eX-Ray

Last week found me back in the (not-so) frozen North, as I had to make the trek back to the UP to attend my niece Jourdan’s wedding.
I’ll have more on that in a future post – along with pictures – but for right now I wanted to detail my journey back to Virginia.
I had thought about taking the early morning flight, which departs from Hancock at around 6 AM, but the problem with that would have been that I’d have arrived back in Virginia at around 11:30 AM.  That would have been good, inasmuch as I would have had the better part of the day ahead of me upon my return, but the problem was that there wouldn't have been anyone available to pick me up from the airport at that time on a Tuesday.
And so I found myself taking the afternoon flight, which, ideally, would have placed me back in VA sometime around 8 PM.
Ideally.
The Houghton County Memorial Airport isn’t a big place.  Really, it’s just one big open room, with a partition separating the terminal from the secured area.  There’s only the one gate, which is why I always laugh when I fly there and the flight attendant, being unfamiliar with the place, says, “For those of you continuing on, you can find your gate information from one of the electronic boards.”  Yeah, okay.
In any case, when it comes time to go through the TSA check, the line forms along the partition that separates the gate from the terminal, and there’s just a security rope separating passengers from the non-passengers.
On Tuesday they announced that because the plane we would be flying out on was a bit late getting in, they wanted everyone to go through TSA a bit sooner in order to speed things up once the plane had arrived and was ready for us to board, so we all got in line and waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.
Finally, a TSA agent poked her head out from behind the partition and said that a piece of equipment had failed, and this was causing the delay.  It was later clarified that it was, in fact, the x-ray machine.  This meant that they had to screen everyone’s carry-on luggage by hand.
While I was standing there waiting, I heard…something, something that made me turn my head and look into the waiting area where non-passengers were seeing off friends and family who were leaving or else waiting to see friends and family who would be arriving.
I’m not sure what it was I heard, exactly, but there was something about it that sparked some sense of recognition deep inside me.  So I turned, and my eyes fell upon a rather large woman, who looked vaguely familiar, talking to an older, even larger man, and as I studied her features and took note of her mannerisms, recognition washed over me in a wave, and I thought, “Of fucking course.”
It was my ex-wife.
I caught a glimpse of her in a store, once, nearly eleven years ago, but other than that, it’s been over sixteen years since I last saw her. 
Given that she was now the equivalent of at least two and a half of the woman I’d known, I initially doubted that it could be her, but despite it all, the features were there, the mannerisms were there, and I realized that the man next to her was her father, and then I spotted her mother next to him.  (Later, I also noticed her sister.)
I assume they were waiting for someone to arrive.  I didn’t talk to them, and while I’m fairly certain that my ex-mother-in-law spotted me, I tried to remain inconspicuous, and I don’t believe that my ex herself saw me.
I have to admit, though, that all things considered, there was part of me that thought that I’d kind of like for her to see me.  I mean, it’s as though we’re inversely proportionate to the way we were when we last saw each other.  I’m much thinner, and better-looking overall, and she’s…not.  So, you know, life well-lived being the best revenge an all that.
But, really, I have no desire for revenge, there’s honestly nothing for us to talk about after all of these years, and, given the issues she’s had with brain, there’s a good chance she wouldn’t have recognized or known me anyway.
Still, there was one tiny, cruel part of me that thought, “Man, did I ever dodge a bullet.”
And there was an even tinier, even crueler part that thought, “Bullet nothing; I dodged that boulder from Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
Her appearance aside, just seeing her was…unpleasant, and was something I definitely could have gone without doing, so I found myself thinking – not for the first or last time that day – that I really should have taken that earlier flight.
The manual screening caused a 40-minute delay for the flight, which meant that I’d only have 20 minutes to get to my gate in Chicago, and made me conclude that my suitcase probably wouldn’t make it onto the plane.  I wasn’t overly concerned, given that I was going home and there wasn’t anything in there that I absolutely needed.  Still, it was an annoyance.
Once we got to Chicago, we were forced to circle for over 10 minutes due to a thunderstorm, which left me even less time to get to my gate, and left me certain that my suitcase wouldn’t make it.
However, once I got to my gate I found that the flight to Dulles had also been delayed, so I had enough time to get something to eat.  I was still fairly certain that my suitcase wouldn’t make it.  Then the flight was delayed again.  Then we boarded and sat and waited for a long time.  We finally started moving, got to the runway, and were told that we had to wait some more, as there was a storm between Chicago and VA, so we might have to change the flight plan.  Then, a few minutes later, the captain announced that he hadn’t received any new information other than that we should just take off within the next couple of minutes.
So we did.
The delays, by the way, were caused by the fact that the plane we were originally supposed to fly out on had been struck by lightning when it was flying into Chicago, so they had to scramble to find a replacement – the captain took the opportunity to put some spin on the whole thing and say that it was an example of United’s commitment to safety – and the replacement plane hadn’t been quite ready and needed to be cleaned and stocked, which added the additional delays.
Eventually I was back in VA, and I was surprised to find that my suitcase had, in fact, made the journey, and was even more amazed to find that it was right there as soon as I walked to baggage claim.
Oh, and as something of an aside, while I was refilling my pockets and whatnot after going through security in Hancock, I noticed that my sister had called while I was in line.  I tried calling her back, but got her voicemail.  When I landed in Chicago, I had a voicemail from her telling me that she had just called to tell me about the earthquake in the DC area.  At that point I actually looked at my work e-mail and saw that there had been one from facilities talking about how the building had been evacuated as a precaution after the quake hit.
There have been a couple of earthquakes in this area since I’ve lived here, but I’ve never actually noticed them happening.  It seems that this one I would have noticed had I been here.
(Upon returning home I found that the quake hadn’t resulted in even so much as a crooked picture on the wall.)
And that was my trip back to Virginia.  Next time I’ll tell you about my time in Michigan.

