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Sunday, April 13, 2003 Fly or Drive I'm planning to visit my mother in May. My mother is living with my sister, whose birthday is in May; so I figure it's a good time to take the trip. The question is: Do I fly or drive? It's a long drive. 12 hours. Last time, it rained cats and dogs, a nerve-wracking drive. I flew one time and have driven a few times. When I flew down to the Raleigh-Durham airport, the trip down was uneventful, except for the full-body searches in each airport. And I suppose that was a necessary precaution. I, after all, did have a loose battery in my carry-on bag when the bag was X-rayed. The flight was delayed for about an hour. The battery might have been the reason for the delay. The female security guard at the gate took me aside and practically made me take my pants off. I guess that's S.O.P. for suspected terrorists. The delay was okay because then the lay-over at the Pittsburgh airport wouldn't be as long. Wrong. The flight from there to the Raleigh-Durham airport was delayed about two more hours, but I didn't know that until I got to the Pittsburgh airport. I'm not a frequent flyer. I think that the hub airline for the Pittsburgh airport plans delays so that people spend money at the airport. You can't help but get something to eat. First of all, there was no food on the flight I took. Second, there is nothing to do at the airport, except buy stuff at overpriced shops or eat. I ate. When I got to the gate after eating at T.G.I. Friday's, I was searched again before boarding. Why is it that it's perfectly fine for a woman to search a man, including asking him to unhitch his pants so she can feel around; but it's not okay for men to do that to women? It was the trip back that was notable. Did you ever see the episode of the old Twilight Zone with William Shatner, before he was Captain Kirk and before anyone knew who he really was, in which he went bonkers on a plane in a storm, seeing some google-eyed, bi-ped with stringy stuff hanging from it, which was trying to pull apart the wing of the plane, obviously trying to cause a crash? Rod Serling wrote that episode, as he did almost all of the episodes for the original show. And we were seeing some special acting by William Shatner in that episode, a preview of things to come. Anyway, nobody else saw the monster, but he did manage to scare it off and get himself put in a strait-jacket for all the trouble he caused. That was fiction, but into the Twilight Zone I ventured. I made it from Raleigh-Durham airport to Pittsburgh, except that I had only about three minutes to run from one end of the airport to the other and then get on a train and go to another terminal, then run to the end of that terminal, where I was told that my plane took off. I thought that they were supposed to hold planes if someone was late because of a flight delay. I said something to one of the stewardesses about the flight I was going to try to catch, to which she nodded; and I thought that the flight was going to be held at the gate. No, that didn't happen. A ticket agent said I could have a seat on the next flight ... three hours later. I asked if they could give me a rental car, so I could drive the rest of the way, a two-and-a-half hour drive. The ticket agent called her compadre over to look at the computer screen, and they started laughing. Guess not. So, three-and-a-half hours later, I looked out the window of the Saab 340, sitting in seat 1A, which is right up front by the door the passengers enter, watching their heads so they don’t hit them on the bulkhead, and facing the stew ... er, flight attendant in her jump seat. And there it is, lightning crashing out of a big cloud bank in several spots, illuminating the clouds and the sky just to the northwest, where this old Saab 340 turbo-prop with the air nozzle above seat 1A that doesn’t work just happens to be headed. The little chime goes off and the stew ... er, flight attendant picks up the beige wall-phone hand piece and listens. She looks at me and smiles, not that toothy grin she showed when she was telling me a stewardess joke just minutes before, but the one where the eyebrows arch up and the blue eyes get wider than they should. She hangs up the phone. She leans over from her jump seat and gives me a little “come-here” motion with her hand. (No, some of you are thinking that I got a look down her blouse, but I couldn’t because she had this damn bandanna-scarf affair tied so it was stuck in such a way that I couldn’t get even a peek no matter how I tried.) There I am, leaning forward, and she whispered, as much as one can whisper over the noise of two prop engines grinding away, eating up the miles between Pittsburgh International and Cleveland Hopkins International, “We’re going back to Pittsburgh” in a sing-song cadence, like a little girl. “We're going to have a revolt when they find out,” she added being more serious. Of course, we started off this new flight on the