Have a Good Time

Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland
But I think it’s all overdone
Exaggerating this exaggerating that
They don’t have no fun

I don’t believe what I read in the papers
They’re just out to capture my dime
I ain’t worrying
And I ain’t scurrying
I’m having a good time

CHORUS: Have a good time

Maybe I’m laughing my way to disaster
Maybe my race has been run
Maybe I’m blind
To the fate of mankind
But what can be done?

So God bless the goods we was given
And God bless the U. S. of A.
And God bless the standard of livin’
Let’s keep it that way
And we’ll all have a good time

- Paul Simon

By about 1:45, I finished up my third G&T, which I had mixed myself in a nice tall beer glass. For some reason, I was feeling very relaxed at this point. As I exited the club, I gave my favorite UA concierge ever, Barbara Turner, a very warm hug and steered myself in the direction of my departure gate, where flight 7 to SFO beckoned. I was soon settled into seat 2F and began chatting with my seat mate, a somewhat older nonrev FA in uniform. Throughout the bulk of the flight, she spent about half of her time chatting with me and intensely scrutinizing stacks of printouts detailing her upcoming flight options so she could best strategize her bidding. As is my habit, I stuck in my two cents as much as I could until she finally fled to the galley to consort with her compatriots.

I learned later that there were a total of eight nonrevs inhabiting the 10 seats in employee class, pretty much par for the course on this slimmed down version of what was once a very fine service, that I now refer to Premium Transcon Lite ®. I thought to myself that if UA continues to degrade service in the front cabin, perhaps the nonrevs would no longer wish to sit there.

I sipped several more G&Ts, whilst otherwise engaged in pleasant conversation during the first hour of the flight. My FA seat mate consumed no ethanol at all, explaining that nonrevs are not permitted to consume alcohol while in working attire. Having already been fairly well lubricated before boarding the plane, I soon perceived an irresistible urge to undertake what would constitute my third visit to the lavatory.

I guess I must have read one too many news stories about innocent passengers subjected to overly suspicious glances from fellow passengers when they undertook journeys to the lav that proved to be somewhat excessive for someone else’s tastes. “This fellow has to expurgate much more frequently than I do therefore he must be up to no good,” must be the basis of this line of illogical reasoning. I even remember reading of an incident in which a passenger was actually removed from a plane for further interrogation evidently because his bulging and burdensome bladder had unwittingly piqued another passengers suspicions.

Not wishing to be embarrassed (at least any more than usual) by such an unfortunate incident, I figured I had best warn my fellow passengers in the F cabin about what I had in mind. Better to be forewarned than foolhardy, I figured.

So I unbuckled my seat belt and stood up very slowly, carefully concentrating on making no sudden moves. And then I delivered my carefully thought out announcement to the entire cabin:

“Hi everybody, I am about to go to the bathroom and yes, I know that is my third such visit within the last hour. But I had several drinks in the RCC before I got on the plane and I really have to go. I sincerely promise all of you that I am not doing anything suspicious and I can assure everybody here that I am mostly harmless unless, of course, the plane hits turbulence while I am inside.”

There was a few nervous titters and then my seat mate burst out in laughter and was soon joined in by the others. Having thus secured safe passage for my journey up front, I proceeded to go about my business with a clear conscious and, ultimately, a very clear bladder.

I don’t recall very much about the meal service itself but I do remember being quite impressed by the fact the UA had very generously furnished me with a total of three plastic knives, one more even than my inbound flight into New York the prior week. This way, I figured, if I broke two of them I would still have a spare. My seat mate and I began to playfully duel with our knives but the grip and weight in our hands didn’t feel quite right for either of us. After each of us managed to lose a knife, we soon escalated to good old fashioned metal forks. I very quickly earned the upper hand and my seat mate ultimately conceded defeat and slipped up front to secure my prize.

She returned about five minutes later with a very special desert, which she and the other FAs had lovingly crafted especially for me. The plate was adorned with two first class deserts (ice cream), one business class desert (cheese cake) and assorted cookies, carefully arranged on the plate to form a happy, smiley goofy face. I was quite touched at the effort, the result of which was clearly a warm and friendly portrayal of yours truly, constructed entirely of sweets. I never before realized I bore such a resemblance to Shrek.

After successfully achieving an on time arrival in SFO, I explained to my seat mate how this flight has been traditionally docking at a gate deep within the international terminal over the last few months. This disturbed me at first, but I had grown accustomed and somewhat dependent on the idea, especially so because the munchies always seemed better in that RCC. This is why, of course, UA had to prove me wrong and pull up to the nether regions of terminal 8.

Just to teach them a lesson, I decided to dump off my gear in the transcon lounge and traipse over to the international RCC anyway. There were very few passengers gathered by the terminal 9 security checkpoint and as I handed the attendant my ID and boarding pass, I briefly wondered whether he would object to the fact that I was seeking egress to the international terminal by presenting a boarding pass listing a sh*ttle flight to LAS. But he didn’t notice or didn’t care and in I went.

As it turns out, the munchies presented by the RCC were no better than the offerings available in the domestic version of the club. Secretly pining for sandwiches but finding only healthy fare such as celery and carrot sticks, I opted to beat a hasty retreat back to the domestic terminal. One unanticipated problem was that the my traditional reentry point was closed, attended only by a very bored looking guardian, who sleepily pointed me further down the terminal when I asked where I could once again regain admittance. By the time I got back to the transcon lounge, I only had just enough time to retrieve my carryons and run back to gate 72, at which boarding had already commenced.

Being a person of somewhat dubious sanity, I was once again flying to LAS rather than home to Portland, which is where I would much rather be. I don’t gamble, gag at cigarette smoke and I am hypersensitive to noise, yup Las Vegas is the place for me! In reality, what draws me to undertake all of these extraneous pilgrimages to LAS is my ability to obtain full fare employee class transcon seats for half price from that point of origin.