Oh Lordi

Somehow I feel as though I'm obligated to like the band Lordi.
They are, after all, a Finnish metal band, so it seems like kind of a no-brainer.
And yet...
I suppose it's the overwhelming cheesiness, both in terms of their lyrics and the whole costume and make up shtick, though normally I don't find cheesiness completely off-putting. After all, I grew up reading comic books written by Stan Lee himself, for god's sake.
And yet...
I can say, I think, that I do legitimately like Would You Love A Monsterman? (embedding disabled).
And I kinda-sorta like Hard Rock Hallelujah (again, embedding disabled, which is, quite frankly, stupid).
Lordi, by the way, won the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest, becoming the first Finnish band to do so.
And yet...
Still, I like the two songs linked above well enough to use up two of my ten free credits from Zune* to download them, and I thought that they were worth mentioning here.
On some other fronts, I haven't gotten any news about my mom since Wednesday, at which time she seemed to be doing okay, though - and I guess this is normal - she'd needed a transfusion. She also was still recovering from some of the loopiness brought on by the anesthesia.
My sister Kim was heading down there for the weekend to see her, and I'm sure she'll give me a report soon. Once she's out of ICU and in a regular room, she'll have a phone and I'll be able to call her.
In the meantime I'm assuming that no news is good news.
My flight home on Tuesday seemed to take much longer than it really ought to have, in particular the "25 minute" final approach to Dulles, which kind of felt like we'd turned around and gone back to Minneapolis in order to make the approach, and which actually took more than 45 minutes.
On this trip I became convinced that airline employees don't know how time works, and they don't have a full understanding of the concept, or the terms.
I mean, when they say something like, "We will begin boarding in approximately five minutes," they might as well be saying, "We will begin boarding in approximately...orange?"
But, while travel is always a bit of a hassle, and I was sorry to leave my mom behind to recuperate without me, I needed to get back to my life (such as it is) and my job doing whatever the hell it is I do, and it felt good to be home.
Of course, there were hours and hours of recorded TV piled up on my DVR waiting to be watched, which I kind of resent. How dare the television networks provide programming that I enjoy!
I will say that sleeping in my own bed, which is not at all like a hospital bed, was awesome.
Beyond the hours and hours of TV demanding to be watched, it only took me about an hour to get everything squared away and to get back into the standard swing of things.
It took even less time than that at work, since I'd kept up with it as much as I could while away, and we're entering a slow time of year with the approaching holidays and the end of the year.
Yesterday I actually worked from home in the afternoon, as my morning was taken up by my three-month check-up with my doctor, and a dentist appointment.
One of my crowns had been loose, so I'd gone in to get that fixed. Given that the tooth to the left of it was also a crown, and the tooth to the right of it would eventually need a crown, the dentist recommended that I get a bridge put in. My other option was to have a post put into the loose one and then eventually get the crown on the other, but I chose to go with the bridge. So now I have one big fake tooth that's molded to look as though it's three separate teeth.
Right now I just have a temporary one in place and I'll have to go back to get the permanent one put in.
The dentist was examining his work and told me to "smile big." He assured me that no one would be able to tell the difference, particularly since you can't see my gumline anyway. I was going to say that people wouldn't be able to tell the difference because I don't smile, but I remained silent.

A Conversation At Work:

Me: I actually used the word "synergy" today. I even did the hand gesture, with the interlocking fingers.
Dan: Were you disgusted with yourself?
Me: Yes. Next thing you know I'll be talking about OBIDA or some shit.

*I got a free one-month "Zune Pass" with ten free downloads as part of the AT&T Entertainment Pack that came with my upgrade to the Samsung Focus, a Windows Phone 7 device. So far I really dig my new phone, and I'll be writing a little more on the subject at some point.

Homecoming 1 & 2: The Last Part

Day 5: Enter…Brad!

On Monday, my brother Brad arrived from Texas for his leg of the visit, and it was therefore his turn to treat everyone to dinner that evening.

Afterwards, as he likes to gamble and isn’t able to do so in Texas, he and my mom and I headed to the casino in Baraga.

I’m not a fan of gambling, mostly because, for me, it’s not actually “gambling,” since that would imply that there’s a chance of winning.

Still, I usually anticipate a trip to the casino – and more than one when Brad’s there – when I visit home, so I always budget money to lose. This time, I figured we’d be there a lot, so I budgeted a lot.

My biggest problem with gambling – besides the fact that I generally lose and lose fast – is that I really only “like” straightforward quarter slots, none of that fancy forty-five line, crazy bonus nonsense. Unfortunately, I’m in the minority there, since everyone else seems to love them.

Gamblers like them because they’re usually only one cent or five cent machines, so they don’t cost much…except that when you’re playing multiple lines with multiple credits bet on each, you’re actually spending more money each time than you would on a quarter machine betting max credits.

And the casinos love them because the lower the cost per-credit, the worse the payout odds can be. So for them, it’s win-win to an even greater extent than it is normally, which means that the kind of machines I like to play are scarce.

Beyond the matter of the odds, I don’t like those crazy machines. I mean, due to the lousy odds, I win even less often than I do on other machines, and even when you hit something, it’s only a penny, so you win like fifty cents when you hit something, unless you get a bonus. In all the times I’ve played those machines, I’ve never once hit a bonus.

Beyond that, I just don’t understand them. I watched Brad playing one of them, and he went through this whole bonus thing, and somehow, at the end of it, he’d hit one of the mini-jackpots for like $28. I watched the whole thing happen, and after he got the results I said, “This is why I don’t play these; I don’t understand a goddamn thing that just happened.”

The main thing I try to do when I’m at the casino is kill time. I don’t anticipate winning anything, so my goal is to make the money I have last as long as possible.

