Adventures in air travel

I'm nearing the end of day two of a short trip to visit my grandmother in Indiana. After I came out here for my cousin's wedding last year, I volunteered to be bumped to a late flight in exchange for a voucher for $300 off another ticket. I had to use it within a year, so here I am again.

I spent Wednesday night in a hotel in Portland because I had an early morning flight out of PDX. While at the hotel, I watched the season finale of "Lost," and love the show more than ever. More on this later.

After a brief adventure trying to find a way to fit all my toiletries into a bag that met airport security regulations (and after ultimately spending six bucks on a clear makeup bag from an airport gift shop because my stupid zip lock bag tore), I was through security with no problems and on my way to the gate.

I actually have amazing luck with air travel -- I've never had a delayed flight, except when I've volunteered to go late and I've never experienced scary turbulence. I rather enjoy flying.

As I sat in the Portland airport, waiting for a plane to Detroit, I began to look around and flashed back to the past three seasons of "Lost."


Which of these people, I wondered, would be the best to have around if we crashed on a creepy magical island (it would of course be even stranger if a plane flying from Portland to Detroit wound up on a tropical island)? Who would kick the most ass when faced with gun-wielding "others?" Could any of these people kill a wild boar or climb a mango tree to get food?

None of the passengers at the gate looked capable of fighting off the forces of the Lost island. When I got on the plane, I noticed some who looked like fighters, but for the most part, a plane full of white Americans heading to the Midwest didn't seem like the type the others would even bother with.


After I get through security, I love airports. I enjoy the people watching, and I like to see what people bring along to read. Reading material says a lot about a person.

On this flight, a middle-aged gay man (he was with his partner) sitting near me was reading a copy of Christopher Moore's "Lamb," which is one of my favorite books. I happened to have a Moore book with me and I was sure I'd get along with the man reading "Lamb." He'd probably be my best friend on the island. At the very least, he'd have good books in his luggage.

The girl next to me was reading an issue of "Cosmo." She was thin, pretty and looked great for an early morning flight. She looked like she might kick some serious ass if she had to, and I bet she'd have cute clothes she could share after the crash.

The woman next to me on the second leg of my flight was reading a mystery book with a cat on the cover (and a cat listed as the co-author of the book). There's a specific type of woman who reads that book series. I know many of them and they're very nice. However, I doubt the woman who reads the cat mystery books would do well on the island.

Eventually, I snapped out of it and enjoyed the flight, but I couldn't help but wonder if any other passengers, in a post-Lost stupor, were judging each other's island-worthiness.

The best headline ever written

Found headlining a story on a site for a TV news show:

"Man Suspected of Killing Prostitute with Hoe."

More spam poetry!

I don't know what this was an ad for. It had a scary unnamed attachment. The subject line was "Mercedes." I sincerely hope I'm not spreading worms by opening these.


"Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Billows the fog, cloaks
Dismal, endless plain≈
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Astonished that you have returned to go
In Florida, it's strawberry season≈
Bronze the sky, with no
Again awaken from your being gone to find
By the design of our own silent eyes
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
"Now it's my turn to sing!"