So I’m sitting in the Oakland Airport again, not a power outlet in sight.
The hills from Petaluma on down through Marin are all nice and green. The Golden Poppies are out. The Lupines are luping, or whatever it is they do in their Purpleness. Prince would approve of ‘em.
And I’m leaving it all behind for a bit.
Back To NYC
I’ll be in NYC until late June. Call it “July”. Some advantages to being there are:
- my wife and daughter are there. I mean, I could just stop right there, ya?
- no commute! (driving to the Mission District, finding parking, and dealing with a dodgy neighborhood saps about 2.5 hours a day. I want that part of my life back for a while)
- easier to find other developers to meet with, all sorts of talks to go to, more energy
- Central Park in Spring
- hey, it’s New York!
On The Plane, Just Trying To Get Going
I always sit in the far back. That gets me on the plane, stuff stowed, and in a wonderful position to check out all of the hubbub. I would recommend this strategy to any frequent flyer, but since there’s only so much room at the back, you should just pretend you never heard of the idea. The East Coast Feistyness starts right away. We’re not even off the Oakland tarmac. Of course, when half the plane is New Yorkers, you’re not going to get the “could we all, just, just, get along?” speech. Jumping ahead for a second, I had nothing to do with what I am about to describe. For reals.
So 55ish Mr. Self-Righteous Preppy in row 12 starts lecturing two gals who, it must be said, have had ample augmentation and are quite cute in a “hang out in the Hamptons” kind of way and and … anyways so security gets called. The Gals dared to move Mr. SR Preppy’s overcoat! They wanted to store their carryon bags in the overhead bin. And, get this, they’re paying passengers! But, oh my gawd, he’s “been flying for years” and thinks “this is an outrage”! He has all of his feathers ruffled. We just might mistake him for an Emu.
Can you believe it? I mean, to think that Mr. Power Trip isn’t entitled to actually take up an entire overhead bin. What’s the world coming to when you fly economy and can’t store your $1000 camel hair overcoat in peace? Must be quite a comedown from the Private Jet days. By comparison, my London-bought Wool overcoat is stuffed in some cardboard box right now, jammed on some smelly UPS truck barreling its way to New York (being driven by a beatnik poetry spouting pony-tailed guy in his 60’s, thoroughly wired on benzydrine)
Security arrives. The PA reverberates with constant “if you’d all just sit the fuck down, like, right frikken now, we can be on our way, dig!?” implorements. The aisle gets crowded up there with our wonderful crew. They’re looking for the portable “super high decibel” Klaxons (they’re next to the Animal Crackers, I think, that’s where they usually are). Personnel under the plane are readying a instant crowd control foam barrier. I sit back in 26C and am thankful to a) be close to all of the drinks and the loo, too – b) away from Mr. SRP, and c) possessing an extra PowerBook battery.
Security hauls the overcoat off the flight deck. It doesn’t go quietly, whining for its “beloved tailor” or somesuch. Everyone leans over to the port side windows, and with much mirth, we watch the expensive linen being force fed into the #2 engine. The cloud of wool emanating from the exhaust amuses everyone (except one peeved Goober Doober). Not content with that, Mr SRP is bound with shrink wrap, made to wear fuzzy bunny slippers, and is escorted to the cargo hold. The cabin breaks into applause as the sight of the bungy-corded Jerk is beamed to our seatback screens. The crew high fives the passengers. We ask the security guy back for a curtain call, and we finally start taxiing. Ground crew pass around a “Victory Spliff”. The captain yodels over the PA. We’re finally fucking airborne.
Ok, that’s a little embellished.