That’s actually part of the reason I enjoyed it when Brad and I sat down to play roulette. I don’t think I’d ever play it on my own, but it was kind of fun with Brad, and even moreso when a bunch of other people – most of them newbies – sat down to join in. It’s that rare case where I found that my enjoyment of something was actually enhanced by adding more people.

I didn’t win anything, but it took a while to lose everything, so overall, for me, it was a success.

Given that my mom lives in a one-bedroom apartment and that I can’t stay at Kim’s house because of my pet allergies, there had been some concern about where Brad was going to sleep. I had been sleeping on a air mattress that took up most of the living room, and I’m a violent sleeper, so sharing with Brad wasn’t really an option.

Fortunately, one of my mom’s friends was going to be out of town for the week, so she offered the use of her apartment, which was very nice of her. (The mattress I was sleeping on had been loaned to my mom by another friend of hers. See? There are nice people there, despite my complaints.)

So Brad opted to stay over in that apartment. Once we got back from the casino – and stopped to pick up some beer for Brad – he and I headed over there to talk for a while after my mom went to bed.

Brad and I don’t really keep in touch all that regularly, but we always get along when we’re together and can pretty much pick up where we left off (it’s the same with Kim). It helps that we have a very similar sense of humor.

Day 6: Did Someone Say “Casino” Again? Someone Did? Damn.

Over the weekend, we’d learned, an old friend of the family had passed away, so on Tuesday evening Brad, our mom, Kim, and I went to the visitation. It was, obviously, something of a down note for the trip.

Afterwards, we brought our mom home and headed out for round two at the casino.

There was a machine I had my eye on, but I never got a chance to play it, as there was this woman sitting there feeding it as if doing so were her job. She never left it the whole time I was there. I don’t think she even got up to use the restroom. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she was wearing a diaper just to make sure she didn’t have to leave before she was damned good and ready.

At one point I walked past the roulette table and the dealer from the previous night asked me, “Where’s your grandma? Bingo?”

(The night before, my mom had come by while Brad and I were playing and said to the dealer, “These are my boys.”)

I said, “She’s at home, and she’s my mom.”

Later, when Brad and I were playing again, the dealer said to me, “I thought he was your dad, that’s why I thought she was your grandma.”

Brad responded, “His dad? I hate you now.”

Seriously, his hair may be almost totally white, but he doesn’t look that much older than I am.

Once more I didn’t win, but at the end of it all, after a good long run, I was only down fifty cents (at roulette; I’d lost more on the machines), so that was pretty good.

Day 7: The Casino Again? Really?

Kim took the afternoon off, so we all headed off to Watersmeet to go to a different casino.

Again, I didn’t win anything, and Kim was the only one to come out ahead.

We had to get back in time for my niece Jenni’s soccer game, which we did, but then it started to rain, so Brad, our mom, and I just went home.

That night Brad and I opted to to to the movie and see Get Him To The Greek, which was uneven, but the parts that were funny were really funny.

Oh, and I finally came out and admitted to my mom and the rest of the family (and now to the wider world) that I started smoking again.

Yeah, I know.

Day 8: Farewell

Thursday evening found us all at Kim’s house for a farewell dinner of pasties, as Brad and I would both be leaving the next day.

After saying our goodbyes – we’ll be back next year when my niece Jourdan graduates from college – we dropped our mom off and headed out for one last gambling hurrah.

This time I was able to get on the machine I’d been eyeing the other night. You could choose the credit denomination on it (five, ten, twenty-five, or fifty cents), so I decided to kill time playing nickel credits. I started hitting, and had eventually built up more than the twenty dollars I put in, so I switched to quarters and kept hitting.

Meanwhile, the lady who’d been monopolizing it the other night came and sat down right next to me, and I could see that she was absolutely seething every time I hit something.

Eventually I had it up to around $186. I decided to try to see if I could get it over $200, and resolved that I would play it down to $150 otherwise. After all, it was hitting a lot, and if it was hot, I didn’t want to walk away, and $150 was nothing to sneeze at (it would put me ahead $90 for the night). Eventually it went cold, and I cashed out at $150.

Thankfully, I got confirmation that I’d done the right thing; a string of people – but not the lady who’d worked it the other night, oddly enough – tried it after I left and no one hit anything to speak of.

We called it an early night, as Brad was gambled out and had to leave early in the morning.

Day 9: Homecoming 2

I got up very early and drove Brad to the airport, then headed back to my mom’s to sleep for a few more hours.

Brad was already back in Texas by the time I headed up to the airport.

Shortly after boarding the plane I was landing in Chicago, with only about an hour and a half to spend in the airport.

Or so I thought. I was sitting at my gate getting ready to board when I heard someone say something about it being a flight to Denver. I got up and checked the board and found that my gate had changed. Or had it? Had I just been at the wrong gate all along?

(It had changed, I later learned, when I looked at my phone and saw the alert from Orbitz telling me about the gate change.)

So I went to the correct gate and an announcement was made that due to thunderstorms…somewhere, my flight was delayed by twenty-five minutes.

Eventually I got on the plane, but we were delayed even longer. Thunderstorms in the Ohio-Pennsylvania region had created a narrow traffic corridor for flights headed in this direction, and we were like number sixteen in line to depart.

Fortunately, we got moved up again, and eventually I arrived in DC about forty-five minutes later than scheduled.

Unfortunately, my late arrival – and Scott forgetting that I was flying into National – plus the time it took for my bag to come around, meant that I ended up cutting into the dinner plans that Scott had with Stacy and her visiting cousin (and for me, if I were interested, but I was too fried to think about doing anything other than going home).

Sorry about that.

Upon arriving at home, I found that, thankfully, the place was still where I left it, though I regretted not leaving the A/C on and set at like eighty or so, as it was over ninety inside.

