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Reading Isn’t Believing

Michael 2 Comments

And they say you can’t believe everything you read. (I say you even can’t believe everything you think but that’s a topic for a different post.) No, this is really about what you read, or don’t, or think you’ve read. Or maybe even for some people what you think you wanted to read. Rarely it might be what you read that you wanted to think.

Not only are 4 out every 5 calls I get enticements to either throw my money away on a non-existent extended warranty, or to have them syphon money out of my accounts if I do so much as to actually think to answer it with a phone that had once been near an ATM machine while I was making a withdrawal (I don’t really know about that but it seems like the scammers have to do less and less to get our money, and what could they do to me for presuming otherwise, sue me for libel?) (now where was I?) (oh yes, I remember), not only are there oodles more nuisance phone calls, nuisance emails – either spam or outright phishing schemes – have taken a dramatic upward arc on the occurrence scale. However…every now and then you come across a spammer who didn’t get the new spam scam users guide. These are the ones that have multiple fonts, bold, lots or asterisks and exclamation points, and refer to accounts at banks and retailers you’ve never used or refer to you as your email address.

2021-03-03

Yesterday I found a new one. Just in case you thought all the bold type, red bullet points, and mysterious name weren’t incentive enough to open the email, they included in the subject line, “This message is From a trusted sender.” I know that convinced me to open that missive right then and do whatever it said.  Hey, that Nigerian prince might still have some of his millions left to give away.

2021-03-03 (1)

Clearly that was something not to believe even if I did read it in black and white.

Some signs nobody ever reads. Not far from me there is a stretch of road where for about 30 yards the posted speed limit is 5mph. I’m not sure my car can go that slow. It seems to me nothing between stop and 15mph even exists. Another instance of not believing what I read, although with not quite the same conviction. Oh I’ll slow down as slow as I can get, but 5? Ehhhhhh, probably not.

There is a sign I take with great seriousness and wish everybody who read it would believe it. No, it’s not the “Masks Required” sign but it would be nice if more people believed that too. No, this is this sign.

Gun-Sign-1024x503

The rate of confiscated guns per million passengers doubled in 2020, a year when the number of people flying decreased by 60%. So far, with 2 whole months in for 2021, the rate is close to 4 times that of 2020. That puts the TSA on pace to confiscate close to 15,000 guns at security checkpoints. If that doesn’t worry you enough, over 12,000 of those guns will be loaded. Eighty-three percent of the handguns pulled out of pockets, purses, and carry-on bags are loaded.

The most common reason people give for attempting to enter an airport secure area with a concealed and loaded weapon is that they forgot they had it. Yeah right. Put that in writing and I won’t believe it then either. According to the Pew Research Center, 67% of gunowners say they purchased their guns for protection. If all those people getting on the planes are representative of gunowners, when the time comes to protect life or property I suppose they will have to convince the assailant to “hang on there a second, I want to shoot you which is my right, I just have to remember where I put that darn gun.”

Gun-Sign-Crop-1-768x377It would be nice if people who decide they don’t want to believe the part of the TSA sign that says firearms aren’t allowed through airport check points at least would believe the rest of the sign, the part in smaller print that says they can be fined up to $13,000 dollars for doing so. Then again, maybe that’s not a lot of money to them. In that case … I know this Nigerian prince who needs a little help.

You can believe me on this. I am a trusted sender.

What A Dump

Michael Leave a comment

It’s that time again, the time when if you don’t pull the mental chain your brain will back up and then you’ll have to get out the big plunger.

Misunderstanding

You’ll recall my recent discussion on non-dairy butter, not the concept but that the package read “butter.” Not “plant butter,” not “soy butter,” not “butter tasting butter substitute,” but “butter.” I guess I have a wider readership than even I could have imagined. Shortly after that post – ummm – posted the ACLU filed suit against Arkansas claiming the state’s new labeling law stipulating that only meat can be called meat, only milk can be called milk, only rice can be called rice, and presumably only butter can be called butter violates the manufacturers’ of the ersatz products free speech. Hmm. Now this is just a thought, but if American chicken and hog farmers actually came up with green eggs and ham and attempted to market them as “broccoli” and “kale” would that same ACLU step in to protect them?

