Welcome Gamers!!

Okay, so I was checking my blog stats to see if actually posting something after months of inactivity had made any significant difference in site traffic. It did, and it shows me there are actually folks out there who care (*sniff*). I also noticed something strange- a couple visits from people who had Googled "Zonthar" (and I liked it). Now, I have been Zonthar ever since my KFSR days. Thought then that I made it up entirely, but in recent years I've realized I probably subconsciously ripped it off from the thrilling 1966 classic "Zontar, Thing From Venus". SCTV- of which I was a huge fan- even did a whole 90-minute episode based on "Zontar". So, I've been forced to admit that I actually have zero creativity, except that the "h" is all mine. Anyway, I've held onto "Zonthar" because it's fun, easy to remember, and I've only ever found a couple other people on the web who also use it. So, I was surprised when not one but two people, from different countries, had specifically typed "Zonthar" into Google recently and visited my blog. That didn't seem to be a random misspelling. Was someone searching for me? Was my meager, unexciting blog quietly gathering a worldwide following? Considering that these visitors had spent a total time of 0:00 viewing the page, I thought it unlikely. Then, I saw more "Zonthar" searches in the following days. What the hell was going on here? I Googled myself- mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, that's good.........- and discovered that apparently this new PC game has some sort of puzzle sequence that has to do with something called Zonthar, and people are looking for hints. I feel rather violated by all this, quite frankly. I seriously thought about posting some sort of joke link on here for gamers to follow, but then I decided maybe it would be best to not bring the rage of multiple geeks down upon my humble blog.

London Tales - Parte the Firste

Well, you've done it. Yes, I'm actually writing a blog entry. The deafening silence as you all haven't been screaming at me, haven't constantly harassed me, in fact not once have asked me to blog about my London trip- stop it already!! I'll write it, I'll write it!!!! Geez Louise!!

First off, for those who haven't seen them already or who want a return trip to two dimensions of someone else's memories, my complete, unedited, no-commentary London photo gallery is here and Alan's is here. Jeff has no photos, as far as I know. If you get really desperate, Alan inexplicably posted all my dopey little videos to YouTube. They're not exciting, but they entertain me in a back-of-the-brain kind of way. Apologies for the ads on my gallery- they keep it free. It seems that Alan takes more pictures of people and I take more pictures of things. Does that make me bad?

The journey starts, as most of mine do, with many wacky misadventures at the hands of Lucifer Airlines, known in this Earthly realm as United. Did I say Lucifer Airlines? Really, I should say Three Stooges Airlines- perhaps Air Moe? Three of the last four times I've flown anywhere, mind you that's three times within a year and a half, I've been treated to a zany "will we ever get there" experience courtesy of the apparently boundless ineptitude of United Airlines. So why do I keep flying with them? It's generally because I wasn't the one who chose the airline, or because they're cheapest, or because I have a voucher from the LAST time something happened. Plus, they make for good stories.

Saturday morning, September 16, 2006, 6:30 AM, Los Angeles, CA. Jeff and I drove to LA the night before, crashed at Alan's place, and now Alan's generous-but-sleepy neighbor is driving us to LAX.



Our flight to Chicago leaves at 8:55, then about a 1 1/2 hour layover at O'Hare and off to London to arrive at 5:55 AM Sunday, London time. We didn't choose this particular itinerary, just requested dates and this is what we got. Long story, but for those who don't already know, we flew to London on free round-trip vouchers. That's right, didn't pay a dime. So, I guess we can't complain too much. No, wait- yes we can. My major concern at this point of the story is that our flight will be on time and we-and our luggage- won't have any trouble making the connection in Chicago. Past experience with Air Moe has made me wary of anything less than a two-hour connection buffer. I look back on this petty concern now and I laugh, a hearty Phil Ken Sebben laugh- ha HA!- but I digress.