But at long last my two homecomings were behind me.

Next year I’ll have to do it again for Jourdan’s graduation, but one of these times I’d like to just send Kim the money I would spend on a plane ticket and a rental car and have her and the family use it to come out to visit me.

My reasons aren’t purely selfish; I think the kids would like to see DC. Hell, just riding the Metro would be cool for them. And I know Dean would dig the Air and Space Museum, so I’m hoping it’ll happen one of these years.

In any case, that’s a rather c0ndensed telling of my travel adventures. There’s a lot I left out, some of which I will fill in as time goes by, some of which I won't, but those were the highlights, at least.

I’m always glad to make the trip, even though I hate making the trip. I had a good time with Brad; as much as he loved the Navy, I think he’s really glad to be out, and the fact that he’s happy with his life – he’s currently attending culinary school, with plans to open his own bistro/catering business – has an impact on how he responds to life, so as a result, he was even more fun to be around than usual.

Ultimately, while I do miss my family while I’m here, this place – despite having problems of its own – is home now, and it’s always good to be home.

Homecoming 1 & 2: The Second Part

Day 2: Welcome to God’s Country

On Friday morning I decided to get a haircut, as I was a bit overdo. I kind of like getting my hair cut when I’m at home because it’s cheaper than it is here, and there isn’t (much of) a language barrier, so it’s easy to explain what I want done.

So I headed to the crumbling center of despair that is the local mall (Retail space available! Nearly 70,000 square feet!). At its peak, it was never exactly huge, but these days it’s just depressing. Not counting the five-theater multiplex, there are only about ten businesses actually operating there. This is part of the reason that, when I talk about what it’s like back home, I describe it as being like the opening scenes of some gritty documentary about a town where the factory shut down, except that every town is like that.

I went to the old barbershop, walked in, and sat right down, as there were no other patrons. The owner, who recognized me, did the job. He asked the usual battery of questions, such as, “Where you livin’ now?” When I said Virginia, he responded, “Virginia! That’s why you talk funny now; you’re livin’ out there with them hillbillies!”

*Ahem*

Yeah. I live 40 miles from the seat of government of the world’s only remaining superpower, in a huge tech sector where many of the world’s most successful companies have a presence, in the most affluent county in the country, with a diverse population, surrounded by thriving businesses and cultural centers, and I work for the second-largest cable provider in the country.

We’re hillbillies, all right.

In the course of our delightful conversation, I was informed that “them Indians don’t know no better,” and got to hear such sophisticated – to my hillbilly sensibilities – terms as “fuckin’ niggers.”

In the days leading up to my trip, I’d wondered aloud to my friend Dan what I was going to do for eight days in “God’s Country.” He asked, “Is there anywhere you ever wanted to go growing up? Or anything that you always wanted to do?” I shrugged, and thought, “Yes, and yes: somewhere else and get the hell out of there, respectively. And I already went there and and I already did that.”

I suppose I’m not being fair. The racist fucktard barber isn’t really a representative sample of the – oh, who am I kidding?

Still, it’s not like there aren’t good people there; of course there are.

Even under the layers of stupidity and bigotry, that barber is probably a pretty decent guy. And I don’t mean to suggest that I think that I’m better than they are, because anyone who knows me can tell you that I have plenty of faults – and there are probably many people who would be more than happy to expound on those faults in great detail – but…well, in some ways, I am better than they are.

But here’s the thing: so are they. They don’t have to be the ignorant, close-minded, hateful, fearful bigots they so frequently – and casually, and proudly – show themselves to be. They’re also polite – for a given value of “polite” – hardworking and industrious, and generally a pretty hardy bunch. If they could just…well, you get the idea.

And that's the other thing. Sure, I’m a thousand miles – and in some ways, a whole world – away from them, but I’m also them. They are an indelible part of me. That’s where I came from, that’s where I grew up and became the person I am. As different as I may be on the surface, underneath it all, I’m the same.

Despite what I’ve said above, you might still find yourself wondering, especially if you’re one of the people who still lives there, “Seriously, Jon; why do you hate your home so much?”

If ignorance, coupled with an unearned feeling of superiority, and casual racism, along with a depressed economy, shitty winters that last way too fucking long, and pure, unadulterated contempt for anything and anyone that is even slightly “other” aren’t enough, how about the sheer, mind-numbing boredom? The soul-crushing despair?

Just being there makes me sad, down to my very core. It breaks my heart, especially since there are people there whom I love deeply – they are, after all, the only reason I keep going back – and I hate thinking that they might feel like I’m judging them somehow – because I’m not – just for staying there, and for living their lives and finding whatever happiness they can. I get that. I do. It’s their home.

But that’s another thing that makes it all so painful; the fact that is home. I should be happy to be there. But I just can’t do it. I should feel safe, and comfortable, and at ease, but all I can think about when I’m there is getting as far away as fast as I can.

Everywhere I look I’m reminded of some bitter resentment that I thought I’d let go and moved past a long time ago, but which I find is still just as raw and fresh as the day it was formed.

And maybe it is just my problem. Maybe it’s not so bad as I make it out to be. After all, the ruined buildings and soon-to-be closed new businesses aside, it really is beautiful there. There is, as an artist I once spoke to said, a quality to the light that you can’t find anywhere else. In the summer it’s green as far as the eye can see; in autumn it’s like the whole world has been set ablaze, and even the interminable gray winters have a stark beauty that is nothing short of magnificent.

And yet…

Day 3: Life’s a Beach

On Saturday we had a picnic with my brother-in-law’s family and others. It was a nice day, but it was hot and extremely windy.

Throughout the course of the picnic my sister kept pointing out some guy every time he walked by and asking me if that was Abel – my best friend from when I was a kid. I told her that it wasn’t, because I thought he looked too young.

