I: The Elite-ish

Friday: Woke up at the regular time (6:20 AM) for a most irregular day.


Had to force myself into the office for 2 ½ hours before being picked up to be dropped off at EWR to wait in the 30 minute long “Elite Access” security line.

More like “Eat-my-ass” security. Bad play on words, I know.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I put in my 2 ½ hours at Saatchi Headquarters to kind of make sure everything was on course to get done so the team could enjoy a Summer Friday (1/2 day, how selfless of me), then went down to the sidewalk to get in my fancy Town Car that was SUPPOSED to pick me up to drop me off at EWR.

Problem.

No Town Car was there waiting for me.

WTF.

I REACHED INTO MY PANTS and WHIPPED OUT my voucher. I read it closely (for the first time). The voucher indicated that the pick-up spot was my home address. Not the SoHo Saatchi Headquarters.

SHIT.

UH OH.

I called the limo service and arranged to have a car pick me up in 15 minutes. That’s 30 minutes in limo speak.

So I waited in front of the building doing my best Carpe Diem Sun act, deciding to make the best of a QUICKLY DEGRADING SITUATION.

Sure enough, after a casual ATM withdrawal to kill time, a visit to the lobby newsstand for some Lifesavers and Tums, and a cigarette to milk the most from the sunny day, the Town Car pulls up.

I get in and the driver starts yapping. Great, I think, I HAVE A YAPPER DRIVER. Thankfully, my cell rang and I took a call from Hamilton Jewelers regarding their 50+ Ferrari Sunday promotion.

I confirmed the deal, effectively ruling out any option of me hanging in FLA for an extra day.

The Yapper got quiet when I took the call, but butted right into the silence as soon as I pocketed my cell. Turns out he was a COOL YAPPER. He gave me the lowdown on the BEST/WORST QUALITY HIGHWAYS in the NYC metro area:

• The Pulaski Skyway, which we were on at the time and featured in the intro credits to the Sopranos, is horrible. It’s ruined many a ball joint.

• The Cross Bronx Expressway is the worst road in the country. No surprise to anyone whose spent more than one second on it.

• Best? The NJ Turnpike. Yee ha! Chalk one up for the Garden State.

• My personal fave? The GSP with an EZ Pass at anytime other than rush hour or shore traffic.

But I’m getting behind myself.

The Yapper gets me to the airport an hour before my 1:30 departure. No problem, I think. Continental security is a breeze, especially with my “Elite Access”.

I get out of the Town Car, do the automatic Amex Card computer check in (last one to do so, judging by the lack of seats available and the following on-screen OMINOUS MESSAGE: Flight is way overbooked, dude. You might be booted off ASS OVER HEAD.

My anxiety level inches up a wee bit.

I’m not really looking forward to the trip, but hey, it’s work. If I miss this flight, I get to spend the next 3 to 12 hours in EWR. Fun, right?

So, instead of smoking my customary ANXIETY-QUELLING pre-flight cigarette, I book toward security.

I see a HUGE FUCKING line.

Even longer than this FUCKING POST.

I spot the “Elite Access” entrance to the line and breathe a sigh of relief. Before the breath is out I suck in a GASP OF DREAD. The “Elite Access” line isn’t much better.

Continental is getting a bit loosey-goosey with this whole “Elite Access” crap. Parents with four strollers and 12 pieces of luggage?

Give me a break.

Anyway…

I snag a spot in line and inch forward as my boarding time comes and goes.

Once I actually get to Homemade security I fly through. Hint:

• One (1) bag, no laptop, shoes already off and all metal objects in the bin in the pockets of one’s suit jacket.

Turns out my gate/way overbooked and already boarding flight is the one single point geographically furthest from the security line.

So I throw FATE TO THE AIR CONDITIONING and decide to stroll rather than sweat it out. Even stopped for a nice long pee.

I HATE TYPING. WHERE IS SPEECH RECOGNITION WRITING WHEN YOU NEED IT?

I reach the mob scene at the gate and, again, found the “Elite Access” Line. This time it WORKED OUT A LITTLE BETTER.

Without any semblance of a line, I gave the gate attendant my boarding pass. He scanned it and the computer made the MAGICAL BEEPING NOISE.

Confetti floated down while MISS AMERICA handed me my prize.

An upgrade to FIRST CLASS.

So here I am, writing on the plane, WRITING, vodka tonic next to me, in seat 4B.

I’m sure I look like the SMUG ASSHOLE who just ate the canary and is still wearing his Ray Bans.

I’m officially in the air now, ready for another V&T, a fine meal, and RECLINING in my barca lounge seat as far back as it can go.

ONE PROBLEM.

The woman sitting next to me is wearing perfume that smells like GONORRHEA-infected gangrene feet.

Still, it’s better than the everyday stink of the subway.

Still, first class AGAIN. La-la-la-la-la.

On my PERSONAL TV monitor:

• Ground speed: 493 MPH

• Altitude: 29, 143 feet. (Ew, feet.)

• Time to destination 2:20 hrs

• Time now: 2:09 PM

• Distance traveled: 50 miles

• Outside air temp: 23 degrees

• Access: Elite-ish

More to come, like it or not.

Time to stop typing.

Messages piling up.

Over and out.