5/14/03

I apologize for not updating. I've been gone and when I am at my computer I'm wrestling with this stupid USB card. I'm getting really frustrated.

Then I read Jon's blog and he said he missed me. I know I get kind of shaky when he doesn't update for a few days. In fact, despite knowing I have no right whatsoever, it sort of pisses me off. I say to myself, "Can anyone be so busy that he can't bother to tap a few keys to entertain and inform? It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't do such a great job. What a tease. Take some amphetamines and stay up a little later and feed us some news!"

I'm not saying you're likely to go through withdrawals, but I thought I'd better get something up here so you didn't think I was dead or the authorities had confiscated my hard drives.

The highway was littered with dead animals this morning.

There were big ones, small ones, black ones, brown ones. What they all had in common was the fact that they all had been smooshed to the point where you had to guess what kind of animal they were. For the most part these animals had become huge pink stains with bumps of fur, and what not, piled in the center. I counted five from my driveway to the parking lot at work.

And there weren't just dead animals. As I drove through town there was a duck standing in the middle of the passing lane right at the start of an intersection. The duck just stood there as cars whizzed by her. If the light hadn't been green, I would have sworn she was waiting for it to change. This duck didn't seemed paralyzed by fear. She looked very calm. It was as if she was waiting for AAA to arrive to tow her duckmobile.

What am I talking about? I can't tell whether or not a duck looks calm. Most ducks I've seen up close have their skins nicely crisped and are bathed in a rich orange sauce.

I went to Salem, Oregon for a few days.

I got to the airport and found that security was even more rigorous than it had been since I was there just a few weeks ago. They have this new metal detector that requires passengers to put their feet on a box. It seemed that the only people getting by without being beeped were people wearing sneakers. I was wearing running shoes. Not that I've been using them as running shoes lately but they're lightweight and perfect for travel.

When I put my foot on the metal detector puffs of smoke wafted from my shoes. My eyes got really wide and I looked at the gate screener to see if he noticed that my feet had caught fire.

He didn't notice.

Then I scan the other people in line to see if anyone noticed the fact that my shoes were behaving like a little steam engines.

No one seemed to care.

You see, I knew I was going have my shoes on in a confined area for an extended length of time. I thought I'd be considerate of my fellow air travelers and pour some talcum powder into my running shoes in case they began to smell. I had forgotten I did this.

Now I was walking through airport security watching little puffs of talcum powder whiff out of my shoes each time my foot touched the ground. It was noticeable enough to lead me to the conclusion that someone was going to stop me for an intensive foot interrogation which would last just long enough for me to miss my flight. Sir! Yes, you with the bombs, obviously in the final stage of detonation, strapped to your feet. Could we please have a word with you?

I made it though. This time.

On the plane the guy sitting in front of me put his seat back. I don't know why I get so angry when strangers take advantage of the opportunity to place their heads in my lap.

As his seat back started to fall back in my direction I let out a protracted, exasperated, "Great." That was the strongest tool in my arsenal and it bounced right off him. So I started pulling out everything else I had. There was the glaring at the back of his head. That didn't do anything. Then, when he got up to empty his bladder I flashed him a hard look that subtly balanced on the cusp of being a dirty look. I thought that surely would cause his seat back to fly back in its original, upright position.

Nope.

I was going to switch to more drastic measures then I realized this guy might be going to the same place I was headed. I may be forced to try and have a business conversation with this person. If that happens, the entire time I'm making nice-nice with this space invader we'll both be thinking of how we can make each other pay for the turf war we participated in on the plane.

I ceased all hostile activity immediately.

Then there was the business guy that kept walking back to talk to another business guy. I didn't like the fact that he stood in the aisle with his butt wiggling near the side of some other passenger's face. However my attitude toward him softened when a flight attendant snipped at him, "Sir, the seatbelt sign is lit for EVERYONE."

I'm not going to go on and on about how thankless and difficult the job of a flight attendant can be. I don't think that it could be that bad. All jobs present moments of unbearable occupation, discomfort, embarrassment and anger but most of us always do our best to still provide good customer service. Why flight attendants are exempt I'm not sure.

And why do all male flight attendants have the same close cropped, spiky haircuts? I'm sure they're subject to specific grooming standards, but their uniform doesn't consist of battle fatigues; it's polyester slacks and a sweater vest. Despite this I'm convinced they think they're affiliated with some quasi-military force that quips their enemies (their passengers) into submission with lines like, "...the seatbelt sign is lit for EVERYONE."

Anyway, it turns out the business guy in the aisle was talking to his twin. When they got off the plane I watched them walk through the airport. They had the same leather carryon and they were talking on the same model of cellular phone. They both wore the same pricey golf shirts (you know, the ones they buy at the PGA Store that try very hard to look casual but invariably identify the wearer as being a tight-assed WASP). They even had the same paunch in their midsections.

Speaking of fat. A lady with a Scandinavian accent was talking near me. She said, "You never see a fat European. Some of them are plump, but never fat. The only really fat people are here in America."

Hmm.

People in Oregon aren't very good drivers. They actually go the speed limit on the freeways. This is frustrating for a mid-distance commuter like myself. It wouldn't be so bad, but they really don't pay attention to what they're doing. This is not an inaccurate statement. I can prove it.

When you are in Salem, Oregon and you are stopped at a light, if the first person in line is from that region he/she is too distracted to notice the light has changed. Someone behind him/her must gently beep a horn to get them to notice the light has changed. I was stranded in the middle of an intersection three times behind three different Salem drivers because of the Oregon Distracted Driver Syndrome (or ODDS).

Still don't believe me?

Well then why does every School Crossing have not one, but two, crossing guards? And why do each of the guards wave huge (I'm talking great big) yellow flags that have the word, "SCHOOL" imprinted in big black letters on them? I watched a tiny little girl cross the street under this kind of protection and I thought I was caught in a scene from, "The Last Emperor".

Something needs to be done about ODDS. The lives of many, many rental cars are at stake.

One last thing: The Oregon State Capital could use some work. It doesn't look finished. It's a broad, simple tower with a flat top that features a huge, golden pioneer. The big golden pioneer has an ax in his hand. You see, there is a law that requires that all historical or governmentally commissioned artwork in the state of Oregon must feature an ax. It's true. Walk around the state capital there and see for yourself.

Anyway, the capital looks more like an IMAX theater than the seat of all legislative power for an entire state.

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