Later, he came over to us and said, “I knew I recognized these people!” Turns out my sister was right and I was wrong.

I’d never seen – or heard of – the car I had as a rental before getting into it in the parking lot at the airport, but as we were leaving the beach where we had the picnic there was another one parked right next to the rental. I’d also seen one at Wal-Mart the day before.

On Sunday we were having another picnic, as my other sister and her husband were coming up. They were also bringing my brother’s son with them, which was why I decided that my nephew Jeremy was going to get hosed: I hadn’t bought a shirt for Todd, as I hadn’t expected to see him, but upon learning that I would be seeing him, I decided that he’d get the shirt intended for Jeremy.

Jeremy ended up getting a better deal, though, as I slipped him a twenty, which is what all three shirts had cost me.

That evening I headed over to my sister’s house to watch the family set off their fireworks a day early, and then it was back to my mon’s apartment to get ready for round two.

Day 4: Life’s Still a Beach

And so we found ourselves back at the beach for another picnic. My sister, brother-in-law, and nephew made the drive up and we sat around – on a slightly cooler and less windy day – and did the picnic thing.

This time around we had steaks – which was my idea, and which were a big hit – rather than hot dogs and brats.

At one point I decided to go for a swim, which is when I learned that I’m getting wimpy in my old age. First of all, for someone who spent a good portion of his early years running around barefoot at pretty much all times, I found myself doing a lot of, “Ow! Dammit! Son of a – “ as I walked over the sticks and rocks on my way to the water.

For another, that water was cold. I nearly turned around and walked out, but then I thought, “This is the guy who used to routinely swim in Lake Superior, where the temperature below the surface seldom gets above 37 degrees? This is like bathwater in comparison. Suck it up, hillbilly.”

When I was a kid, if I could have found a way to live in the water, I would have done it in a heartbeat. At 38, I soon found myself thinking, “Okay, I’m in the water…now what?”

So I got out and changed back into my clothes just as it started to rain and we had to bring the picnic to a close anyway.

That evening, despite having no interest in seeing it, I went to see The Last Airbender with my brother-in-law Dean and my nephew Jacob. I wasn’t impressed, but none of us had any interest in attending any of the local 4th of July festivities, so what else was there to do?

Later that night, I could hear some fireworks going off somewhere distant, but couldn’t see them. It was fine; the sun was actually putting on a brilliant display of its own.

See what I mean about the beauty thing?

And as the sun sets on Day 4 of my trip home, so too does it set on this entry. Come back for the – hopefully less dour – Homecoming 1 & 2: The Third Part.

Homecoming 1 & 2: The First Part

So July 1st found me winging my way back to the UP for eight days for my annual visit home, which is why posts have been even more scarce than usual of late.

What follows is a day-by-day breakdown of my trip.

Day 0: Wait, what?

There’s no such thing as a “direct flight” from Northern VA to the UP (or vice versa), so a trip home always requires a layover somewhere. In the past that typically meant either Minneapolis, Detroit, or both (I don’t remember if it was VA>Minneapolis>Detroit>UP or if Detroit came before Minneapolis, or, again, vice versa for the return trip), but Northwest/Delta no longer provides service to the UP, so the new route involves a layover at O’Hare. (As an aside, in his youth, before O’Hare was built, my dad worked at Midway airport in Illinois. Surrounded by a bunch of Irish people, he opted to put “O’Maki” on his lunchbox. When asked what part of Ireland his family was from, he responded “The northern part.”)

I like to keep the number of layovers to a minimum, and like them to be no less than an hour – to allow me sufficient time to get to/from the BFE gate from which UP flights depart/arrive – and no longer than two hours. So when I’m booking flights – having gotten burned by a random seven-hour layover in Indianapolis that I didn’t notice until it was too late – I pay careful attention to where my connection is made and how long I have to wait before departure.

I do not, however, pay close attention to which airport I’m flying out of VA from, as, since that’s what I search on, I assume it will be Dulles.

However, the day before my flight, in looking at my itinerary, I was reminded of what happens when you assume, as I noticed that my flight was actually departing from National (I don’t like calling it “Reagan” because, well, Reagan), which is considerably further away from my house than Dulles.

D’oh. Scott was willing – if reluctant – to get up early and haul my ass down to National, but it would have meant sacrificing movie night. As we wouldn’t be having another for two weeks, I was reluctant to give that up. Fortunately my friend Sheila, who lives in Leesburg, was willing to bring me in.

So after having movie night, I set to packing and preparing, staying up late trying to load up some new songs on my iPod (Note: I fucking hate iTunes), and generally preparing myself for the day ahead of me.

I thought about using some of my iTunes (Hate!) credit and downloading a movie, but honestly, despite the length of the overall travel time, the amount of time I spend in the air at an altitude at which the use of portable electronics is not prohibited isn’t really sufficient for watching a movie, and I don’t like having my hearing interfered with when I’m in the airport.

Day Two: Better Late than Early

Sheila arrived a bit late in the morning, but it was just as well, as traffic wasn’t as bad as expected, and I arrived at National nearly two hours before my flight.

When I checked in at the kiosk, I pushed the button for one when it asked how many bags I was checking. It then charged me $35. I thought, “Isn’t it supposed to be $25?” but then shrugged it off.

The guy at the counter wasn’t so nonchalant. “Where’s your other bag?”

“I only have the one.”

“It charged you for two. See? $35. That’s the charge for two bags. It’s only $25 for one.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I hit one.”

This caused him great consternation, and he looked at me as though I were some sort of troublemaker. He called someone over for assistance and explained the situation. The person he called over said, “Yeah, it’s been screwing up all morning.” It was clear that the guy wasn’t satisfied with this explanation – and thought that I was up to something – but he finally printed out the thing and had me put it on my bag, reiterating that I had, in fact, been charged for two bags, and clearly annoyed/confused by the fact that I didn’t appear to give a shit, stuck the label on my bag and told me to bring it over to TSA, which I did.