wrong foot. The gate agent called us to board the plane at 8:40 p.m., so the plane could leave the gate at 8:50. There were 32 passengers to board – I know this was the number because of what happened shortly before take-off – and I was picked again by the “computer” for a “random search.” Now, I know that a late-40-ish male traveling alone with just a green carry-on bag, bald with a close-cropped beard, since September 11th, is just the type to raise the computer’s suspicion. Others may disagree. But before boarding the flight to Pittsburgh from Raleigh-Durham airport, I was chosen at “random” for a full-body search – another woman again felt inside my Levi jeans around my waist after I unbuckled my belt and unhitched my pants. She opened my blood pressure pill bottles with the child-proof caps, which were in my personal hygiene kit, keeping an eye on me while I put my shoes back on. My left sock had green paint on it – now, we not only have to wear clean underwear, but clean socks, too. I was the last one out of the concourse door into the 92-degree heat. I walked to the plane and up the steps, taking my seat right there by the door across the aisle from two powdered ladies taking their first plane ride. And the inside of the plane, the cabin, was hotter than what I walked through to get there. Then, the pilot came on the tinny loudspeaker telling us that we were going to be delayed ten minutes to wait for passenger number 32. The lady in 5A yelled to the stew ... er, flight attendant, that they shouldn’t have boarded us just to sit here and wait in this heat. She wanted the air conditioning turned on “... or someone will pay.” The stewardess muttered something about the “skinny-ass bitch in 5A better keep her god-damned mouth shut if she knows what’s good for her,” looking at me; so, I smiled at the flight attendant. And she clicked on the intercom switch and talked into the telephone handpiece, holding the part that would cover her ear away from her head, “I apologize for the conditions. It’s hot. When we get in the air, it will cool off. There's nothing I can do about it.” I’m getting away from the story here because of the palpable tension between the skinny-ass bitch in 5A and the flight attendant. The flight attendant leaned over toward me at one point shortly after take-off and said, “That skinny-ass bitch in 5A is crossing her legs in that seat. Can you belive it? That’s how skinny she is. She’s going to complain about me; so, I’ll tell the captain about her.” So, there we were with lightning jumping from cloud to cloud, lighting up the sky, more glorious than any Fourth of July fireworks show. The flight attendant leaned even closer. “That skinny-ass bitch in 5A is gonna be a real pain-in-the-ass when the pilot announces we’re going back.” Then the tinny loudspeaker said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I must apologize to you.” The captain, a woman, continued, “There’s a level five storm over the Cleveland airport. That's the worst kind of storm we can have. The airport is closed; so, we will be turning around and going back to Pittsburgh International. I expect that we will be on the ground in about 15 minutes.” The two powdered ladies across the aisle took a peak over at me, their first flight steadily turning into a nightmare. “There would be something to worry about if we went into it,” I volunteered. Neither changed from the tight-lipped stare out the window on my left. Voices rose behind me. Sure enough, the skinny-ass bitch in 5A yelled shrilly, “Oh, great, this would have to happen today. I start a new job tomorrow. You better get me to Cleveland tonight.” Amid the din, I clearly heard, “Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch.” The flight attendant grinned at me. She got on the telephone, “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing shortly at Pittsburgh International Airport. We welcome you back to Pittsburgh and apologize for the inconvenience. A ticket agent will be at the gate to answer any questions and assist you in reaching your destination safely.” We were back on the ground in Pittsburgh, being herded into the terminal. The pilot walked in and announced that we would try to take off again in a half hour, after the weather passed through Cleveland. It was only about an hour later that the gate agent shouted, "We are giving you your boarding passes back over at that counter. And we have ordered two luxury tour buses that will be taking you and the passengers on another flight back to Cleveland." About an hour and a half later, two big tour buses, black and gold, pulled into the roadway outside the doors by the baggage claim area. An airline host (or whatever he was called) announced in a loud baritone that the people on our flight would board the bus in front first. People on the other flight would board after us. I got onto the first bus, sitting directly behind the bus driver, a woman. Taking the seat next to me was the skinny-ass bitch in 5A. She smelled