Frenchy's Rant

For the second time in two months, I am without my electronic leash.

The first time, I managed to leave my cell phone on my saddle bag during a motorcycle trip to Little Rock. Annoying? Yes. Dumb? Yes. Intentional? Well….. maybe…….

When I replaced the phone, I also took out a life insurance policy on it. For a few bucks, if I fold, spindle or otherwise mutilate my phone, Cingular will supposedly send me a brand new one. Right now I am VERY happy about this policy!

Why? Today, after flying in to Los Angeles, it happened again. I made a quick pit stop, and disaster struck. As I made my way into the stall, I heard a “SPLOOOSH!”

“SPLOOOSH?”, I thought to myself. “What the hell was that?” Then, “Oh shit!” as the realization hit me.

There, taking on water, deep in the mouth of the now laughing toilet was my new cellular phone. Yes. The toilet. In a LAX public restroom. I can’t be sure it was a clean toilet, but at least it seemed unusued. Without even trying, I knocked the phone from my hip and scored a bullseye.

With a sigh, I closed my eyes and reached deep into the cold, gaping maw of the pisser. I retrevied the cursed phone, and to my surprise it was still working. Of course, that was short lived. As I watched, the message ‘Be Safe. Be Courteous.’ flickered across the screen, then it went dark.

I had to tell everyone I was traveling with what just happened. My phone was immediatley dubbed the ‘Smell-O-Phone’ and someone asked if I chaged the ringtone to a fart. What a group of comedians.

So, once again I am disconnected. Hopefully the phone’s life insurance policy covers flood damage.

“Sir, I bet you’re surprised we didn’t have to look inside that case, aren’t you?”

The case in question is my hard-shelled Pelican case, stuffed full of microphones, wires, tools and batteries. The question came from a TSA agent in the Providence airport. The case and I were heading to the first NBA game of the season on the Entertainment and Sports Production Network (better known as ESPN) After the first game, this case will be shipped along with thirty other cases from game to game for the rest of the season.

Mike Duke, my audio assistant, ended up with the microphone case at the end of last NBA season. Having no need for it over the summer, Mike kept it and used it for his WNBA shows. Since NBA is starting again (already) and Mike will not be at the first game, he returned the case to me at a recent race we both worked in Memphis. I checked the box as luggage from Memphis and went home with no problem. It never occurred to me that Mike’s name and information were still attached to the outside of the box.

After checking in for this most recent flight, the TSA agent asked me if I was surprised they didn’t have to open the case up. I admitted I was a little surprised, I would imagine the x-rayed contents look at least mildly suspicious. The agent assured me that the computer didn’t “think “ so.

I smiled, thanked her and went to the security line. Evidently, though the computer didn’t think my microphones look suspicious, I did. My ticket had the dreaded four SSSS’s in the lower corner, awarding me the privilege of “extra screening.”

Security has come a long way from the days when the TSA regarded everyone as a potential terrorist. In Providence, extra screening now includes a blow job. Standing inside a box that resembled a phone booth, rapid blasts of air were blown at me from all directions. What exactly this does besides startling people in the name of security is beyond me. In any case, I passed that test. (Yes, that’s all that happened. Get your mind out of the gutter.) Blown clean, I walked to the next area. The customary rubber-glove exam followed soon after. I was cleared by TSA as persona non-threatening, and I celebrated with a pint of Newport Storm beer.

Then, one hundred fifty thousand pounds of steel, fuel, oxygen masks, floating seat-cushions and flesh (and hopefully one microphone case) did the impossible. The heavy metal tube left the ground and climbed six miles in the air. A little over two hours later we landed in Detroit.

After boarding my connecting flight, I watched out my window with interest as four people scanned tags then loaded luggage into the belly of the plane. Though I didn’t see my luggage, I assumed it had made it to Detroit. Five minutes later I had proof that it did.

“If there is a Mike Duke on the plane, please ring your call button.”

My first though was “Cool! I didn’t know Mike was on this flight.” Then it hit me. Mike wasn’t on the plane, because he isn’t working this show. I realized the call was meant for me, or more specifically my microphone case (with HIS name on it). Uh oh. I bet there is a stupid TSA rule against this sort of thing. “Do Not Carry Packages Belonging To Others” or something… This should be interesting.

