airports

Once again I found myself in trouble at the Los Angeles International Airport, and once again it was (arguably) my own damn fault. Last Thursday I flew Southwest to Providence, Rhode Island to testify in court on behalf of my dad, who was in the midst of a textbook “frivolous lawsuit”. I detest being late in general, and even more so when it comes to flying. I am the guy that gets to the airport at least two hours in advance. My adventure began almost as soon as I got out of my friend’s car.

I was told by the Southwest skycaps at the curbside check-in that my flight was canceled. “What?! Why?!” I exclaimed. I was told by the first skycap that it was because of inclement weather in Rhode Island. He directed me to his superior, who told me that it was because of a mechanical problem with the plane. (Much later in the day I would be told that the flight was canceled because there simply weren’t enough people wanting to fly from LA to Providence that day to justify sending an entire plane on the route.) She took my luggage and got me on the next flight, due to leave for Phoenix in three hours.

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I happen to be one of the (apparently very few) people in this country that has not only read the Constitution of the United States, but also understands it and — by gosh! — thinks it’s a pretty good way to run a country. So I tend to get really, really upset when presented with a “law” that I know is not a law.

At fozbaca.org I found a link to an excellent article written by a U.S. citizen about how to fly without any identification. You do realize that there is no “law” that says you must present ID to get on a plane, right? According to this article, the airlines just want to make sure you’re not using someone else’s frequent flyer miles. They blame it on the government because, well, just about everyone is a sucker.

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Even though they allow for high-volume servicing and back-in-a-flash trips to the john, the point-and-shoot-a-stinky-deodorizer-cake oddity known as the men’s restroom urinal has been, for women, a constant enigma. But nothing will prepare you for the men’s room in the newly-designed Virgin Airways Clubhouse in New York’s John F. Kennedy airport, terminal 4: Urinals shaped like a woman’s mouth, dolled up with red lipstick, wide open and ready for business.

I can’t remember where I found this one, but Checking Out the Checkpoints - The curious irrationality of airport security is a great editorial.

from a review of “The Social Life of Paper”
On a busy day, a typical air-traffic controller might be in charge of as many as twenty-five airplanes at a time - some ascending, some descending, each at a different altitude and travelling at a different speed. He peers at a large, monochromatic radar console, tracking the movement of tiny tagged blips moving slowly across the screen. He talks to the sector where a plane is headed, and talks to the pilots passing through his sector, and talks to the other controllers about any new traffic on the horizon. And, as a controller juggles all those planes overhead, he scribbles notes on little pieces of paper, moving them around on his desk as he does. Air-traffic control depends on computers and radar. It also depends, heavily, on paper and ink.

Grrr … and, even though I can access GreyMatter to post, for some reason the folks at AT&T have determined that davidgagne.net is a porn site or something. The Public Phone 2000i won’t let me view my own page. So. I guess I’ll go read Rolling Stone. The paper, handheld, old-fashioned version. In a chair. At the airport. Bah.

I am standing at an AT&T Public Phone 2000i in the Miami International Airport. I’ve got several hours to kill here and I thought I’d check my eMail. Unfortunately, although I love the redesign at Hotmail.com, I can’t figure out how to retrieve my POP mail. It’s very frustrating. I doubt I have any interesting eMail to read, but it would have been a cool way to spend $.25/min for a while.

Otherwise … not much to say about Miami. It’s swelteringly, oppressively humid outside - even at 6:45 am. To me it’s only 3:45 am and I’m cranky, tired, and low on fluids. Heh. And of course the first person that tried to talk to me here was annoyed that I don’t speak Spanish. Bah.

So. Here is the plane in which I flew to Camarillo and back for lunch today. The tri-tip steak sandwich at the Camarillo Airport is delicious.