like she had been drinking. I feigned sleep. I was supposed to have boarded an airplane at the Raleigh-Durham airport at two in the afternoon; so, I got to the airport there at about one. I arrived at my destination, the Cleveland airport, on a luxury, black-and-gold tour bus at two in the morning. My wife picked me up there. On the way home, Dunkin' Donuts was open, giving some comfort. We got home at 3:15 in the morning. What are the chances of something like this happening again? I'm thinking I'll try flying again. Friday, April 11, 2003 Gas Pump No. 5 I was in a hurry this afternoon to go pick up the wife at the office. I started the car, and a chime announced that the gas tank was almost empty. A chill went up my spine. Alarmed, I decided I had better get some gas before I went too far and broke the world record (I have checked on it, and nobody in the history of man has claimed to have run out of gas seven times -- one guy has claimed to have seven times more gas than anyone else, and he says nobody disputes that, either.). I stopped at my favorite BP station; and I must say that my post of two days ago was prescient, but you can decide for yourself. I pulled up to pump #6, which is directly south of pump #5. I was in a hurry. A few years ago, even a year ago, I would have pumped in a dollar's worth and taken my chances (Actually, I probably wouldn't have even stopped for gas a year ago.). But I had a ten and started pumping. A guy in a maroon minivan pulled in and steered around me to pump #5. Although someone has called me a curmudgeon, I am, in reality, amiable, handsome, charming, courteous, groovy, and polite (And I know what you're thinking right now -- "Don't believe him. He's a fucking lawyer." I will not dignify that remark with any comment.). The guy in the maroon minivan stepped out and went to the rear of the van, opened the gas filler door, ripped the gas thingy from the pump, and jammed it into the van. He pulled an object out of the pocket of his blue-and-gray, checked sport jacket. He unfolded it -- a cell phone, of course. This could be trouble. As everyone who knows anything about gasoline vapors and cell phones or who has read the warnings on the gas pumps can tell you, cell phones in use can ignite gasoline vapor and cause an explosion. I was alarmed. There was a woman pumping gas at pump #8, shaking her head so that her hair swung around, adjusting her poured-on jeans and her T-shirt so the right amount of skin was showing, oblivious to the danger. At the island further over, there was an older gentleman pumping gas into his Honda Accord. The silver-haired woman in the front passenger seat stared straight ahead. I recognized the man, but not the woman. He looked over and nodded. I smiled and nodded back to him, then I turned my attention to the guy with the checked sport jacket. He had the phone to his ear. I stopped the pump, short of my goal; but I needed to allay my fears. I walked toward the low building and saw that none of the cashiers were interested in what was happening. They were all secure in the building. I said, as I walked near the van, "Excuse me, sir." He looked at me with a furrowed brow. "You can't use a cell phone at the pumps." He said something into the phone, and said to me, "What?" I said, "The cell phone. You're not allowed to use a cell phone when you're pumping gas." He said something into the phone, then said to me, "What the fuck are you talking about?" Maybe he was thinking he'd shock me by using that old English word, but I'm immune after the last couple days. "Cell phones can cause the gas fumes to ignite and blow up," I spelled out for him. He looked at me, "Fuck you. You asshole." And what could I say to that? Thursday, April 10, 2003 Southern Hospitality and The Masters When Tiger Woods, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Hootie Johnson, and other professional golfers come to this site to check out all there is to know about golf news, tips to improve their golf games, and on the latest tournament scores and commentary, they end up saying to themselves (well, some of them I'm sure say it out loud), "What the fuck does this have to do with golf?" The answer is NOTHING. But I feel an obligation to all the golfers and golfesses, because of the site address and all the confusion created by it (After all, goof-blogger just doesn't roll off the tongue smoothly. And people would make fun of me -- hey, wait a minute, they do that now.), to weigh in on the question of whether women should be permitted to be members of the Augusta National Golf Club, which hosts The Masters golf tournament, which is being contested this week. Hootie Johnson is the big cheese at the Augusta National Golf Club. He's been called a lot of nasty things. Hootie, Augusta National Golf Club Chairman and 78 years old, has the given name, William W. Johnson. Hootie thinks women will eventually be admitted to Augusta National, but that probably won't happen while he's alive. I think that