Although I don’t like it and have said so, there is no stopping American stores from running back to school sales in July. I’m sorry but in my mind that is just way too early. And I’ve been one of those parents with a calendar on the kitchen wall crossing off the days until those kids go back to school! But I get it, it’s a once a year marketing opportunity and they have to make hay, or money, while the sun shines. But now I have a real issue with those stores. Two days ago I was in the local supermarket and at the end of the “seasonal” aisle where all the back to school items were located was a big display of Halloween candy. Come on now!

This morning a man was stopped at the local airport for carrying a loaded gun in his carry on bag. It was the 23rd such seizure this year. Today is the 210th day of 2019 so a little more frequently than once every 10 days somebody is trying to sneak a gun into the secure area of the airport. Ours is not a particularly large airport with about 400 departures a day. I can’t imagine what TSA agents at a big airport find. I said those people carrying weapons are trying to sneak a gun past security. They claim they “forgot” the gun was in their carryon or they “had it when they were at the range last week.” Did they really? Did they really bring their travel carryon to the range last week? The gun confiscated this morning had 14 bullets in the clip, the clip in the gun, and an additional bullet in the chamber. Doesn’t seem like something one could, or should “forget.”

The lawyers at Publishers Clearing House are really good. You’re not going to see them okay an ad that calls margarine butter, I mean that says “You are a winner!” No, they say you could be a winner or you might be holding the winning entry. They ain’t gonna get sued for stretching the truth. I got another one of those mailings last week. Not from PCH. From the dealership where I bought my car and have it serviced. That would be Car #2, not the daily driver although the last letter I got was in reference to my everyday vehicle. Car #1 is a ten year old Chevrolet Malibu and earlier this year the dealer sent me a notice that it was time to “exchange” that car for a new model. I agreed with them but when I went over to swap keys and registrations they really wanted me to exchange money for a new car! I knew all along they weren’t serious but I had to go over for a state inspection anyway so I thought I’d see how much I could get out of them. Not much it turned out. Last week’s letter was from a different dealer about a different car. I know it’s a marketing tool just like back to school sales in July but the letter says they need cars like mine to “fulfill special used vehicle requests.” This particular car is not a 10 year old Chevy. It’s a 20 year old Mazda Miata with not quite 31,000 miles. I bought it from this dealer and they have serviced it since it was in the internal combustion engine equivalent of diapers. They might very well have a request for such a car. But when they say “We would like to exchange your 2000 Mazda MX-5 Miata for any new or Certified Pre-Owned Mazda from our inventory,” I doubt their sincerity. But as fate would have it, Wednesday I have a service appointment there for that very car. I know just the new Miata in their inventory that would make a dandy exchange!

I feel better now that I held my occasional brain dump. Thank you for tolerating me. I’d be happy to exchange your new reading for my old writing any day!