To kill time, and because I always mean to do so but never remember, I decided to buy some Washington D.C. T-shirts for my sister’s kids (minus Jourdan, who is off in Arkansas for the summer), and soon was on my way.

The layover in Chicago was brief, and the flight to the UP – at just about an hour – was even more brief, and soon I was back in “God’s Country.” I guess that, seeing as how He owns the whole universe, technically everywhere is “God’s Country,” but I find it amusing that so many places lay claim to that title.

When people tell me that UP is “God’s Country,” my response, which is greeted with bewilderment and/or narrow-eyed suspicion, is typically, “He can keep it.”

After picking up the rental car – a Chevy HHR – I was on my way to my mom’s place. After greeting several of my mom’s friends and killing some time, we headed to Perkin’s for me to engage in the traditional homecoming ritual: buying everyone dinner.

I didn’t (and don’t) mind. After all, the total isn’t that much more than what I’d typically spend if Scott and I eat somewhere halfway-decent and I spring for the bill.

That evening I went for an overly-ambitious walk – the cities of Houghton and Hancock were designed by maniacs and built on the sides of very steep hills – and, after inflating a very large air mattress one of my mom’s friends had loaned her, Day 1 came to a close.

And so does this entry Stay tuned for Homecoming 1 & 2: The Second Part.

Various Travel Tidbits

I meant to post something earlier tonight, but didn't get around to it. I still had a lot of recorded TV to catch up on, and I was still (and still am) feeling kind of worn out from the travel, so I took a nap.
It took about ten minutes to fall back into the usual routine at work. No voicemails, and I'd been able to keep up with my e-mail while I was away, so there wasn't really anything to catch up on.
I have to say that while the hotel I stayed in was nice, I found it absolutely ridiculous that they charged $12.95 per day for Internet access, given how expensive the place was.
It wasn't even that fast, probably around 700 Kbps.

Cheesy Business Traveler Department:
At one point while I was in the lobby at the hotel waiting for the elevator, some guy was heading to the bar to have a cigarette after checking in - all of the rooms were non-smoking - and the girl working at the front desk asked him if he wanted someone to bring his bags up to his room. The guy - who must have been in his early 50s and weighed close to 300 pounds - took on this voice of mock delight and said, "Oh! First they have beautiful girls working the desk, and now they offer to bring my bags up for me!"
If I ever get that cheesy, you have my permission to shoot me on the spot.

Where The Wind Comes Sweeping Up Her Skirt Department:
It was really windy the whole time I was in Kansas (and yes, I do know that the title of this department is lifted from a musical about a different state entirely). While waiting outside for the other guys I was with, I saw this fairly attractive woman standing around in the parking lot wearing a light and airy sundress that was getting whipped around rather violently by the wind. Alas, it never got quite the right amount of force needed to improve the view, though it did get close. If it had been the next day, which was really windy, an errant gust might well have blown her dress completely off.

On the flight back, just as on the flight out, I didn't get a seat assignment when I checked in, so I had to go to the gate to be assigned a seat. This time around I was randomly upgraded to "Economy Plus," which basically means having a little more leg room. I was in the row right behind First Class. While the leg room was nice - albeit, as mentioned, somewhat unnecessary in my case - not having a seat in front of me meant that I had to stow my laptop in the overhead bin, which I hate to do, as when it comes time to deplane you have to fight with everyone else to get at your stuff.
Even so, I managed to get off the plane pretty quickly, but was delayed by the fact that my carry-on bag, which I had to check at the plane, was mistakenly placed on the cart heading towards baggage claim, and the guy unloading the plane-checked luggage had to go and dig for it.
I'd decided to just do carry-on for the sake of expediency, but really it didn't prove to be that expedient on either leg of the journey.
Also, the restrictions on the volume of liquid you can carry on was a bit annoying: the limit is 3 ounces, and my contact cleaning solution is 4 ounces.
So I'd bought a 1 ounce bottle of some other stuff to bring with me, but my eyes didn't like it at all, and registered their complaint rather forcefully when I put them in. For my second night, I bought some stuff at the hotel, and my eyes weren't much fonder of that. My left eye in particular was really irritated and watery most of the day.
While I was on the plane and attempting to doze, my eye started watering like crazy, and the tears were building up until finally I opened my eyes and it felt like something solid fell out, and the front of my shirt got positively drenched.
Still, my eye started to feel a bit less irritated after that, and the watering stopped.
On both flights I discovered an odd new phenomenon that my body has decided to engage in while flying. As I'm sitting there with my eyes closed and just about to fall asleep, my entire upper body shudders as if someone is shaking me awake.
It's like the Universe is saying "No sleep for you!"
I guess that's what I get for forgetting to buy something to read.
At the meeting when someone said "Does anyone have any questions?" I found myself terribly amused at the thought of being like Kelly from The Office and saying, "Yeah, I have a question: how dare you?" I also considered "What gives you the right?"
It would have been totally out of nowhere and utterly inappropriate, and therefore hilarious.
Speaking of The Office, the guy sitting behind me on the flight home was named Michael Scott.
Okay, I suppose I should wrap up this mostly pointless entry.
Tomorrow (well, today at this point) I'm probably going to see Wanted. I'm sure I'll have a lot to say about that.