Augusta National tried to pull a fast one on the female public by having a member named Beverly F. Dolan on the roster. He's 75 and retired from Textron, which has been into a lot of businesses, even golf cars that Bev rides around during the tournament, and he has probably played with John D. Reynolds III, who is an executive at Club Car, the subsidiary of Bev's company. There are women's groups which advocate boycotts of companies whose officers are members. Steve Jobs over at Apple would like that because Bill Gates is a member. And a lot of people who want to support such a boycott might not appreciate the fact that Virgis W. Colbert, of Miller Brewing Co., has paid his dues with money that was spent at the local pub. So has Peter H. Coors, of Coors Brewing. When you fill up, avoid Exxon and Mobil stations because Lee R. Raymond, ExxonMobil, graces the club with his presence from time to time and was probably sponsored by 82-year-old, Rawleigh Warner Jr., and 81-year-old Clifton C. Garvin Jr., who are retired from ExxonMobil. Lee probably gives Rawleigh and Cliff a few strokes when they play. By the way, drive past Chevron and Texaco stations, too, because Donald L. Bower, of ChevronTexaco, tees up at Augusta National. I wonder if David S. Lewis Jr., from McDonnell Douglas/General Dynamics, and Donald R. Beall, from Rockwell International, tip a few after a brisk 18, bags having been carried by Black caddies. There are no white caddies. There are no Hispanic caddies. Black caddies are a carry-over from the days of Bobby Jones, who founded the all-boys, white-only golf club. I think that's enough for now. What century are we in? Who says all men are created equal? Where do I weigh in on this issue? I don't know why anyone would want to join this golf club. Golf is obviously irrelevant. Let's quit pretending it's a real golf club and call it what it is, an all-boys, white-only secret society. Say, isn't there another club like that down south that was founded by Nathan Bedford Forrest? It's my policy to play public courses; every private country club exists solely for the reason of exclusion. Wednesday, April 09, 2003 What Is Justice? Today, I had a final pre-trial conference on the case where my client was innocent of aiding and abetting his buddy in passing his girlfriend's bad check. That's right my client's girlfriend gave him a check and told him to go to Pizza Hut and pay for the pizza with a check for $61.80 and bring her the $50 in change. And, of course, he listened to her. And he got charged. Many men are cursed in relationships with women (And there are those who are cursed at in relationships with women.). That's my client's story. He did not know she was writing bad checks. He wasn't in charge of her check book. At the last hearing, the police didn't bring him to court. Somebody forgot he was sitting in jail awaiting trial on a felony charge (You remember, he was innocent of stealing purses from the funeral home during a funeral -- it was his girlfriend who was driving the car and who stopped at the funeral home to boost unsuspecting grieving relatives' purses.). So, the hearing was re-scheduled for today. The police were supposed to bring him over from jail, again. The police couldn't find him. I called the county jail, and he wasn't there. Oh, well. "Do you think he could have entered a guilty plea on that felony and that he was let out until sentencing?" I asked the judge, who was puzzled. "Because the police forgot to bring him last time, he might not know he's supposed to be here." "Hey, you're probably right. Let's check the docket at the county and see who his probation officer is," suggested the judge, as he turned around to fire up his notebook to check the county records. He laughed, "Look." My innocent client had admitted he stole the purses and was now in prison for the next six months. Oh, the injustice of it all. The prosecutor, who walked into the judge's office, had overheard what had happened to my client, and asked, "Well, Bill, what do you want to do on the case?" "Dismiss it," I replied. "Okay," he said. "And I'll make believe that you said 'please.'" Case dismissed. Free pass on this one. Do Not Use Cell Phones While Pumping Gas I was running late. My son was working. My wife was having dinner with a friend she had known since they were teenagers at 'Stino da Napoli, a most excellent Italian restaurant in the area. As for me, I had to make a business meeting across town. I stopped at the BP station that I have frequented many times in the past. See, I have learned much about cars and gas and how even when you're running late, the car really doesn't care and will run out of gas. I pulled up behind a car and stopped at Pump #5 to fill up. The car ahead of me was a Mercedes S500, black in color. The guy was pumping gas. I got out of the all-white VW Beetle with a black "The Who" sticker on the back bumper. The guy pumping petrol into the Mercedes nodded. I said, "Hi, man," because that's what