I started thinking quickly how I could explain the box, the jumble of wires and batteries checked to me but with someone else’s name on it… “Yeah, it’s actually mine, it just has Mike’s name on it.” No. “It’s his, and I am just carrying it for him.” Definitely not. “Uhh…”

All eyes on me, I nervously walked to the front of the plane. A stern-faced TSA agent demanded my identification. I produced my license. Then he demanded to see my ticket and the baggage tag. I showed both. He asked if I knew what was inside the case. I said yes.

The agent was serious, but not nearly as bad as the jack booted TSA agent years ago that informed me I couldn’t bring a roll of half-inch masking tape on a plane because I could “make handcuffs by wrapping tape many times around someone’s wrists.” I asked him, “Are you serious? What about my belt or shoe laces? Don’t you think they’d make MUCH better handcuffs than masking tape?” After an argument, I was allowed to take the tape along, and have never been questioned about it again.

I never had to identify the contents of the microphone case, they never asked who Mike Duke was or why his name was on my luggage. That was that. No further questions, no additional blow jobs, nothing. The plane was delayed about ten minutes, and for a change it was all my fault! I was never given an official reason for this questioning, though I doubt it had anything to do with masking tape. I will say that TSA tolerance has come a long way from the days when nail clippers were considered terrorist weapons, as I wasn’t arrested.

I was glad to see that my microphones were not taken away and blown up in the name of security.

Stuart Shurtleff passed away Wednesday. He was a friend of mine, in the way that all audio mixers are friends. That is to say, I knew him, understand and respected what he did, and may have even had a drink or two with him in a hotel bar somewhere. Stuart mixed the Broadcast Center for the X-Games the last five years. His job, coordinating all the audio feeds from the six different venues, announce positions and a myriad of other ‘surprises’, was probably the most thankless job at the X Games, and he always had a smile (or maybe it was a grimace…) for me when I saw him.

I learned of his passing in a two sentence e mail which read ‘Stuart Shurtleff passed away earlier today due to a heart attack. Please pass this information along to those who may not know.’ All I could think is that this man’s life has abruptly ended, and this is how he is eulogized?

The next day, e-mails started coming in, saying that there was no one funnier than Stuart on the CBS golf tour, that he aspired to be a great teacher, teaching bartenders all over the world how to make the perfect margarita, and grading their efforts.

Then I was sent a link to his website and was amazed at what I learned. Stuart and his wife Lynn have built a RAILROAD on their property. Incredible! I had never heard about this from anyone, and it is amazing to think that someone would go through all the trouble and effort to build a railroad for the sheer pleasure of having one. The ‘Happenings‘ link said how he was planning this fall to get ‘at least another two or three hundred feet of track laid’.

Life is short, and when it ends, it is sudden, swift, and worst of all for you, final. The mortgage doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does. All you did is all you will do. That’s it. Seems that Stuart made the best of it, I mean how can you say he didn’t? He taught at Margarita U. and had a train running through his yard. I realize that I didn’t know Stuart at all, other than the X Games Broadcast Center mixer with a worse job than mine. I also realized I will miss him, in the way that freelancers miss each other when there is a long time between path crossings.

Make the best of what little time you have left. Build that railroad, take the trip, take a break, walk barefoot in the snow. Fuck it. That clock is tick-tick-ticking…

I realized this morning I am getting older. And it sucks. Went out last night on Beale Street in Memphis. Had a beer, then another and another… Nothing out of the ordinary, used to do it all the time. Guinness on Beale Street is and will always be one of my all-time favorite things in life.

Back in the day, I’d get up the next morning, yawn, stretch and shower, work all day, then repeat. No problem.

Now, it’s not so easy. Woke up this morning, and EVERYTHING, even my hair hurt. Heard shattering glass every time my eyes blinked. Felt the ice pick embedded in my throbbing temples. Took five minutes just to crawl out of bed.

Man. It’s going to be a long day.

And then, the killer. Somehow, overnight, I developed three… I don’t even want to say it… grey… hairs…. How the hell could this have happened??? I wondered if my aching hair was related to the dark beer or to the sudden color change.

Yes, the writing was on the wall, actually on the mirror, and I probably should have paid attention. No TV-No Beer… And yes, I will most likely do it all over again tonight, even with the risk of finding more grey hairs tomorrow.

Getting out of the shower this morning, I noticed some writing on the fogged-up mirror. It’s kind of hard to see in the picture but it is there. It said:

“No Beer-No TV Marc”

Woah. Freaked me out a little. I know I should probably lay off the TV, but beer too???