Miata

Lost Luggage

Michael 10 Comments
The past couple of weeks I’ve had an issue finding something that I wanted to write about. This week was quite different. I just have said to myself, “Self, now that’s blogworthy!” at least a half dozen times. And even though I took a couple of those ideas and fleshed them out to full fledged posts, none of them are what you’re about to read. Umm, assuming you’re going to stick it out here with me and keep on reading.
Sunday afternoon I was hanging around, feet up, relaxing for all the world to see, and catching up on the day’s email, which included a few new posts from the myriad and eclectic selected blogs I follow. Among those was the newest post by Nicole Sundays. If you’ve not read her yet you should go over and see what she has to say. Nicole reminds me of the daughter I never had. Now there’s nothing wrong with the daughter I do have. In fact, I am quite fond of that daughter and I would never trade her in. But…sometime I just don’t understand how that creative, confident, successful young woman got that way from my attempts at child rearing. Fortunately she has. And fortunately I’ll be well (hopefully) taken care of in my old age. Older age. But I digress.
In this week’s post, Nicole tells how she “lost” her luggage and the resumes she carried with her saved her from having to replace a replaceable suitcase. There’s a lot more than that, a lot more, and you need to head over there to read the whole thing (https://nicolesundays.wordpress.com/2017/06/25/i-became-a-security-threat-how-was-your-weekend/) but that one little subplot reminded me of a piece of lost then found luggage. Except it wasn’t “lost” in the way she “lost” hers, it wasn’t my suitcase, and it wasn’t a resume that found it. See how similar a tale this is going to be?
To make a long story longer, let me start at the middle. I had returned from a business trip to Las Vegas. Yes, a business trip. Really. Yes. While I was there, although I always made sure to carry them but never sure why, I handed out no copies of my resume. I did however hand out many business cards. That’s how I remembered that it was a business trip. If it was a pleasure trip clearly I would have carried pleasure cards. Anyway, I had returned a day earlier when I received a phone call from the airline I returned on, one of the more than several that is no longer flying the friendly skies. The call was more confusing than it had to be, especially considering that I hadn’t had any sleep since I returned even though it was the following day because the flight I had returned on was a dreaded red eye and although the day I left was indeed the day earlier, the day I landed was the day after that. Had I gotten any sleep since the time I boarded I might not have have this story to tell.
BaggageClaim
My recollection of the exact call and subsequent events is a bit fuzzy now some 15 years later but it was fuzzy to start so I don’t feel all that bad about it. I received a call saying they were holding my suitcase at lost luggage and would I like to pick it up or have them deliver it either to my home or place of work. I might have been still a bit tired but I was certain I had not lost luggage nor filled out a claim for same. I conveyed this information to the caller and had it confirmed that indeed I had not filed a claim but just the same, they had my suitcase. But I didn’t lose a suitcase, all my suitcases (which totaled one for that trip) made the trek all the way home. Actually, all the way to my office since neither if us actually made it all the way home yet.
Here it gets even fuzzier as the gentleman on the phone who sounded like he had made many similar calls during his (hopefully) brief career as a lost luggage specialist, and sped through some details. Either that or I zoned out on his explanations and sped through them on my own. The gist was that the case had not a luggage tag (which I thought was required), and the claim check tag was rendered unreadable by the security personnel who forced the case open, but within was one of my business cards. Here I wondered if I had unknowingly been cast in a new crime scene drama for prime time TV and if so, would I be paid scale even though I didn’t (and still don’t) have an Actors Equity card.
At this point I really just wanted to get off the phone and see if I pushed the two visitor chairs across from my desk together would they be comfortable enough for a quick midmorning nap. I cut to the chase and asked, just hypothetically, since they got this thing opened, what did they find therein besides yours truly’s card. I expected to hear the litany traveler detritus that we all relegate to checked baggage but instead heard, “a pair of shoes size 11, a white necktie, two paperbacks (I don’t recall the titles if they had been mentioned) (I remember the shoe size because it wasn’t mine), and a money clip.” Apparently it was in the clip’s firm grasp that was my card along with the receipt for a restaurant where someone had lunch the previous afternoon, a folded tourist map of the Las Vegas Strip, and an unused return ticket for an airport shuttle service. None of the itemized contents interested me although I could have used a white tie and I told my caller this. Not about the tie though.
“So, for the record, you’re saying that you don’t want to reclaim your property.”
“No, I’m saying it’s not my property,” probably while stifling a yawn and continued, “but if it makes you feel better, I don’t want reclaim whoever’s property you have there.”
“Very well sir, then” the soon to be though he didn’t know it yet unemployed luggage owner tracker downer said, “have a good day.”
A couple days later I was out shopping and picked up a white tie.

There’s No Place Like Home

Michael Leave a comment

Last week I was somewhere I hadn’t been for about two and a half years, on a plane. I never was a very frequent flyer. I flew a few times a year for this or that but in the last couple of years at work it seemed I was in the air as much as I was behind my desk. Between July 2012 and June 2013 I got to visit airport bars from Seattle, Washington to Washington, DC. Then in July 2013 I had the first of what became six hospitalizations, 4 surgeries, and countless hours of rehab.

A couple of months ago I decided I wanted to go somewhere. It didn’t matter much where, as long as it wasn’t here. I picked between Thanksgiving and Christmas as my target travel time because I knew that as long as stayed away from the holidays themselves it isn’t a very well-travelled time of year so airports shouldn’t be terribly crowded.  I checked on the hotel points I had accumulated over the years and found I had enough for almost a week in a handful of cities that would undoubtedly be warmer than where I live. I compared those destinations with any air fare deals I could find and narrowed things down to three cities. Further checking revealed one of them was hosting a professional conference I could attend where I would find company in fellow members if I wanted and pick up some education credits toward my license which I keep active in case I ever get to working again. Win, win, win. And win.

So I dusted off the suitcase, packed up a carry on, and wondered what sort of scrutiny I was going to get going through security with my ever-present stash of medical paraphernalia. After a couple of questions regarding the purpose of said paraphernalia I stepped through the people-checker and proceeded to the gate.  From then on it was pretty anticlimactic.

