Well, it's now 5:41p.m.  I should have been home roughly two hours ago.

    When we last left off I was sitting in an area just out from the gate area.  There was an outlet and cushy chairs, so I made myself at home.  I was shortly joined by the same young lady that I met earlier in line to get  re-ticketed.
    Her name is Sarah - I'm not really sure that this is the correct spelling, but Sarah is a pole dancer, so I'm guessing that I've probably got it right.
    I also now understand how Sarah can spend a week in SFO with clothes that fit in a single gym bag.
    She's a nice young lady.  I learn that she's between jobs at the moment, having given up dancing some time ago after meeting her (recently ex-d) fiancé.  I also learn that her mom has never flown on an airplane, but will get the chance next month when they travel to Florida to see her brother graduate from Navy boot camp.  Her bother was in the Marines for 10 years, then went to school for 4, and is now back in the service training as support personnel for the Navy Seals.
    Sarah mentions in passing that she's also recently separated from a fiancé.  She also explains that she wants to go back to school, and actually was a dancer for a year just to pay for it - but her mom got sick and all the cash she earned went into taking care of her mom.  She said she seems to take six steps back every time she gets ahead.  I kinda feel bad for her if it's all true, and I have no reason to believe she's handing me a line.
    She asked me if I wanted to join her for a coffee, I declined, not wanting to get too chummy for whatever reason.
    After a while (me typing the entire time) she decides that she's gonna go get something to eat.  She asks me if I want to join her, and mentions that she got a couple vouchers (one $10, one $12) from the folks at the counter.  I am pissed - I got nothing.  So Sarah heads off to get dinner, and I head off to look for a warm body in a Continental uniform.
    The gates are a ghost town - there is absolutely no one around.  I grab a white courtesy phone and call the number for Continental.  The lady I talk to is having a hard time understanding what I'm telling her.  We finally work it out and she tells me to come to the front ticket counter for the certificate, giving me directions as though I was coming from Burbank and not merely back tracking to where I was only hours before.
    So I walk back to the ticket counter, which is, of course, on the other side of the security checkpoint.
    There's also no customers here, so I'm able to get right up to the counter.  I can see the woman who is undoubtedly the one that I spoke ot on the phone.  She helps someone else.  The young lady that gets to help me gets to hear the entire story all over again.  Yay!  Now you go!
    Miss Thang gives me the third degree about the flight.  She tells me that I've already been re-ticketed for the 11:30p.m. flight.  I tell her I am WELL aware of my schedule, having had an entire day to contemplate it here in the beautiful SFO International Airport.  Miss Thang assures me that there are no such thing as $10 and $12 dollar vouchers, but she'll help me out.  She disappears behind a door, and emerges a moment later with a piece of paper that says $8.00 on it.  I tell her that I have already attempted to procure food here at SFO International fit for human consumption for $8.00 once today and was unable to find anything up to my rigorous standards.
    (pause) Silence.
    "Can I have another one?"
    Miss Thang spins on her heels while simultaneously exhaling a deep "OhIdon'tcare" at me.  She again vanishes behind the magic door and reappears with another $8.00 certificate.  Apparently these things come directly from her wallet.  I wonder what happens on her day off and they need one......
    I am a frogs hair away from gulping massive quantities of air and screaming in her face that ..."IT WAS YOUR F**KING COMPANY THAT F**KING STRANDED ME IN THIS F**KING AIRPORT FOR 14 F**KING HOURS AND I REALLY DON'T NEED YOUR F**KING ATTITUDE TO MAKE MATTERS ANY F**KING WORSE", but I instead simply gather up my laptop bag and head on my merry way with a less than heartfelt "thank you". F**KING BIZNITCH!

    So now I have my choice of all the wonderful cuisine that SFO International has to offer.  There's "Antonio's - The Finest Italian Food at SFO International" but I have had The Finest Italian Food at SFO International once before and decide against it.  There is also "The Hangar", and I have also eaten there before and it was quite tolerable.  After a bit of hemming and hawing and determining that there really weren't any other choices in this portion of the airport (and not willing to risk the trip to another concourse and potentially miss the flight should a miracle occur and the plane get fixed) I decide to dine at The Hangar.

    And it was really pretty good.  I had the Carne Asada burrito.  It came with chips and fresh salsa, and I'm here to tell ya that that stuff was pretty hot.  Given that my tasty sammich from lunch is still sitting in my midsection in a knot I really hope that I'm not making a major mistake, but the Mexican food here in California is some of the best and I can't resist.  Having noticed that all of the help was either Chinese or Mexican my mind was pretty much made up when I walked in the door.