ex-hippie-like bearded, bald guys say to guys wearing nice suits driving Mercedes S500's. And he wasn't expecting anyone to say that to him today, anyway. Little does he know that if he searched court records in some jurisdictions that he would find that the ex-hippie-like bearded, bald guy represents DaimlerChrysler -- maker of his $81,000 driving machine that he can't afford to fill up at the full service pump. "Nice car," I said. He said, "Thanks. For what it costs, you'd think it would pump gas itself." Oh, I tell you, I almost busted a gut there. I never heard that one before. I smiled and nodded and walked over to Pump #5. Then I remembered that I had to pop the lid on the gas filler tube compartment; so, I walked around the car, opened the door, and pushed the little button on the door for the lid. The Mercedes guy waved to me and got into his car. I did that little head lift thing to acknowledge his friendliness. I got the gas pump nozzle into the filler tube and filled it up, watching the "War in Iraq" on CNN on the little TV in the pump. I walked quickly to the building to pay. The Mercedes guy had either "paid at the pump" or skipped out. I don't think I ever skipped out without paying for gas. That is like a death sentence. These oil companies track down people who skip out like the hounds track foxes. It's better just to pay and go your way without worry. I walked out to Pump #5 and my car. Parked facing toward me was a Honda with an old dude pumping gas, a woman, probably his wife, sitting in the front passenger seat. I got in the VW Beetle, started the engine, and put the gear shift into "R." I checked the rear-view to see if anyone was stupid enough to walk behind a backing-up car. Nobody was walking behind the car; a woman and her punky-ass teenage daughter were in a car parked stopped behind me. They wanted to pull up to Pump #5. The woman driver was giving me that back-hand flip of her right hand, telling me to move forward and get out of her way. Didn't she see that the geezer dude was pumping gas ahead of me and that his geezer wife was sitting in the car? Didn't she see that I could not move forward? And didn't she see that I could not back up with her sitting there right on my fucking bumper? At least, the two of them saw the cool "Who" sticker I made for the car. I know that because the punky-ass teenage girl was pointing, and I'm sure she was pointing at the sticker. The woman driver still was not backing up, even though I had the car in reverse and the back-up lights were on. Finally, I quit. I put the car in "Park." I sat there. The geezer chick in the Honda stared straight ahead. Her guy was still pumping gas. I checked the rear-view, and the woman driver was swinging her arms around wildly. At one point, I thought she hit the punky-ass teenage girl in the face, but I was mistaken. I could tell because the punky-ass teenage girl was giving me the finger, a seemingly daily occurrence now. I hit the push button for the window and it rolled down. I yelled, "Move back!" The woman driver backed the car up while the punky-ass teenage girl was still giving me the finger. Good little girl. I backed up a little and then steered around the Honda. Then it happened. Electrical charges and gasoline fumes don't mix. I've learned that. The woman driver beeped her horn. I heard the loudspeaker: "Pump 5, please do not blow your horn! You can cause an explosion!" And the woman driver, taking her cue from her punky-ass teenage daughter, gave me the finger. Monday, April 07, 2003 I Am Not Steve ... I Think While I was working today, printing my output for the morning, my printer ran out of black ink. The way I see it, I had one of three choices. I could use the remainder of the black ink in the old Stratitec Inkjet Refill Kit and refill the cartridge that was already in the printer. Cursed with no success on my last attempt, I reasoned that this was a new and different printer at a different time. Having figured out what I did wrong the last time, I was willing to try, try again; but I threw out the instruction booklet because it was covered with ink. There was the second alternative. I know that the price of an inkjet cartridge for a certain Lexmark printer (I can't remember the model number, but I bought one for my son; and it was so cheap that it did not have an on-off button.) cost more than the printer itself, and it was cheaper to buy a new printer; so, I considered that as a possibility. I doubted I would have to do that, but I was prepared for the possibility of buying a new printer. The third choice I had was, of course, to buy a replacement cartridge for the printer. I needed a #15 H-P cartridge. All of this flashed across my synapses momentarily. I was on the AIM with a friend, who snapped me back to reality about the first alternative. Bad idea. Very bad idea. The worst -- unless, of course, someone needed a good laugh at my expense. I went to Costco instead of an office supply place to get the cartridge. A package