We arrive at the airport, two hours early as suggested. Excitement fills our drowsy minds. This is the day! We're on our way to London!! There's the United check-in counter- hold on a second, guys- I want to just check this departures monitor real quick. I scan down the cities and times- yup, there's our flight. Says "cancelled". Blink. Blink. "Cancelled"....... wha...... um..... SHIT!!! Cancelled!! THE FLIGHT IS CANCELLED!!!! Who the... what the.... no other flights are cancelled, just ours! Sure, there's a 7:55 Chicago flight, but it's 7:00 now, so it's too late for that one.... how can our flight be cancelled? I checked yesterday to confirm. I have automatic notification- they're supposed to email me and call my cell if there's any changes! Check my cell- no messages. Discovered later that they did send me an email- at 11:30 the night before. The flight had been cancelled and we had been rebooked.... to the 7:55 flight. Thanks for the notice, assholes. If I'm getting up at 5:30 the next morning so I can get to the airport on time, I'm not thinking to check my email at 11:30 to find out whether I have to be there an hour earlier!!

We ask someone about our dilemma, and are pointed to the "other" counter. Of course, at this point, we're a bit freaked and pissed, but I still have a sense of humor about it. I'm thinking, "Here we go. It's starting already. Whatever ends up happening, it'll make a good story." Then we get to the counter, explain ourselves, and the ticket agent starts right in with, "You're late. We tell everyone to be here 2 1/2 hours early. We could have gotten you on the 7:55, but it's too late now." I can't believe my ears. What, this is our fault now? We're here 2 hours early- every piece of United literature says 2 hours, not 2 1/2- but more importantly, it seems to me they have a certain responsibility to provide us with the FUCKING PLANE THEY PROMISED!!!! This woman is looking for something to put us on, with no luck- and keeps going back to "You should have gotten here earlier." I'm exercising every bit of will power to not throttle her. Don't want to make anyone mad until we at least have tickets. Oh, and the explanation for why the flight was cancelled? "There was no crew." WTF?!?!?!?!? No crew? For a flight that's been scheduled for months? You knew this last night and still couldn't find anyone by morning? Obviously something is missing from this explanation, but at this point, any additional info is, in a word, moot.

Meanwhile, a long line of equally disenfranchised and disgruntled passengers is forming behind us. It seems that not only are many other people from our flight as surprised as we are, but also, we got there EARLIER than everyone else. Must....not....kill....ticket....agent..... Plus, some of those other people are being much less tolerant of the circumstances. One German family was particularly irate. As the crush descended on the unsuspecting counter people- I really don't think they had any idea what they were in for, since they didn't even seem to know about the cancelled flight- our still-unthrottled and unsuccessful agent finally sent us to someone else a counter over, a much more fun and pleasant woman whose nametag actually said- no lie- "Ms. January".

After much searching on multiple airlines, and much talking to God-knows-who on the phone, Ms. January finally got us booked on Lufthansa, connecting through Frankfurt and getting us to London at 4 PM Sunday, a mere 10 hours late. Whatever, fine. We were on vacation and not stuck to a timetable. Just getting to London at all was the goal. Besides, now we get to spend a couple hours in Germany! Fine. Problem is, the flight leaves at 3:45 PM, and it's now all of 7:30 AM. Our ride is long gone, and it's pointless to call anyone to come and get us, or leave the airport laden with luggage. Might as well go trudge over to the Tom Bradley International Terminal (hereafter referred to as the TBIT), check in, and find a comfortable place to wait out an entire wasted Saturday at LAX. Incidentally, this is also about the time that the cell message from United comes through, informing me of the flight change. Bastards.

We find the Lufthansa counter- they don't even open until 11:00. Luckily, unlike the rest of LAX, the TBIT has plenty of food and rest options outside the secure zone. So, we settle in and grab some food.


Another complication is that we have rented a short-term apartment in London, and they're sending someone to pick us up at the airport and give us the key. So, I call and give them the message that we won't be there until 4:00. Everything seems to be in order- I'm not looking forward to spending the whole day at the airport, but hey, it's already an adventure- and we're going to Germany!