The planes were loaded in the airlines’ unusual manner where Group 1 is the third of fourth group called to board, connections were made on time, hotel shuttle drivers demonstrated why they were deemed too reckless to be part of the local demolition derby circuit, hotel lobbies were much grander than the sleeping quarters, meals were overpriced, and drinks were watered down. You know, normal.

But the weather was good, the food was plentiful, the area around the hotel wasn’t too touristy (i.e. it wasn’t horribly overpriced), I felt better than I had for some time, and I couldn’t wait to get back home.

It’s nice to have a break in the routine, especially when the routine is mostly dull. But then it’s nice to get back to the routine. Even when the routine is mostly dull.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Get In Line

Michael Leave a comment

Regular readers know we aren’t good waiters. Lines do not thrill us. Some people find themselves very comfortable standing still behind tens of other people also standing still. We don’t. We especially don’t want to be behind many other people waiting to eat. Just a few days ago we got to combine our displeasure of waiting with our dislike for lines.

It was over the weekend that we were at one of our favorite things, a springtime maple festival. Being in the American north east we are surrounded by maples. Trees in general take up almost every square foot of land around that hasn’t already been turned into Class A office space or $300,000 McMansions. (Has anyone else noticed that nobody ever builds Class B office space? What if we don’t want private elevators, multi-zone climate control, and integrated security/entertainment software? But that’s a post for a different day.)

We were saying, trees in general are big here. And among them, oak and maple top the list. You can’t get anything out of an oak except some really cool shade in the summer and habitats for little woodland creatures all year long. And a lot of maples will never yield more than solid wood furniture. But the sugar maple has that special something running through its veins, if it had veins for anything to run through. And that something is sap and with enough sap you get syrup and with syrup you get the classic Maple Festival. If it’s indeed a classic, you have hot, homemade pancakes. With pancakes made out of freshly milled flour and fresh boiled syrup you get lines. Lines of well over a couple hundred people long waiting for hours to get to the pancakes to pour the syrup over. We don’t understand it.   We’ll buy the flour and the syrup and have our own. And while everyone else is standing in line, we’ll visit the hundred or so vendors that show up with the handmade crafts to sell while the festival folk sell their handmade syrup. We like it. We buy it. We just don’t want to stand in a line for it.

Yet many do. And as we were driving ourselves home that afternoon we started to wonder, just what would we be willing to stand in line for. We’ve never stood in line for tickets to concerts or theaters or sporting events. We’ve gone to many but we don’t pitch a tent the night before to get the best seat. With a few exceptions, the best seat is usually the one in front of the television anyway. We’ve never stood in line for a store to open on Black Friday. We would stand in line to go back to bed the day after Thanksgiving but not to buy one. We once stood in line to get three (yes, three) autographs of three (yes, three) hockey players. If we were so fond of baseball or opera or professional badminton we might have once stood in line for autographs of their great ones but we aren’t so we didn’t and even for hockey we might not again.

Some lines you have to stand in. You’ll never board a plane without first standing in line at the security checkpoint and then again at the gate boarding ramp. If you didn’t print your boarding pass at home the day before add the line at the ticket counter to get one of them before you hit the other two. And if you check baggage through there are lines to check it and then to wrestle it off the conveyor belt. With luck, you’ll never have to stand in the line to determine where they lost it. Airports are not happy places for people who don’t like lines.

And what about you? Line stander, line jumper? Line aficionado, or line abhorrer? Oh, did we mention that in order to get to that festival with the line of people waiting for their pancakes we had to wait in line for the shuttle to take us to the festival grounds? We had no choice; it was either that or walk 3 miles from the parking lot. We know where to draw the line.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Too Much of a Good Thing

Michael Leave a comment

Don’t you just love it when one of life’s questions finally gets answered?  When that thing that has never been at the forefront of thought but always hovering around the subconscious is finally resolved? When you can finally say, “Oh, yeah.”

Both of We have three children.  All three of the Little We’s are in their 20’s, gainfully if not ideally employed, with their own cars, clothes, gym memberships, monthly bills, and spending money.  Three children, two families, one burning life’s question.  Do we do too much for our children?  Sit back and let us tell you She of We’s story.

Number Two Son of She was at the airport.  Just a matter of days ago he was flying west to embark on a weekend away as young ones are now so inclined to do to visit strange cities where the strange inhabitants have a curious habit of dying their river a strange green.  But that’s a tale for a different day.  This one begins and ends at the airport.  Our airport.  The departing city.