Travelogue Tidbits

There were a couple of things I meant to mention but forgot in my lengthy post about my trip home, so, lacking anything more interesting to write about, I’m mentioning them now.
I was flying into Chicago at night when my iPod shuffled to the Liz Phair song Stratford-On-Guy, which starts out with the line “I was flying into Chicago at night.”
The coincidence amused me much more than it probably should have.
Male flight attendants, I learned, appear to be frustrated stand up comics who like to take advantage of the fact that they have captive audiences when making in-flight announcements. The problem is that they’re not funny. I understand that it must be monotonous to have to say the same things over and over again, but that’s no reason to take it out on us. We’re already suffering, and don’t need to have your “funny” voices or endless bread-related puns added to our misery.
In Indianapolis, on my way to Michigan, I saw a woman in a skintight black dress, a white jacket, and sexy black and white patent leather pumps that gave off the impression of some kind of retro 1950s pin-up. It was a really good look on her…twenty years and forty pounds ago.
The sight of it inspired me to create this cruel and probably misogynistic image:



Yes, yes, I know; I’m no prize pig myself, but on the other hand I don’t go around dressing as though I think I am, do I? In fact, if anything I dress to accentuate the fact that I know that I’m not.
I was going to just use an image of some random MILF-wannabe, but with Sex & The City being the number one movie in the country, this seemed more appropriate.
(And for the record, Kristin Davis? Still smoking hot, and way hotter than any of the others were even in their prime.)
After I bought a sandwich from Subway, the only source of food in the concourse I was on, I was looking for a place to sit and eat in the overcrowded seating area and noted that the woman in the tight black dress – who, unlike the ladies of S&TC, did not have the benefit of make-up artists and soft focus – was looking up at me rather expectantly from her table. I said, “Do you mind if I sit here?”
To some guy sitting at a different table.

The Saga Of The Return Flight

In the course of my trip home a lot of blog-worthy things happened, and over the next few entries I’ll get to them, but before that I need to get the sorrowful tale of Jon’s return to Virginia out of the way.
To do so effectively, though, I need to start with the tale of Jon’s departure from Virginia.
In booking my trip – via Orbitz – I was looking primarily at two factors: cost and the ability to sync up with my brother Brad, who was travelling to Michigan from Austin, Texas.
I was able to find a flight that would allow me to meet up with Brad in Minneapolis for the last leg of the trip, but I wasn’t able to find a return flight that would allow me to leave Michigan at the same time. Or rather, I wasn’t able to find one that would allow me to arrive in Virginia on that same day, as any flight leaving from Michigan at the same time would necessitate an overnight stay in Minneapolis.
As mentioned, the trip I booked involved two carriers – United and Northwest – and added a layover in Indianapolis instead of the more typical route which is Dulles to Minneapolis to Hancock.
In addition to allowing me to sync up my arrival with Brad’s, this particular trip was the cheapest I could find, by hundreds of dollars.
While I noted that the total duration was excessive, I assumed that my layover time was fairly equally divided between the airports.
Such was not the case. On the way to Michigan, for example, I was stuck in Indianapolis for over five hours, compared to the hour or so that I was in Minneapolis.
I can tell you that my stay in Indianapolis was really, really boring, as it’s a relatively small airport and offers far fewer distractions and diversions than, for example, Minneapolis.
(As an aside, while at the airport a question occurred to me: why don’t airports have movie theaters?)
The real horror, though, was on the return trip, where I found that I had a two and a half hour layover in Minneapolis, and a nearly seven hour layover in Indianapolis.
I tried to change my flight to see if I could eliminate this stay, but found that to do so I’d have to go on standby status, and I didn’t really feel like gambling in that manner.
I should have gambled.
In hour two of my stay in Indianapolis, my cell phone rang and I was informed that my checked bag was at the claims office for Northwest, and asked did I know that, or was I operating on the incorrect assumption that my bag had been checked all the way through to Dulles?
In fact, that was the assumption that I was incorrectly operating on.
Turns out that if there is more than a six hour delay between flights, the computer does not consider it to be a connecting flight, and so baggage must be claimed and re-checked.
For the record, at Dulles and Minneapolis, once you’re on a concourse, you’re free to roam about all of the concourses, as you’re in the secured area.
Not so at Indianapolis, where you have to actually leave the secured area in order to move from one concourse to the next, and so must go through security again if you need to get to a different concourse.
I suppose that’s because it’s something of a hub, where most people arriving for connecting flights generally have to check in with another carrier to get to their destination.
In any case, I decided not to check my bag right away, as I was able to strap my carry-on bag to it and use its wheels to move about a little more freely than I could with my carry-on bag hanging from my shoulder.
After getting lousy service at a Fridays – which I can’t complain about too much, as the slowness of my server helped eat up a lot of the ample time – I found that I was so bored, and so annoyed with the hangnails I had and could do nothing about, that I actually got a manicure.
(“It wouldn’t even occur to most guys to do this,” the manicurist said, in a nice passive-aggressive assault on my masculinity. Still, she was friendlier than the waitress at Fridays, who could barely spare me a word, until after I’d paid the check when, as an afterthought, she said, “Oh, and there’s one other thing; you have a good day.”)
Eventually it was getting close enough to boarding time that I decided to check my bag.
That’s when the horror really began.
The flight to Dulles, I was informed, had been delayed by an hour and a half, so I had even more time to kill.
(I’d originally thought about taking a cab into Indianapolis and finding a mall or a movie theater or something to pass the time, but had eventually decided that, even with nearly seven hours to kill, I didn’t feel up to wandering around a strange city by myself.)
So, I sat myself down and did some more reading of *Sigh* Praline’s book (which is excellent, by the way), and eventually decided that I should check to make sure there hadn’t been any additional delays.
There had been. The flight was delayed by another hour.
This meant that, at best, I wouldn’t be arriving at Dulles until close to midnight.
Bear in mind that my original arrival time had been scheduled for 8:39 PM, and that I’d left Michigan at 7:10 AM.
I asked the guy at the counter what was going on and he said that the plane had been delayed from leaving LaGuardia due to a mechanical issue. That problem had been fixed, but in the interim bad weather had moved in. At that time, the plane had yet to leave New York for Washington, and, in his opinion, probably wouldn’t make it to Indianapolis at all.
He asked me where I was going from Dulles, and I told him that Dulles was home, so he said, “Let me see what I can do,” and made a call.
(There was a group of young people behind me who were in the same boat and asked if they could eavesdrop on our conversation. This will be an important detail later on in the saga.)
He informed me that there was a flight leaving for Chicago that made a connection with a flight to Dulles, and that it was set to depart right now, but they were holding it for people like me. He got my bag moved, printed me up a boarding pass, and I was on my way, and soon found myself in a really shitty seat at the back of the plane on a flight to O’Hare.
Shitty as the seat was, I was glad to finally be on a plane.
Naturally there was a fifteen minute delay on take-off, so by the time I got to Chicago I would have about a half an hour to get to my gate, even though it was a very short flight.
I hadn’t been very hungry in the time immediately before I left, and had been assuming that I’d have plenty of time in Indianapolis to eat, but now that I had no time, I found that I was starving, naturally.
However, upon landing in Chicago and finding my flight on the board, I found that this flight, too, had been delayed by an hour.
After finding my gate, I headed to a food court to make use of the time I’d gained.
The place was packed, and if I’d gotten in line I’d probably still be there waiting.
Finally, at about 10:00 PM Eastern, my ass was finally in a seat on a plane flying to Dulles. It bears repeating that my flight had left Michigan at 7:10 AM Eastern.
While getting on the plane in Chicago, there was some weird feud, consisting of a lot of angry words and swearing, going on between some guy and some random pregnant chick. I think it had been a dispute about him cutting in front of a her, even though she was, as she pointed out, “seven fucking months pregnant,” and, based on some random statement she made to the person she was talking to on her cell phone while having the feud, the wife of a veteran (Update: Or was herself a veteran. Bad Jon! Sexist Jon!), and him apologizing poorly for it and not believing that he’d done anything wrong, and it was all pretty uncomfortable, especially with his wife/girlfriend being amused and giggling about it all the whole time.
Anyway, I had another shitty seat – this time a center seat – and by the time I landed, got my bag – one of the first five or so to appear on the carousel, marking the one purely good lucky break* of the night – and getting picked up by Kathleen, I didn’t actually set foot inside my house until nearly 12:45 AM.
Again, this is after having left Michigan at 7:10 AM on what was now the previous day. This is a trip that, barring any incident, usually takes, at most, six hours, with the majority of that being time spent in airports, as the total flying time is just under three hours.
Here’s where that detail about the young people who were behind me in Indianapolis comes into play. Like me, they’d transferred to the Chicago flight.
As we were standing outside waiting for our respective rides at Dulles, I said, “We finally made it.”
One of the girls said that she’d looked at the arrivals board and that it showed that the flight we were originally on, the one that was so seriously delayed, and on which I had a very good seat at the front of the plane, had supposedly arrived at Dulles at 8:50 PM, a scant eleven minutes late.
I don’t see how that can possibly be true, and I don’t see how I can hold on to what little sanity I have left if I allow myself to believe that, so I’m going to say that it never happened and that transferring to the Chicago flight was the right thing to do.
If there’s a moral in that story anywhere, I suppose it would be that it’s a damn good thing I also asked for today off. Alternatively, it’s that next time I have to take a much closer look at my itinerary.
As a contrast to my story, I should mention the story of my brother’s trip to Michigan. He got on a plane at Austin that flew directly to Minneapolis, and we boarded the plane to Hancock about twenty minutes after he arrived at the gate. I don’t know how his trip out of Michigan went, but given the blatant favoritism the Universe showed him, I can’t help but think that it went just as smoothly.

