The time has come for me to pack my bags and stumble into oblivion. At 87 my body is no longer my buddy. We used to go steady but there comes a time and the time is now. We are born and start dying with each passing day. Like machines, we wear out and we are all mortal.
I have been married to a wonderful woman for 64 years. Like most marriages, ours has had ups and downs, but oh those merry-go-rounds that kept us tied like magic glue. I look back with the one good eye I have left and memories wash over me -- children three, grand-children four and great-grand children two in the prime of their lives and life goes on. Marcia, we have done well to create such gems.
But I tire now and must finish this story. Old age is not golden but one still has memories. Pain has entered into every pore and refuses to leave despite my pleadings.
Shakespeare said it like it is in his famous, "All the world is a stage" and I quote his last few lines.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventual history,
is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
I have willed my body, to science. Hopefully they will accept this wreck. On with the scalpels and the drills. "Now students look closely as I expose the brain and .................
I am ready. Ta ta and all that. It's been nice talking to you.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
SOMETHING NEW HAS BEEN ADDED
Women will do anything to bring out their "natural" attributes. American entrepreneurs have been at it again. They have cleverly devised a way to make an inferior exterior blossom into a
superior rear area by adding a padding that does the adding. So what else is new to make men stick to women like magic glue? Men are transported into slobbering idiots when it comes to the opposite sex.
We have accepted longer eyelashes, larger lips, longer torsos that or more so (heels), narrow waists, wider hips, colored hair and the list is endless. We march blindfold into the chasm.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
WHAT PRICE BEAUTY?
What dost thou do in the name of beauty? Most everything the ladies reply in unison. Let's break it down into categories, shall we? We shall.
HAIR: All hair must be removed from every niche and corner without fail with the exception of head hair (I'll deal with the latter, later.) Off with upper lip hair, nostrils, ears, face. chin, arms, under arms, and legs. Special consideration must be given for bikini wearers. Removing body hair is no easy task. There are so many tools of the trade, so to speak. A multitude is available. So many to choose from. All manner of creams, depilatories, clippers, razors, lasers, lotions, sprays, and body wraps. Specialty shops are ready to assist you with electrolysis treatment to painfully remove both your hair and your money.
SCALP: There are good and bad hair days. So many things can go wrong. Hair can be too short, too long, too frizzy, too curly, too greasy, too dull, too colorless, too flat, or just, je ne sais quoi. So many things must be done to make a bad hair day into a good hair day. Hair must be brushed, teased, washed, combed, ironed, shortened, lengthened, or dyed. There are a battalion of experts urging you to amplify your hair, to make your hair breathe, to shape your hair, to make your hair sexy, to make your hair shine, to change your hair color to blonde, red, brown, black, gray, purple, or a mixture thereof. Want a wig for that special occasion or for beauty's sake, no problem, just open your wallet.
EYES: Eyebrows too bushy or wishy washy -- trim eyebrow hair, color them, spray them, or circle eyes with some pencil device and do not forget the eyelashes for heaven sake. The final result brings out the true you? The real you? Go further and change the color of your eyes from time to time -- unbelievable!! The true eye is one left mainly alone, say I, but what do I know.
LIPS: Ah, the lips, are they kissable enough? Are they too thin? No problem, get them estrogen vaccinated every three months and presto, bigger, fatter lips at the ready. Too colorless? Choose from a zillion shades and remember to make sure they are glossy enough, sexy enough, lasting enough, standing out enough, and ready to be kissed day or night. Are they ready to marinate with your date?
HANDS: The hands must eternally look and feel young. Veins? Get rid of them. Don't forget the fingernails -- they must be pared, polished, pruned, or you are doomed. Choose from dozens of shades. Be inventive.
TOES: Don't forget the toes 'cause who knows. I know that pointy shoes and high heels are in vogue but play havoc with your feet by making making a mess of your toes, goodness knows. Let them breathe, give them space and they'll amaze.
Choose nail color that's not too garish, ones that can be taken to your parish or wherever.
BREATH: Bad breathe is a no no, one to be countered by sprays, mints, toothpaste and a good toothbrush. As a last resort, closed lips sealed tightly can be brought into play.
TEETH: White and only white is the color, the only color , the winning color. Brushing alone will not do it . Your dentist to the rescue, one who will have them polished, cleaned, scraped, and looked after in every way, including false teeth if and when necessary. Products galore in every store will keep your teeth shining as bright as a light. By the way, don't use your teeth to bite your nails, your nails will thank you and so will everyone else -- It is not a very nice sight by day or by night.
SCENT: Ladies, here you can use an ounce of perfume for a pound of money. There is no end of varieties -- a little dab, a very little dab will do you. Over-scenting makes no sensing. It's a powerful put down, one that will get you nowhere, so clear the air.
No need to trap innocent people in elevators, cars, trains, planes, restaurants, or gambling haunts. Go easy, go fresh. Use soap liberally.
DIET: Don't diet. Instead, eat healthy, eat wisely, eat regularly, don't starve yourself. Your body needs food not only to survive but to feel alive. Forget about being a size two, that absolutely will not do, please.
EXERCISE: Exercising like a demon won't remove pounds if it does not go along with a sound food regimen. A good policy is to not to overdo anything.
