closet, the end tables, and the empty seats I spot something a lot more interesting. Tibetan monks! I had to rub my eyes, refocus and look again to be certain I was seeing what my brain had just told me was there. Sitting across from me, swaddled in orange off-the-shoulder robes and sandals were two Tibetan monks. What?!!? I don’t exactly live in an international metropolis. I live in an average American suburb in upstate New York. Upstate. Not New York City. I’d have to drive 6 hours to get to New York City. There just are not Tibetan monks wandering around my neck of the woods very often.

The monks and I regarded each other warily. There was two of them and one of me. They didn’t appear to be armed, but with those loose robes it was impossible to tell what they might be concealing. I gave them a nod and a slight flex of my biceps as I folded my arms across my chest. If there was going to be any trouble I wanted them to know exactly what they were up against. As the phlebotomist called their names in turn, the monks each went back and returned a few minutes later with a small bandage on the inside of one arm. I was still in my seat, arms folded, maintaining my gaze. By now, I was sure that these two knew just who the alpha-dog in this waiting room was. They spoke to each other in hushed tones as they exited the waiting room. I don’t know Chinese, but I think I heard the words “Phil Factor” just before the door shut behind them. I breathed a sigh of relief as it appeared that the confrontation was over and I thought to myself, “I hope those two morons realize that after Labor Day, the sandals and off-the-shoulder look is completely out of season.”

Phil of the Future

I went to the dentist yesterday. Look Ma, no cavities again! Yaaaa for me. I have an extensive history with dentists dating back to when I broke a tooth in the second grade. That one broken tooth has resulted in all manner of dental interventions from two root canals to several different caps and a post drilled into my gum and I assume the bone underneath. In fact, an oral surgeon once uttered "Oops!" while working in my mouth. That's reassuring eh? I also had a wisdom tooth that needed to be broken out of my jaw piece by piece with a hammer and chisel, while I was awake. Despite all of that, I have no fear or anxiety about dental procedures. In fact, for me the most frightening part of going to the dentist is... receiving the appointment reminder postcard in the mail.

What? Yes, that's right. The appointment reminder card freaks me out. Every time. Again, not because I fear the dentist. I like my dentist. We chit chat about our kids who play baseball. My hygienist is delightful and I've seen her for the past 15 years. It feels like I'm just visiting old friends when I go to the dentist. So why does the appointment reminder card freak me out? It's simple. It's because the reminder card is in my own handwriting. At the conclusion of each appointment I'm handed a postcard on which I dutifully fill out my own name, address, and next appointment. My hygienist then takes the card and five and a half months later mails it to me.

So why the freak out? I'll return home on any idle Tuesday and get my mail. As I rifle through the assorted bills and junk mail suddenly I come across a handwritten postcard that stands out because it's handwritten, as so little mail we receive these days is. Usually when I receive mail with a handwritten name and address I don't recognize the writing. This time however the writing is oddly familiar. I know it, but at first I don't know to whom the script belongs. I think, "why do I know this writing?" It's just a brief moment, but for some reason I hate that moment of knowing that I recognize the writing but I'm not certain whose it is. It's kind of an eerie feeling as if someone is fucking with me. Like it might be a serial killer dressed in a clown costume taunting me by mail before he stalks me in earnest and eventually sneaks into my house to leave my bunny boiling in a pot on the stove for me to discover. Yes, for that one tenth of a second before I recognize my own handwriting, it's that kind of thing that flashes through my mind. Is it just me, or does everyone else hate getting mail from themselves?

Colgan Err,...I mean Air

I hate to pile on here, but I'm thinking it's been a bad week for Colgan Airlines. If you're a regular reader of my blog, both of you, you remember my posts about the Colgan Air flight that crashed outside of Buffalo, NY back in February. As you may recall, I believe I flew on that very plane 5 weeks earlier.

This week it was revealed that the pilot had failed 4 pilot tests before finally passing, but had lied to Colgan Air about at least two of the failures. The co-pilot was a 23 year old woman who was making $16,000 dollars a year! What?!!? $16,000 a year? And she had peoples lives in her hands all day every day! I'm pretty sure there are people that work at my local McDonald's making $16,000 a year and I sure as hell don't want my life in their hands, although eating fast food prepared by minimum wage earners is definitely as risky as a Colgan Air flight. Then, in the midst of all this news from the investigation, a Colgan Air flight was landing in Buffalo and one of the wheels fell off! It just fell off! As the plane was landing. If I add up all the bicycle riding and car driving I've done in my lifetime, I'm sure I've traveled as many miles as that one plane and not once has a wheel just fallen off. If they pay their co-pilots $16,000 a year, can you imagine how little their mechanics must get? If you've got stock in Colgan Air I'm thinking this might be a good time to sell.

When I flew Colgan Air back in January maybe I should have suspected that it wasn't a top rated airline when I had to load my luggage into a trailer hitched to the back of the plane. I should have suspected safety wasn't their top priority when I entered the plane and noticed that all the seats were just lawn chairs duck taped to the floor. I began to suspect I might be on a cut-rate airline when I asked about beverage service and the stewardess, who was wearing a Burger King crown pointed to a piece of notebook paper taped to the wall that had "BYOB" written on it in crayon. Maybe I should have suspected their planes weren't top rate when I saw the crew giving the jet a push start.