Half Price Premium Transcon fare in F

It also provides me with additional opportunities to visit the LAS Hilton and make sure that they are toeing the line. So, later that evening, having finally been delivered to the LAS Hilton via a shared ride for $3.50. I foolishly made yet another fruitless attempt to obtain a nonsmoking room as per the specifics of my reservation. And as is my custom, I was once again unsuccessful. The desk clerk very carefully explained to me that none of the “lanai suites” are smoking rooms. However, guests can smoke there if they want to. How can I argue with logic like this? Boy, if this hotel wasn’t so inexpensive ...

I was booked on an early afternoon flight the next day, which gave me a little time to sleep in and obtain my free morning meal at the buffet. As many you know, I don’t much fancy breakfast but I do enjoy lunch so the plan was for me to arrive there late enough for the breakfast service to be waning and for lunch food to materialize. Indeed, that is exactly what happened 10 minutes after I sat down. “Real food, at last”, another fellow joyously exclaimed to his wife at the next table.

My flight from LAS to LAX landed on time so I spent an hour or so working in the 1K room before stopping in the RCC for a soft drink. After downing a diet coke served to me in a plastic cup by an expressionless bartender, I decided to trundle over to the sh*ttle zone over in terminal 8. As I rounded the corner, an electric cart stopped by to offer me a lift and who am I to turn down such a generous offer? My seat mate was an elderly woman who was in the process of querying the driver about the location of her gate and the likelihood that this really will be the gate for her upcoming flight, three hours hence. Hearing about the poor unfortunate woman’s plight, I volunteered to have the driver turn around and deposit the woman safely within the RCC as my guest. But she refused! Oh well, I tried.

The New Colossus

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

- Emma Lazarus

My PDX-bound flight was scheduled to depart from gate 80, situated by the threshold of terminal 8, the very same one that I had vacated two hours ago. The area by the gate was literally packed with waiting passengers, thanks mostly to the fact that this flight represents the consolidation of several extinct flights, many of which have been canceled as part of UAs dramatic system wide retrenchment. Just as boarding was about to commence, I observed two Islamic-looking fellows quietly waiting in the queue. I also noticed several passengers staring at them intensely; one of them looked like he were about to have a stroke.

The Horror! The Horror!


Colonel Walter E. Kurtz in "The Heart of Darkness"

- Joseph Conrad


I paid the imaginary terrorists no further attention, boarded the plane as directed, settled into seat 2D and proceeded to mind my own business. After a more or less on time departure, I looked up when the seat belt chimed in as we attained cruising altitude. To my shock and utter horror, I was dismayed to witness one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen. The man in 2B had taken of his shoes and socks and was proceeding to walk into the lavatory without any protection for his feet!

The New Colossus (size 12, triple D)

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled toenails yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shoes. Send these, the sockless, temper-lost to me, I lift my leg beside the lavatory door!

- Emma Lazarus and LarryU

Can you imagine exposing your skin and pores to the nasty liquids and exudates that typically permeate the floor of an airplane lav? In these troubled times, I am not terribly frightened at the prospect of people boarding planes with dangerous nail clippers and lethal underwire bras but the thought of sharing a sh*ttle cabin with a man in such a dubious mental state profoundly troubled me. Perhaps a test of mental acumen should be added to the ever-growing security check list. I remember reading of other instances in which bare footed passengers have actually imposed their noxious fumes on poor unsuspecting victims sitting one row ahead. This certainly seems like assault to me.

I eventually turned my attention back to my work, in my vain attempt to catch up. In fact, I didn’t even consume any Tanqueray during the two hour flight; instead, I slowly sipped the tonic and pocketed the little gin bottles to add to my collection at home. I am in the process of redecorating my Lake Oswego apartment by constructing a little green wall comprised entirely of the diminutive Tanqueray bottles. I have currently amassed about 500 such bottles and hope to have it completed sometime next spring.

Pilgrim

Pilgrim, how you journey
On the road you chose
To find out why the winds die
And where the stories go.
All days come from one day
That must you must know,
You cannot change what's over
But only where you go.

One way leads to diamond,
One way leads to gold,
Another leads you only
To everything you're told.
In your heart you wonder
Which of these is true;
The road that leads to nowhere,
the road that leads to you.

Will you find the answer
in all you say and do?
Will you find the answer
In you?

Each heart is a pilgrim,
Each one wants to know
The reason why the winds die
And where the stories go.
Pilgrim, in your journey
You may travel far,
For pilgrim it's a long way
To find out who you are...

Pilgrim, it's a long way
To find out who you are...

Pilgrim, it's a long way
To find out who you are

- Enya


By about 6:30PM, we pulled into gate E2 at PDX about 15 minutes early, so I was able to make a brief pit stop at the RCC, which generally shuts its doors promptly at 7:00PM. By 6:45 I was on my way out past security, looking forward to a much needed travelling hiatus that I had planned for October (little did I know at the time that it wouldn't quite work out that way). As I walked past the checkpoint, I quickly surveyed the multiracial and multi-cultural melting pot of my little Pacific Northwest town. Folks of many nations arriving and departing, some going about their lives, others seeking new ones. My country and my community have evolved into such a unique schizophrenic paradox, both deplored and coveted at the same time.

As I approached the escalator for my descent to ground level, I noticed a large assemblage of newly arrived Russian immigrants destined to add to the 50,000 already purported to dwell amongst Portland’s growing population. My country’s latest huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Ironically, I thought, my grandparents had originated from some of the very same regions 90 years ago. I am a second generation descendant of eastern European immigrants. Born at the right time, indeed.


[This message has been edited by LarryU (edited 11-05-2001).]