    So now I'm back in the concourse, having again made it through security without the high alert pat-down.  Sarah and I are again seated near one another. At this moment there's a nice couple with 16 month old twins, and they are tearing ass all over the place.  One of the little guys came over and banged on my laptop keyboard 'cause he saw me typing.  Another nice lady was chatting with us about being delayed.  We asked her wha,m..,.l
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    Whoa!!  Those edits above are compliments of Alexi - he and his brother Denis are the twin terrors running amok.  Actually, Alexi typed a whole lot more than what you see above, but the last thing he did was sit with his finger on the backspace key for like 10 seconds so much of his artistic work got wiped out.  Per his dad, he and his wife met via the Internet.  Alexi was named for her Russian side, and Denis was named for his Irish side.  He had advertised for a professional musician that had a daughter.  He got 2,000 responses.

    So anyway, we asked this lady what time she got here, and she said "Ummm... about 4:00" - we had a good laugh at that, and Sarah told her she's going on 12 hours.

    9:37p.m.  Sarah and I have spent the last few hours getting chummy.  We first went outside for a cool, refreshing smoke.  We then went back to The Hangar and sat around and drank coffee for an hour.  As you might imagine we talked about lots of crap - family, relationships, travel, titty-bars, etc.
    She's a pretty average girl from rural America.  She's a car chick, actually having gone to school for it and all, graduating tops in her class of 37.  She's had kind of a rough time of it from listening to her stories, and also seems to be a generally decent person, so it's not right for me to poke any fun.  Frankly, I was glad to have the company to pass 14 hours in the airport.  I told her that she should capitalize on her talents, find several girls like herself, and open the first ever "Go-Go Garage".  Yeah, baby - YEAH!
    While were sitting (now back at the comfy chairs where the power is) we finally see someone that we recognize from our flight.  We ask him to come over, and he tells us that the plane flying in (from Cleveland) is already running 40 minutes late - but we're still showing a departing time of 11:30....
    Sarah has unfortunately picked up a stranger looking for a shoulder to cry on.  It a somewhat trampishly clad young lady of possible Hispanic or Brazilian background, replete with rich burgundy rinse, apparently having troubles with her 4 friends, with accusations of money stealing, etc.  There's a tangled story that somehow involves Chicago, Cleveland, Puerto Vallarta, and San Francisco.  I have had all the social interaction I can handle for a day so I'm packing it in and bolting for the gate.

    6:20a.m. EST  Well, I'm nearly home.  I can just see the start of the sunrise.
    When boarding began I, of course, boarded with the Elite.  Being that it was a RedEye, combined with the fact that people totally lose the concept of a number system (you know, row 20 comes after row 7) there is a major clot in the small aisle that this particular gate present to those looking to board.  People are standing there in a lose pack, no one really moving, so I make the assumption that they are not boarding early with First Class and Elite, so I sidestep a couple people making my way closer to the front of the line.  Someone says something like "Hey you" or "We're in line".  I of course apologize and move back to where I was.  What happened next I cannot type well enough to convey the actual experience.
    There's a guy in line - I dunno, say 25 - who's wearing shorts with knee socks and tennis shoes, some non-descript shirt, a too-small-for-his-head baseball cap, and a back-pack.  He has large, thick glasses on.  If you are familiar with "The Kids in the Hall"  you might now of a character that Bruce McCulloch plays - it's young school kid that talks kind of goofy and is generally really annoying.  In various sketches he annoys the cops, Mormons, and general strangers ("When you tell the bus driver your mom died you get to ride for free", etc.)  Well, this guy looked AND sounded exactly like this little kid.  And he says, broadcast style, to the crowd in general, acting very much like this character from KitH:
    "Currently they're boarding only those passengers traveling with small children or those passengers requiring extra time or assistance to board.  At this time they are also extending courtesy boarding to those seated in First Class and those with Platinum, Gold, or Silver Elite status.  General boarding for the flight will begin shortly."
    Most of us were astounded, several of us laughed out loud.
    15 seconds later another guy did the same thing I did - cutting through the seemingly motionless crowd, and he was similarly told that we are all waiting to board with Elite status.

    I cannot believe that my camera is trapped in my checked luggage.  Never again.

    Other than that, boarding was uneventful, unless of course you call not having an assigned seat eventful.  Seems that the boarding pass I was given for 5D was no longer valid as this is a "new flight" - but I am in luck and get 14F - the exit row seat that both reclines and has no seat in front of it.  Schweeet.
    While waiting to board Sarah and I learned that at some point earlier in the day there was an announcement that the broken flight we were supposed to be on was, in fact, "fully" canceled and folks had been carted off to the local hotels for the day.  I must have had my headphones on and Sarah figures she was out getting a smoke.  From what we learn the hotel stay was no pic-a-nic anyway, but they did have a pool.

