More musings...

Traveling lets you observe the human nature at its finest and worst; from a distance and in your face.

On my next flight, I am going to feign speaking English. I watched as 3 people who did not speak English get ushered in with the first class passengers. The reason: the guy scanning the tickets did not want to be bothered with having to explain the rules. The exchange went something like this:

Non-English speaking passenger hands ticket to ticket agent.
"Sir, you are Group 4, this is first class." Attempts to hand ticket back to passenger.
Passenger stands there smiling and tries to walk on plane.
"Sir you are Group 4 and this is first class boarding."
Still smiling.
"Sir..." Runs ticket through scanner and sends Paco, Pablo, Juan, whoever, on their way.

Three times this happened. I'm doing this on my next flight. I'll let you know how it goes.

The other story is too upsetting to get into again. Let's just say there are some peoples ways of thinking I will never understand. If a flight was packed and someone asked you to put your backpack under the seat because it was in the overhead and people needed space for their roll bags, would you stare blankly at them like a complete and utter mutant or would you oblige and put the backpack under your seat? I know what I'd do because I've been asked to do so before; I put it under my seat. I ran into a mutant who wouldn't move his pack after I asked him.

Twice.

Listening to satellite radio alot. I gave myself five extra minutes to get to work Wednesday, expecting the roads to be slick. They weren’t. I ended up at the office five minutes early, listening to “Pop Goes the World” by Men Without Hats. It’s not a bad song. It might be the best thing they ever did, but halfway through you realize oh, my, this is some sort of statement. This might even be a story-song.

It was, of course, a “lost hit.” This I can accept. What makes the morning drive difficult is that Mark Goodman is the host. Is that his name? The MTV guy? The one who always makes you think his co-host should be Bill Todson? I couldn’t stand him then, and now it’s no easier. Martha Quinn was the sorta-cute-after-four-Zimas bouncy perky one who maybe, in a way, reminded you of Jane Wiedlin, but in the end was too much like your best friend’s younger sister who had a crush on you. Downtown Julie Brown was hip and cool and you knew you’d have nothing in common and nothing to talk about, and that wubba-wubba crap was a bucket of cold water all by itself. There was that Alan fellow, who seemed slightly annoyed he was required to do this; Triple-J was good, and even though he appeared to be grandfathered in for old-school DJ gravitas, he fit. Nina Blackwood looked like she smelled of cigarettes, and you were sure her obit would say “biographies claimed she was ten years younger than she actually was.” Mark Goodman was the arrogant dude at the end of the hall who thought he had a great record collection because he had two Styx bootlegs.

And now they’re my companions on the way to, and from, work. Thank you, Sirius.

The song choice is a song I haven't heard in a while which I heard again on Satellite so it's not all bad.