Random Travel Anecdotes Department:
Anecdote One
On the flight from Minneapolis to Hancock, I overheard the people sitting across from me talking about friends and acquaintances they had in common back in the UP. One such person was someone who’d gone to my high school and whose older sister I graduated with. I believe he was in 7th grade when I was a senior. The girl participating in the conversation, who is currently working towards getting a PhD, mentioned that the person they were talking about was quite a few years older than she is. So, to summarize, someone who is much younger than someone else who is several years younger than I am, is old enough to be working on her PhD. *Sigh*

Anecdote Two
While wandering around the Indianapolis airport, I noticed an attractive young woman out of the corner of my eye who was talking to someone on a cell phone.
I took note of the fact that she was attractive and thought no more about it as I shuffled along, until I heard her saying, “…fucked me SO hard!”
That got my attention.
However, she went on to say, “They didn’t have any of my fucking flight information, and now I missed my fucking plane!” She then started crying.
So rather than loudly sharing salacious details about her sexual exploits, she was loudly sharing details of her lousy travel – or lack thereof – experience.
I immediately – particularly when the tears started – went from being mildly titillated to feeling bad for her. A tale of hard luck is much less exciting than a tale of a hard fuck.

*Sure, if you’re one of those “count your blessings” types, you could say that getting someone helpful at the counter who booked me on the Indianapolis to Chicago to Dulles flight was a lucky break – at least if we ignore that complete fabrication about my original flight arriving in Dulles nearly on time – but that’s only lucky in context, and in comparison to what might have happened. It’s like saying that, despite all of the waiting and the delays and the running around, I should feel lucky that I arrived at each of my destinations safely, rather than dying in a fiery crash or something. And of course I’m luckier than the girl who got “fucked SO hard.” Even so, I say screw that. Those are boring blessings. Not having something bad happen to you is not the same as having a good thing happen to you. However, not having to wait forever for my bag at baggage claim is a stroke of luck even when shorn of context. It was, as I said, a purely good stroke of luck.