    Of course I've boarded early with my OnePass credentials, so now I face the anxious moments waiting to see how occupied the plane will be and what lucky person or persons get to sit next to me.
    The row in front of me remains blissfully empty (but that was not to be the case shortly).
    One guy takes the aisle seat in my row.  We'll call him Blotto.  He's 40-ish, typically American in terms of excess body weight... and incredibly hammered.  Blotto's not slurring his words or yelling "I love you guys!", actually, he's fairly mute - but he reeks.  And not the gentle waft of a glass or two of a fine Cabernet - Blotto has the sour, billowy stench of someone who has spent the last several hours (possibly 14?) imbibing copious quantities of whatever alcoholic beverage happened to be placed in front of him.  Sadly, the stench of alcohol was not to be the only scent my newfound neighbor would share with me as the night wore on.

    We finally take off.  Once safely airborne several events take place:
    1) (read #3 first) I have had to take a pee since we got on the plane.  Usually, I know to wait until we hear the little "bing" when the captain signals that we've reached an altitude safe to move and run laptops.  I hear the "bing".  Others hear the "bing".  I get up from my seat and head toward the rear restrooms.  Another woman does the same, ending up in front of me.  As we near the back the SkyMuffin (still sitting on her ass) says that the Captain has not turned off the seat belt sign, we are still climbing, and that we need to re-take our seats.  If there was not a woman in front of me I would have gone in the can and done my limbo.  Sadly, I chose to be a good boy and comply, heading back to my seat.   However......
    2) There has been a minor scurry for open seats to perhaps find a place to sleep.
    3) Blotto next to me tries to contort his huge alcohol-soaked frame into a position he finds tolerable.  It is a long, involved process, placing him in positions I'd rather never see another man assume when that close to me.  He farts.  It's not loud, but sadly for me I need no audible signal to know that the event has nonetheless occurred. (read number 2 now)

Time for an aside:
    What is it with people that really, really don't have an issue with farting in confined public spaces like planes, elevators, and busses?  Don't get me wrong - I enjoy a good fart as much as the next guy - just ask my room-mate - but there's a time and a place, and while I can't speak for everyone out there, I can, with about 95% accuracy, predict whether or not my gaseous emissions are merely going to be an audible comedy romp to be enjoyed by all (but are otherwise harmless), or if they will, in fact, smell like something crawled up may ass, died, and is now fermented to the point that my pop-off valve lets fly a cloud the likes of which have not been seen since Union Carbide opened up shop in Bhopal.  I am really, really, REALLY tired of smelling other people ass gas.  Take it to the bathroom people.

    Anyway, I get back to my seat and not wanting to disturb Blotto I go in via the row in front of me (remember, I'm in that odd exit row window seat that has no seat in front of it).  I decide that since i still have to pee like a racehorse I will simply sit in this row for now and wait for the "all clear" from the SMiC (SkyMuffin in Charge), saving me from any further rectal expositions Blotto may be saving up for my benefit.
    So I sit.  And wait.  And wait.  Now like a bat out of hell the SkyMuffins appear with the Drink Cart.  My row is roughly the center of the plane.  Most of the plane is asleep, so not many drinks will be served.  The SkyMuffins decide that my row is the ideal place to leave the drink cart while they service the entire plane - one from the front, one from the rear.  Surprisingly, I defer to consume any additional liquid.
    After 10 minutes they finally move the cart a few feet towards the back of the plane.  I bolt for First Class, vowing to knock anyone down that tried to stop me.  The First Class SkyMuffin is busy in the kitchen making s'mores or something for First Class.  She spies me out of the corner of her eye - but is far too late.  I am in the door and dropping trou before she can say "Get back to cargo infidel".

    I get back to my seat and there's been a seating change.  Blotto has stirred and moved himself to the row of 2 seats in front of us that do not recline.  He is again going through gymnastic fits that would make Nadia Comaneci fear for the Gold.  Again, mere words fail me as I attempt to recount the tale of this guy thrashing back and forth, trying to stuff 20 pounds of crap into a 10 pound seat.  Naturally, the position he finally comes to rest in gives me a great view of his pasty and frighteningly hairless legs as well as places his ass in the closest possible spot it can get to my seat. <sigh>  It's going to be a long night.

    The astute will again notice that I've said nothing about who's behind me.  There's a guy that looks a lot like Peter Garrett - but with a little bit of hair and a LOT of freckles.  He's kind if big (6'6" at least by my guess) and kind of scary looking.  He's got a kid with him, more hairy, equally freckled.  The kid is typically inquisitive - asking a ton of questions about everything.  Peter is pretty good at dading - he generally answers all the questions about the buttons and the seatbelts and the barf bags, etc.  Eventually he gets tired of explaining things to the kid and defaults to the classic cop-out of "because I said so".