of two set me back $50. While I was on the road, I stopped at the post office to mail the stuff I did finish and to get postage. I pulled into the parking lot and stopped behind a green mini-van. A car to our left up ahead backed out of a space, a nice spot for the van to pull into; but the van did not make a move for the spot. What was the driver waiting for? An invitation? Then I saw that someone on the right up ahead was backing out of a space. Aaaah. The driver of the van would pull into that space because it was closer to the door. And then I would pull into the spot up there on the left, so I put my left turn signal on. My wife is always nag ... suggesting that I use my turn signal, and I took her advice. All of a sudden on my left, a gold-colored Lexus driven by a woman flashed by and whipped into the parking space up ahead on the left. That fucking bitch. I was sitting there, waiting patiently behind the lazy ass in the mini-van, who didn't want to walk an extra 20 feet to the door, to pull into the spot closer to the door, and this bitch in the gold-colored Lexus, obviously felt that she was entitled to pull into the spot ahead of the bald, bearded guy in the VW Beetle with "The Who" sticker on the bumper, who was obviously a member of the underclass. She looked at me as she hurried across the lane without hesitation in front of the Beetle. I decided not to step on the accelerator and gave her the finger instead. Her look turned icy. The fuckin' bitch. I pulled the car around the island and parked in the next lane. I went into the post office. There were about 10 people in line at the counter. Lexus lady was in line. I waved. Undoubtedly, not recognizing me and because I have a friendly face, the fucking bitch waved back. I went to the self-serve stamp machine and helped myself. I felt good, walking out of the post office. A drug store is across the street from the post office. I decided to pay my electric bill there instead of mailing the payment, saving 37 cents. I felt good about that, too. I stood third in line at the customer courtesy window. The guy at the window, about 50 years old, wore an expensive leather jacket with Mickey Mouse embroidered on the back. Mickey Mouse? Why would he spend $300 for a jacket like that? Then it hit me -- the Lexus lady bought it for him. They had to be married. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the guy off my right shoulder looking at me. I turned my head, and he was definitely looking at me. He smiled, stuck his hand out, and said in a cheerful voice, "Hey, how's it going?" I grabbed his hand and said, "Good, good ... how's about with you?" He said, "Real good." And he kept looking at me, like I was supposed to say something meaningful at this point to one of my best friends. So, I did. "Uhhh, I'm drawing a blank here." And he said, with assured confidence, "Lewandowski, you're Steve Lewandowski." "Uhhh, no ... no ... sorry, you're mistaken," I said. "You look just like him. Really. You're not Steve?" On another day, I may have doubted that I was Bill; but today, I was extremely confident of my identity. After all, I had been to the post office, and the return address on every envelope did not say "Steve Lewandowski." So, I said, "No, I'm not." "I could swear that you were Steve," he continued. How long would this go on. "See, look at my electric bill. Here's my name." "Oh, well. I guess I was wrong," he said. "Sorry about that." "No problem. It was nice talking to you." The lady at the courtesy window was becoming impatient. Sunday, April 06, 2003 Save the Woods There's a group named "Save the Woods" in town working to preserve wooded areas and protect them from developers. The tracts will remain wooded, peaceful, and tranquil with only a narrow bikepath cutting through the land. This is a wonderful project, for which the organizers and participants should be commended. I have seen the developers come into town, raze every tree on the land, strip the land, put in streets, and build houses. For the longest time, this was the fastest-growing city in the area. So, saving the woods is a noble effort. For years to come, people will be able to enjoy a nature preserve right here in the city by the lake. The group recently received a state grant to buy the property. I congratulate the group on its efforts and success. I do have one nagging question in my mind. I have a small, wooded area that I have let go to hell (remain in its natural state, I mean) across the creek that runs through our property; so, I am familiar with the flora and fauna that abound in such an area. Granted, the natural area on our property is near a busy roadway patrolled often by the local police on regular rounds, something that won't happen in the woods. My question is this: Is there going to be a fund set up to pay someone to pick up the natural beer cans, wine bottles , trash, and other paraphernalia that accumulate in natural, wooded areas?
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