This story began several trips ago that Number Two Son of She takes with some regularity.  They are almost always by plane and almost always end up with him missing the last leg of his journey leaving whoever (three guesses) was assigned to collect him at the local airport stranded at the airport.  But it was a habit and one that that seemed would forever end with whomever (three guesses) stranded at the airport or waiting for the call that he is finally about to board a plane home and would be there sometime within the hour or two.  So it wasn’t that He of We would not have expected Son of She to be calling She of We, but not so soon.

But sooner rather than later the call did come and with it came our life’s question, do we do too much for our children. A call that began sort of innocently with a seeming innocent question.  Did She of We have Son of She’s spare car key?  No, but why?

It seemed that after years of explaining, rationalizing, cajoling, complaining, and persuading, She of We convinced Son of She to drive himself to the airport and deposit his car in one of the long term parking lots ($8.00 per day, no hourly rate).  So convinced was Son of She that he actually discovered another traveler among his friends to the very same destination for the very same duration and offered him a ride to and from the airport.  Presumably for the low price of $4.00 per day.  No hour rate.  And off for the airport they set, their sights set on the gate labeled Extended Parking.  They must have not set their sights so high as to see the overhead sign not reading Extended Parking, rather they entered the parking mecca at the gate labeled Short Term Parking ($2.50 per hour, maximum daily rate $25.00).

Yes, he finally was convinced.  Son of She, finally convinced that he could drive himself to the airport did just so, and shortly after his arrival there made the call to She of We.  It was the call from the airport relating this very tale.  But the tale was not told just for its entertainment value.  It concluded with a request for her to drive 20-some miles to the airport with his spare key so that she could move his car into one of the long term lots that she had so often spoke of. And shortly thereafter was the call from She of We to He of We with that question, do we do too much for our children?

Do we?  Daughter of He still lives at home in the very room she shared with her childhood stuffed animals.  And is still sharing.  Number One Son of She resides in a second house of hers that could be rental income but is serving much better as Son Cave as he manages his own growing contracting company.  Number Two Son of She recently purchased his own house, able to convince the mortgager that he was good for it because he is one of the gainfully employed, his gainful employment at the favor calling of She of We who realized long before he what kind of job he would otherwise land with an undergraduate political science degree.

And still they ask.  And still do we.  Do we do too much for our children?  For the record, She of We did not make that journey yet we still wonder.  And we wonder that it is a wonder that someone thought it was quite reasonable even just to ask.  And there probably is the answer.  Maybe.  Possibly. Sort of.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

We’re On Vacation, Part 1

Michael 2 Comments

You recall the scene in “City Slickers” where Billy Crystal is being dragged behind a galloping horse holding on to the reins, looking to the camera and shouting, “I’m on vacation!” almost as much to convince himself as to inform the world of his status.  We just got back from ours and although we had a wonderfully restful time, we also occasionally had to convince ourselves that we were indeed on vacation.

We don’t get to take a break often enough and nobody was going to take away from our leisure.  We’ll do a day trip or a weekend, but to take 10 days off for either of us and then to coordinate schedules for both of us is hard.  When we saw we would be able to do it this year we jumped at the chance to do it in a big, relaxing way.  Even so, every now and then we had to voice our mantra, “We’re on vacation.”

Neither of We travels much by plane.  He of We does a business trip every once in a great while; She of We has averaged one roundtrip per year for the last three years.  When it came to packing we were pretty careful to keep our checked bags to one each and thus the checked bag fee equally to one each.  Both of We packed our carry ons quite sparingly.  He of We used his classic pilot case and a smaller shoulder bag with net-book, e-reader, and some snacks. She of We carried a quite attractive leather tote with her reader, a few pieces of jewelry, and a matching purse.  All would easily fit “in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of you” as the gate agents announced several times over.

Unfortunately, not everybody obeyed that travel law.  While we were at the gate we saw many future plane-mates wheeling quite overstuffed, oversized cases that would no more fit into the overhead bins than those wheeling them.  About 5 minutes before boarding began the agents announced to the gate lounge, “We have a full flight today and as the plane fills we will most likely be asking people to check their carry-ons.  If you’d like to save some time you can bring your bag to the podium now and we’ll check it through for you to your final destination at no additional charge.”  Not only were these wheelers with the not so carryable carry ons breaking the carry on law, they were getting paid for it and payment was the equivalent of what it cost us to check our bags when we first walked into the airport.  But that was ok.  “We’re on vacation.” 

