Place your credit card in the upright position

Surprisingly, thank God, there are still a few things you don’t know about me. One of them is I used to be deathly afraid of flying. So much so in fact, that years ago I couldn’t bring myself to get on a plane to New York to actually meet Bruce Springsteen and party with him at an SNL after party.

Long story. I’m not proud.

However I’m pleased to tell you—and if you're flying with me you'll be pleased to hear—that’s no longer the case, and hasn’t been for the last twenty-eight years. The way I conquered my fear of flying was simple: I wound up doing a whole lot of it.

When I lived in Santa Monica, I got a freelance gig at Foote Cone Belding in San Francisco. Since these were the before days when you actually had to be in the office, that meant I had to commute up there on Monday mornings and back down on Friday nights. I figured even though I’d be sweating like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, I could probably white knuckle my way through a forty-eight minute flight twice a week.

Well imagine my surprise when my first week on the job I flew up to San Francisco, then separate round trips to Dallas and Atlanta for focus groups, then back to San Francisco to pick up my clothes at the hotel, back to Los Angeles for a friends birthday party then back up to the bay area.

It was immersion therapy—nine flights in one week.

In the nine months I commuted back and forth, sometimes two or three times a week, I got extremely comfortable with flying. I learned what the noises were. I chatted with pilots. I educated myself about different planes (Boeing 757, sports car of the Boeing fleet). And since I did most of my commuting to the bay and back on United, when the pilot made it available I also listened to channel nine, which was the communications between the plane and various flight controllers along the route.

My thinking was if they’re not worried, I’m not worried.

All this to say the other thing I figured out while I was logging all that airtime is where I like to sit on the plane so I’m the most comfortable and the least stressed.

Here’s a hint: it’s not in the back.

I’d buy books of upgrade coupons and, depending what sections the aircraft was divided into, fly in either first or business every time. One time I flew the eleven minute flight from San Francisco to Monterey and upgraded to first. My motto was, and still is, no trip to short for first.

I know how that sounds. But even though there's no upside in it, I have to face facts—I’m not a small person. And a wider seat—on the chair, not on me—makes flying much easier. Dare I say, enjoyable.

In yet another example of bad parenting, I've tried to pass this philosophy on to my kids, although it hasn’t stuck. Fortunately their current incomes dictates where they sit on the plane. So does mine, but then I figure that’s what credit cards are for.

If you happen to be flying somewhere with me and don't want to pony up for the front of the plane, I understand completely. Just know it'll be like that episode of Seinfeld, where Jerry is flying with Elaine but there’s only one open seat in first and he takes it.

Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to talk after we land.

Rediscovering Raymond

Here’s how our sitcom rotation goes (I like using the word “rotation” for obvious reasons).

It started with nightly mini-binges of Seinfeld. Every night from 10 to 11pm, channel 13 runs back-to-back episodes, and the wife and I would watch them while we were struggling to arrange the five-thousand pillows on the bed before falling asleep (don’t get me started).

The problem is in that particular syndication package, there are only a limited number of episodes, which means they keep running the same ones over and over. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just that they're not as funny when you see it for the tenth time within three weeks.

So we made the move from the corner restaurant to Central Perk. Nick At Nite fills their evening lineup with episode after episode of Friends from about 8pm to midnight every night. Could it be more entertaining?

But while NAN runs more Friends episodes, if you watch them long enough you wind up with the same issue. So we decided to pivot and take a break from Friends.

While we were using the clicker to run down the channels to see what else we could binge, we discovered every evening at 8pm TV Land runs a whole bunch of Everybody Loves Raymond. It was like striking comedy gold. We’d forgotten how out-and-out hilarious, relatable and pitch perfect Raymond is. It ran for 9 years, and though it's not often mentioned in the same breath as those other two sitcoms, it's one of the best and funniest that ever was.

One of the ways you can tell how brilliant it is on every level is the fact many of the most hilarious scenes take place with the five main characters—Ray (Ray Romano), Debra (Patricia Heaton), Frank (Peter Boyle), Marie (Doris Roberts) and Robert (Brad Garrett)—just sitting on the couch or at the kitchen table just talking. Not walking around, not gesturing wildly, not being contrived. Just talking.

It’s testimony to the brilliant writing and talent of this finely tuned cast.

I know Seinfeld is a staple for a lot of people, and what with the reunion, the sad, not so funny reunion, it’s been the year of Friends again. But if you're looking for some genuine laughs you didn't even know you had, I can’t recommend enough that you drop in on the Barone family.

As Frank would say, "Holy crap is that a funny show!"

Cutting the cards

It's that time of year again.

The one where I'm making last minute runs to the post office for stamps, and can't stop thinking about that Seinfeld episode where George's fiancé dies from licking envelopes.

What you're looking at is this year's crop of Christmas cards. Maybe some of you loyal readers (stops to laugh for thinking anyone's loyal, or for that matter that I have readers) will be receiving one of your own in the mail. The thing is, I can't guarantee that.

There's a master list of friends and family we send cards to. But from year to year, through a series of seemingly and sometimes actually random criteria, people get added and subtracted from the list. It's like getting a home loan, a job, knowing how planes fly or bread rises. You're never exactly sure how it happens, you just know that it does.

Then there's the picture. For years the cards have had a shot of the kids, or what used to be the kids. Now they're like our kids, except bigger and older. And they're not exactly fond of having to sit for the Christmas card picture. Again. They humor us because, after all, there is car insurance, food and college tuition in play. But frankly, they'd rather we just send out cards with a picture of a surfing Santa, a wreath or lights on a tree.

I'm hopeful that doesn't come across in the picture.

Anyway, if you get a card, you're welcome. And if you don't, it's nothing personal. Try to move past the disappointment, enjoy the holiday, have a merry Christmas, and know the odds are 50/50 you'll probably get one from us next year.

Unless you wind up on the naughty list.