Here is what I'd like to ask of modern science: Get to work on that human cloning thing and apply it to Sully Sullenberger, the guy that landed his jet safely in the Hudson River after he lost both engines. Everytime I fly for the rest of my life I want that guy at the controls.

The Top 10 Things You Need to Know About Phil

10. Phil sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized Phil roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.


9. Phil does not use spell check. If he happens to misspell a word the Oxford Dictionary will change the actual spelling of it.


8. Phil lost his virginity before his dad did.


7. Phil doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.


6. Phil doesn't wear a watch. He decides what time it is.


5. In fine print on the last page of the Guiness Book of World Records it notes that all the world records are held by Phil and those listed in the book are simply the closest anyone has gotten.


4. If Phil has five dollars and you have five dollars, Phil has more money than you.


3. If paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, and scissors beat paper, what beats all three? Answer: Phil


2. Contrary to popular belief, Phil, not the box jellyfish of northern Australia, is the most venomous creature on Earth.


1. Through a set of circumstances too complicated to explain, if you don't comment on this post Snuggles the fabric softener bear will die.


Yes, I am now blogging about myself in the 3rd person. I would also like to give credit to all the people across the internet who created many of the Chuck Norris facts that I so blatantly heisted in the name of Phil. But of course I can do that, because I'm Phil.

It's Time to Cut the Cord

Cell phones, PDA's, laptop computers, and ipods. The conveniences of modern life. The results of our ever advancing technology. We can talk on the phone, send e-mail, listen to music, surf the web, and plan our schedule no matter where we may be...until the battery runs out. For all the brilliance and fun our technology has given us, we are still almost as tethered to an outlet as we used to be. We have briefs moments of freedom sometimes lasting a whole day before we have to find a safe place to re-charge our batteries. We're almost like energy vampires who have to return to their coffins at sundown, only we have to return to our outlets at the end of each day. (With the recent popularity of Twilight I had to throw in the vampire mention. It will help me with the search engines) There are even those of us who feel lost, paralyzed if one of their electronic devices runs out of juice.

Charging cords have become the bane of my existence. I have a file cabinet drawer just for charging cords. Part of my nightly routine before bed is making sure that all of my electronic devices are plugged in to charge for the night. (I'm sure some of you ladies do the same) With the advent of the electric car some people have to plug in their ride every night too. Some people tuck in their kids. I tuck in my ipod, my two cell phones, my laptop, and my PDA. When I travel one of my big concerns is remembering all my charging cords. Airport security almost always goes through my checked baggage. I always open my suitcase to find that little pre-printed note that says, "We invaded your privacy and rifled through all your personal belongings. Sorry if we broke anything. Have a nice day." I imagine that they scan the luggage, see all kinds of electrical cords and wonder if I'm building a bomb, so they have to check it out.

As much fun as all of this charging cord nonsense is I yearn for the day, that's right, I said yearn, when electricity will be available for free, from the air. That our devices will become so energy efficient that they will be able to run indefinitely by passively absording static electricity in their environment the way our cell phones search for a signal. Of course the increase in incidents of human spontaneous combustion will be a little disturbing, but all progress has it's price.

Got Sleep?

Sleep. A basic, innate human need. An instinct. Most people spend roughly one third of their lives asleep. Unfortunately I'm not one of them. I view sleeping as a skill. I have many skills, some of them are even useful and productive skills. Sleep, however, is not listed on my resume. I do it every night, just not as much as I'd like or as often as most. Sounds like my sex life, but that's a topic for another post. As I said, to me sleep is such a difficult enterprise that I view it as a skill. I'm good at falling asleep. I'm just not good at staying there. Today I woke up at 4:24 a.m. I'm not sure what that is in metric time for my Canadian and European friends, but in America that's damn early. If I lived on a farm the roosters would be telling me to go back to bed. There are historical anecdotal reports that Leonardo DaVinci got by on catnaps throughout the day. If poor sleep begets artistic genius I ought to have a few masterpieces done by now. I suppose my masterpiece is, I'm sure you'll agree, this blog. Yep, I'm the Leonardo DaVinci of blogs. Hmmm....I may have an idea for a new blog title...See?!!? Without enough sleep I just ramble idiotically. Is idiotically even a word? Maybe that's my sleep deprived genius at work. I'm creating new words like Leonardo created paintings. Like I said, I get to sleep easily and I get 6-7 hours straight, but then my brain just turns on. Unfortunately when my brain turns on it's asking me what I'm going to do at work today or what bills I need to pay instead of ideas for great paintings and sculptures. I'm sure you're also thinking, "Phil's lack of sleep sure as hell isn't giving him and great blog ideas either." Anybody else out there in the same boat as me with your sleep? Does anyone else have non-pharmaceutical ideas for extending my sleep past 6-7 hours?