When we got to board, which was sometime after the first class passengers, those needing assistance, the gold members, the platinum members, the plutonium members, the friends of the chairmen, the preferred select group, the regular select group, the airline credit card holders, and those travelling with young children, we noticed there were still those with the monster carry ons that wouldn’t fit into the overhead compartments.  We observed one fellow drag his not so mini-suitcase from bin to bin, hoist it to overhead bin level, and attempt to force it into the compartment. Either he didn’t realize that each bin was the same height or he thought his case was losing weight from the jumping jacks it was doing.  “We’re on vacation.”

Eventually the flight attendants gathered up all the oversized carry ons and checked them through to their final destinations (at no additional charge) and we made our way to the runway where we were number three to take off.  Six hours and one airport later we emerged onto a palm treed, sun drenched some 2,000 miles from home.  “We’re on vacation!”

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

The Road Untraveled

Michael Leave a comment

“Do you know there’s an alternate security area? Right through those doors, go to the end of the hall.  You’ll walk a little farther but there won’t be any lines and when you go through you’ll come right out at the tram.”  It was the most He of We ever heard a TSA agent speak at one time.  But who would know better how to beat the crush of early morning flyers?  And that was a real smile on his face and he even wished He of We a good day and a safe flight.  What a pleasant, early start to what was going to be a long, apprehensive day.

And it was early.  Sometime not quite yet 4:30.  In the morning.  How many flyers could there be at the main screening area?  Still, he was right there and the agent seemed earnest in getting people to use the alternate site.  So through the doors He of We pushed, down the hall, over the bridge, around the bend (he was indeed walking farther), down another hall, to the head of the line.  And all by himself.  Not bad.

After a quick run through the scanners, pat down, and carry on inspection, he was down the escalator and onto the people mover. Which was packed!  At still not 4:30.  In the morning.  Apparently a lot of people travel this early.  He of We wasn’t usually one of them.  His preferred travel time was anytime between sun up and sun down.  And his usual companion was She of We and she wasn’t one of the early travelers.  He of We would be navigating three airports, one plane change, 3 time zones, and a “commuter jet” alone this day.

Airport One was turning out to be pretty good thanks to the helpful man from the TSA.  He already knew the landing and departing gates for Airport Two and knew they were a 15-20 minute walk apart and he’d be there for 90 minutes so even the dreaded connection should be ok.  But he had to get from here to there on the dreaded “commuter jet.”  A lifetime of travelling and he’d never flown on one of these compacts of the airplane world.  After getting used to the idea that he was in a plane that could not fit his carry-on of half the size of a standard roll-aboard, and that the emergency card advised in the event of an emergency to step out of the emergency exit (what, no inflatable slide?), he settled his 20 inch bottom into the compact 18 inch seat and enjoyed the hospitality of the single flight attendant while she pushed the compact refreshment cart through the compact aisle.

A bit over an hour later they were at Airport 2 and after another hour He of We was listening to the boarding instructions of the gate attendant.  After pre-boarding the first class passengers, the diamond level frequent flying “partners,” the sapphire and emerald members, the lowly platinum and gold people, and the run of the mill priority flyers, the 40 of us who were left got to climb onto the Boeing 737 for another 4 hours of above cloud commuting.  He was quite thrilled to see an empty seat next to him, flight attendants who smiled, and that he remembered to put a set of ear buds in his carry-on which was now nestled under the seat in front of him.  It was going to be a reasonably pleasant 4 hours.

Those hours went fast enough and soon they were above a body of water that led to Hawaii and points west as they circled to get into position for their approach to (at last!) ground transportation.  To make a short story long, having only to wait 10 minutes for said transportation he was soon standing in front of the desk clerk at the hotel saying “of course you can check in early.” And thus it was that after 10 hours since he pulled in the parking lot of Airport 1 He of We was ready to open the door to his room and close the door on the Trip Not From Hell.

It was one of the first that had gone nearly hitch free for many thousands of miles.  While he thought of that he thought of the smiling TSA agent who wished him a good day.  Perhaps wishes do come true.  Naw, it was just a coincidence.  Of course, if She of We appeared on the other side of that door he was ready to change his mind.  

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?