Finally, the Lufthansa counter opens, and we confidently step up with our confirmation vouchers. The counter man, a perfect and prissy Aryan specimen with the requisite German accent- we'll just call him Dieter- punches us into the computer, and informs us that they have zero record of us. Despite our printed confirmations to the contrary, we do not exist. Dieter disappears into the back room- amazing how every place has a mysterious "back room" where all important things reside- and comes back a few minutes later to confirm that yes, indeed, we do not exist. Despite the personal phone call from Ms. January, despite the confirmed reservations, we have not been ticketed, there is no room on the flight, and we will have to go back to United- back across the airport to Terminal 7 again- to straighten it out. Dieter couldn't get rid of us fast enough.

Now, we're pissed. The day's half over and we haven't even been able to check our bags yet, much less get off the ground. We schlep back to United, and even they are flabbergasted that Lufthansa wouldn't take us. It's a different shift of folks now, and our agent gets right on the phone and gives Lufthansa an earful for confirming us without issuing tickets, which is supposed to be impossible. So much for German efficiency. At least it has spread some of the blame- SOME- off of United's back. Well, much key-punching and phone-calling later, we find ourselves booked on Air New Zealand, leaving at 4:40 - but it's a direct flight so it gets us there at 11:00. No connections, five hours earlier- better than Lufthansa. The United agent gives us her name, the name of the person she spoke to at ANZ and all pertinent numbers and info- very helpful. We ask if they're open now for us to check in, and are told yes, she just got off the phone with them so they're there. In Terminal 2. Sigh.


Back across the airport, to the ANZ counter, to discover.... they're closed until 1:30. It's noon now. Well, shit. They probably just went to lunch or something, but now we have to wait another hour and a half to find out if we're going to get screwed again. There's nothing there- no food court, no lounge- but we're not leaving until we get checked in.


We chat with a very nice couple from Newcastle who are on their way home.


Eventually, the counter opens. With fingers crossed, we approach- and are accepted! A bit of security, and then we are finally allowed into the inner sanctum- the Concourse at Terminal 2, lair of the ticketed and checked! Look! A restaurant! Look! An ATM! Look! The men's room! So many wondrous things that only passengers are allowed to see! We're already exhausted and drained, and we haven't even started our 10-plus hours on the plane. And now I have to make another cell call to the UK to change the pickup time. Not cheap.

Finally, we board the prettiest metal cylinder I ever saw- and I am here to tell you, if you ever get a chance to fly Air New Zealand, TAKE IT. The staff are friendly, good-looking, and unusually perky in a good way, as if they actually enjoy their jobs. You know, like In-N-Out Burger employees. The food is good. The wine is free. EVERY seat has its private viewscreen, with multiple channels of on-demand, pausable movies, TV shows, video games- it's beautiful! Being Air New Zealand, included in the fairly numerous entertainment options is the entire LOTR trilogy. I didn't watch it- not much of it anyway- but I could have watched every minute on that flight if I'd wanted to. Sweet. Thumbs up on Air New Zealand!

Wanted to sleep to beat the jet lag, but couldn't- not much anyway. Can't sleep on a plane.


Saw the sunrise somewhere over Iceland.


Landed in London without incident. Was allowed into the UK by the nicest customs agent I've ever encountered. First sight of British soil: the carpet in Heathrow Terminal 3 Arrivals.


Walked out into the sea of waiting family, friends, and limo drivers with hand-drawn signs. I was rather looking forward to seeing one of those signs with my name on it, as if I was someone important, like..... um.... oh let's say.... John Stamos. But nothing. Nowhere. No driver. No John Stamos sign. The message hadn't gotten to the right person- even though I had actually spoken to a real person- and we had to phone them and wait for a driver to be sent out. Apparently they had still been expecting us at 6 AM, when of course we didn't show. So much for my expensive international cell calls. Shee-it. Just want to get there, people!

Finally got the driver, who immediately proceeded to drive on the wrong side of the road!


He was also driving some kind of crazy backward car that had the steering wheel on the wrong side- we tried to tell him, but he insisted he knew what he was doing, and we were too tired to fight.


Somehow we survived the Bizarro World drive into town, and happily set foot- after a significant luggage-laden stair climb- into our fabulous top-floor two-bedroom flat just off the Portobello Road. 22 1/2 hours after we left Alan's place, we had arrived. We were in London!




THUS ENDETH PARTE THE FIRSTE