(On my iPod now-Sammy Kershaw: Queen of my Double Wide Trailer)
(Alison Krauss: Goodbye is All We Have)
The two guys behind me (older gentlemen) are telling each other fishing and boating stories, but they need to overcome the hearing loss acquired from 60 years of roaring outboard motors by increasing their "vocality" enough to compensate for this loss plus jet engine noise and the hiss of contaminated recirculating air. There's nothing like a good boating yarn.(Waylon & Willie: Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys)
I have a window seat. My preferred spot to wedge myself into. It is the most polite anti-social seat on the plane. You can stare out the window and fake your ignorance to the goings-on in the cabin. You don't have to get up to let folks out to pee "in the chop". Chop being a polite pilot term for turbulence. Middle-seaters have to be rude on two fronts (unless they skillfully have purchased the technologically polite way of being rude: iPod), otherwise they may feel impelled to make polite conversation. Also, there's no place to lay your head...politely.(Dixie Chicks: Long Time Gone)
The aislers (my term) falsely believe that they have scored big with more legroom and easy lavatory access. Ha! They get their elbows smashed, they have to move their feet in from the aisle so other passengers and the elbow killing cart can traverse that dangerous pathway known as the "center aisle". Which is ridiculous, because it is the only aisle on the plane.(George Strait: Cowboys Like Us)
This sitting position painfully reminds me that I have a lot of weight to still lose. My gut is making friends with the tray table, and if I move an inch port or starboard my hips become intimately acquainted with the armrests. It's just "plane" rough.(Jerry Reed: East Bound and Down)
There is no way you could read the original handwritten draft of this little essay. It's not because of some keen encryption or serious need for privacy. It's simply the way my arms have morphed into an angle of attack that makes it look like I have an awful nervous disorder. Compound that with limited range of motion brought on by the reclined seat of my fellow air-sardine seated in front of me. Who knew there could be so many stories of boats, fishing, and waves ?(Dixie Chicks: Not Ready to Make Nice)
Portland is an hour away... Another convention... Another hotel...Even though this sounds miserable, it's sort of comforting. How? All I have to do is sit here. There's nothing expected of me. My responsibilities are few, but I take them dead serious:
* My cell phone is off
* My seat belt is fastened while seated, or whenever the captain illuminates the "Fasten Seat Belt Sign"
* I follow all crew instructions and posted placards
* I make no attempt to enter the flight deck as I am not an authorized person
That is why me responsibility level is so low! I am NOT authorized personnel. I also look out for my fellow passengers my assuring my seatback and tray table are in their upright and locked position for taxi, take-off, and landing. I gots that shit down COLD!
(Clint Black: Better Man)
The interesting thing about all this time spent in airports and airplanes is (and I agree with George Carlin in that I am "IN" the plane and not "ON" the plane) the characters I get to see.I see how people handle themselves under stress, their habits, how they dress, what they think is appropriate, how they eat and drink, what they eat and drink, how often they have to micturate.
(Jerry Jeff Walker: Pissin' in the Wind)
They all read different books and magazines. They all fold the newspaper in unique and semi-oragamic ways. There is no right or wrong. Some folks I find amusing, and others I want to punch in the head! Then there are others I would like to hug.(David Allen Coe: You Don't Even Know My Name)
One of these "huggables" is the grandma in 7A. She has a little bladder and she is has been using the sacred "First Class Pisser". Normally, a commode not available to the coach-class.She is always smiling.
She makes me think of what my mom could have been... IF.
She'd have been a perfect grandma if Alzheimer's didn't do what it did and if she had been allowed to become and "old lady" (1939-2007). She died three days after her 68th birthday. She always smiled, just like 7A.
(Willie and Merle: Pancho and Lefty)
I have pictures of my mom around the house. Many of them are of the two of us. Those are the ones that me feel like my heart has been set on fire... and not in a good way. (6:45pm: "In for a fairly turbulent landing."What hurts the most is I'll never be able to hug her again. Just a simple arm around her shoulders is all I want.
(Willie Nelson: Whiskey River)
I used to be able to brush her hair out of her eyes when I went to visit her. I used to be able to give her a kiss on the cheek and say, "I love you mom."(George Strait: I Can Still Make Cheyenne)
I'll never be able to do that again. The worse part is that she is no longer here--there's nothing tangible--there's no way to let her know how I feel. The tactile sensations of holding her hand, the sound of her laugh (the one thing that Alzheimer's could not take away), seeing her face, her blue eyes looking into mine (I'd always wonder if there was some kind of recognition there. Something deep, deep down in the twists and tangles of her mind).(Don Williams: Good Ole Boys Like Me)
I'm in my hotel room now. Downtown Portland... rain, clouds, and homeless... Ah...