    Now that we're on our way and Blotto has decided to move up a row, Peter Garrett decides that my row should be his new home.  He moves up (giving his kid the 2 seats to sleep on - his true (and commendable) motivation) and proceeds to go through the same friggin' limb twisting seizure that Blotto went through to try and get comfortable.  Wanting desperately to escape the crush of humanity about me with a few minutes of blissful slumber I have removed my glasses and, using one of the spring loaded stems my frames sport, clipped them to the pouch of the seat in front but next to me.  He crushes them with a leg.

    Now I am ready to try and escape reality.  The plane is frigid - I'm guessing 55 degrees.  Fortunately for me the plane was loaded with blankets when we got on board.  Unfortunately for me, my trek abroad in the cabin of the plane afforded others to capitalize on my absence - the majority of them are being used to prop Blotto's huge melon aloft.  I did manage to place one <ahem> blanket next to my feet when we took off.  I grabbed it and tried desperately to get 1 square yard of gossamer fine fabric to cover my body.  I nicknamed it the Blanky of Nothingness.  OK - it's not that funny, but you come up with something good after nearly 24 hours awake.
    I had my headphones on and my laptop fired up to play MP3z.  Fortunately for me the laptop gets pretty toasty warm as it operates, so I was clutching it to my chest under my blanket as I tried my best to get some ZZZzs.

    I slept a little (maybe 45 minutes) but it was typically unrestful and did little more than serve to remind me that it's been a long time since I've seen my toothbrush and a washcloth.  ..and clean clothes.

    At one point we went through a brief pocket of turbulence the likes of which I have not experienced in the past.  Usually I find turbulence kind of fun - this was not.  Like I said, it was brief, but at one point it felt like the plane was altering altitude (up and down) at the rate of about 500 feet/second.  For the second time today (recall the shuttle ride with Boris) my body flushed somewhat uncomfortably with an adrenaline surge.  Definitely a 10 on the Pucker Factor scale.

    Finally home, we land and deplane.  Peter Garrett and Freckles Jr. find it necessary to attempt to get out in the aisle before those in the seats in front of us.  This, of course, messes with the natural flow of things and likely causes us all to lose the 30 seconds PG & FJr. gained in the first place.

    When I finally get out I see Sarah in the distance (she was seated near the front).  I intended to say good-bye, but she ducks into the ladies room and is gone.  Oh well - I'm gettin' my ass home!

    Baggage claim is every bit as F-ed up as the rest of this trip has been.  Initially, the monitors say Baggage Claim 10.  Several of us head that way.  Eventually, people stop heading that way.  One guy (who looked like Steve Kmetko) walks back over to the monitors, takes a look, and then heads off in another direction.  Baggage claim has been moved to 7.  I ask a bell captain a rhetorical question: "Is there anything about this flight that Continental isn't going to F**K up?"  He has no answer for me......

    The WidowMaker is right there as I approach.  Ordinarily, I'd be happy, but on this trip I got a new bag (that little rolling laptop bag from the H-P Customer Day) and forgot to request a temporary Priority Handling tag when I checked it in (yes - you can get those).  Fortunately it was not far behind and I grabbed my bags and dashed for the elevator.

    I got in the elevator alone - YES!  Up to the parking level, out the doors, and who's sitting there.....?  It was Sarah.  She had less than an hour to burn before her ride showed up, I guess she decided to sit up there as it affords the best view.  We said a brief good-by, I thanked her for burning the time with me.  She told me that I was the only thing that made the time bearable.  That made me feel special.

    Sarah's last name is "Hung" - I find that humorous.  I stripper named Sarah Hung.  Good luck, wherever you are....

    My car is filthy.  Cleveland Airport is a shithole of dust and filth.  I pay my not-too-much-of-an-anal-raping $80 for parking and head off to I-480 and the L-O-N-G ride home.  There is no shortage of A-holes this time of the morning.  Today I am but one of them, utilizing the full forces provided by my throbbing modular V-8 to blast through the traffic leaving the airport, practically putting it up on two wheels as I hang the final 90 degree turn that leads to the Interstate and the roads beyond.....  I want to be home really, really bad.  I find that as the stress of the trip passes I am crashing.  I make it home and immediately take a shower.  Not only am I covered with nearly 24 hours of travel & stress-induced grime, I have had to deal with a week of low pressure / low volume "pissing showers" at the hotel, and I get down on my bony knees and Thank God for the safe trip home and the fine folks at Kinetico.

    I sleep.  I sleep the deep, dreamless sleep of the dead.  I sleep that entire day, waking only long enough to annihilate a RomanBurger and Fries that my room-mate graciously brought home from a trip into downtown Hooterville.  I miss a friends wedding reception.  I get up about 8:00, eat again (in such a fog I cannot even recall what it was).  Watch TV, and back to bed at about 10:30.  I sleep until about 10:00 the next day (Sunday).  I believe that I napped that afternoon as well.

    I finally emerge from my crypt Monday morning - alive, refreshed, and ready for my next big trip on the road.........  hopefully you'll join me again then.
 

Don