GENERAL: I advise all and sundry to do away with bright mirrors or floor mirrors. Ads and more ads call upon women to use their creams, unguents, and treatments to fight sagging necklines, drooping jawlines, stubborn liver spots, blemishes, freckles,
blotches, sunspots, on face, neck, chest, hands, arms and legs. The beauty ads scream for attention. Act now they blare from every source -- clarify, reverse, tone,and firm for a radiant you, a true you will make you look brand new they add. They are relentless: use more than one cream for your face, your body, every inch of you. Employ our diet programs, our lasers, our sure-fire plastic surgery. The clothes designers are out in strength. They busily design clothes for all the seasons. Styles so varied, so compelling, you are forced to feel that inside their clothes you should be dwelling. I say do not listen too hard. Don't be a follower, fight back. It's okay to add a little flesh, to use less rouge, to exhibit a natural face. a healthy face. No need to over-exercise. Try walking, running, skipping, dancing and a little romancing, all of which is kind of enhancing. Try aging, it's alright to get older. If you have stayed with me all this time, I salute you. Let me add a couple of things. Let us see the unadorned you, the real you, a product of nature, at least some of the time. You need not spend a fortune on cosmetics. Why not have torsos that are more-so, less bony, more tony.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
E.R.A. A NEW ERA 1968
E.R.A. A NEW ERA 1968
The other day I made the mistake of opening a store door for a young lady. “I am quite capable of opening my own door,” she said, giving me a withering look. I apologized, and slunk away, my tail between my legs.
Last week at a party, a woman challenged me to an arm wrestling match. Something told me to resist the temptation. I mean a woman does not challenge a guy with bulging biceps like mine unless she is into body building “I’ll pass,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Chicken,” she said derisively.
“You’re on,” I said, rolling up my sleeve.
I was down in less than 10 seconds. What could I do? I congratulated her, a weak smile on my face. Was she originally a man --- a her who had been a he in this life or some other one?
The morning after my ignoble defeat, I was traveling down 80 west, singing in my bass baritone voice, while making sure I was not moving faster than sixty or sixty-five.
Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a train whistle, directly behind me. I almost hit the roof. A van trailer, a mile long, pulled abreast. Behind the wheel sat this teeny girl weighing maybe ninety pounds. She gave me the finger and was gone in a flash.
“My gawd! I said out loud, “they’re taking over.”
That very night I got into bed with a good book and my good wife. I was enjoying the book immensely, when I heard my wife say, “Put the book down.”
“In a moment,” I said, thinking she wanted to have me close the light.
“Put the book away,” she repeated softly. Her voice carried an unmistakable suggestion this time.
I am always open to suggestion. The thing is, the last time my wife indicated proceedings was just after the repeal of prohibition.
I put the book down. “My god,” I said, “It’s a revolution.”
At two a.m. the phone rang. I hopefully waited for my wife to answer. She did not budge. I crawled out of bed, my eyes still shut and groped for the phone.
“Hello,” I said crossly.
“Now, now, don’t be cross my great, big man,” the distinctly feminine voice crooned.
My mouth flew open. The voice continued to purr. “I would love to jump into your arms and caress you all over. And then I’d ……
I interrupted. “I can’t believe it,” I said, “Is nothing sacred?”
The other day I made the mistake of opening a store door for a young lady. “I am quite capable of opening my own door,” she said, giving me a withering look. I apologized, and slunk away, my tail between my legs.
Last week at a party, a woman challenged me to an arm wrestling match. Something told me to resist the temptation. I mean a woman does not challenge a guy with bulging biceps like mine unless she is into body building “I’ll pass,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Chicken,” she said derisively.
“You’re on,” I said, rolling up my sleeve.
I was down in less than 10 seconds. What could I do? I congratulated her, a weak smile on my face. Was she originally a man --- a her who had been a he in this life or some other one?
The morning after my ignoble defeat, I was traveling down 80 west, singing in my bass baritone voice, while making sure I was not moving faster than sixty or sixty-five.
Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a train whistle, directly behind me. I almost hit the roof. A van trailer, a mile long, pulled abreast. Behind the wheel sat this teeny girl weighing maybe ninety pounds. She gave me the finger and was gone in a flash.
“My gawd! I said out loud, “they’re taking over.”
That very night I got into bed with a good book and my good wife. I was enjoying the book immensely, when I heard my wife say, “Put the book down.”
“In a moment,” I said, thinking she wanted to have me close the light.
“Put the book away,” she repeated softly. Her voice carried an unmistakable suggestion this time.
I am always open to suggestion. The thing is, the last time my wife indicated proceedings was just after the repeal of prohibition.
I put the book down. “My god,” I said, “It’s a revolution.”
At two a.m. the phone rang. I hopefully waited for my wife to answer. She did not budge. I crawled out of bed, my eyes still shut and groped for the phone.
“Hello,” I said crossly.
“Now, now, don’t be cross my great, big man,” the distinctly feminine voice crooned.
My mouth flew open. The voice continued to purr. “I would love to jump into your arms and caress you all over. And then I’d ……
I interrupted. “I can’t believe it,” I said, “Is nothing sacred?”
OH THOSE NAMES
As a rule, names of foreign tennis players do not phase me. I can rattle them off correctly, foreign accents right on key.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
WHAT'S IN A NAME? wrote in '57
As a rule, names of foreign tennis players do not phase me. I can rattle them off correctly, foreign accents right on key.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
IT’S HIGH TIME
Written around 1957: Read on
Leaving my firm meant leaving all perks, including first class air travel—at four times the price of coach seats. What’s so special about first class seats aside from the inflated price you might ask? The answer is plenty.
No waiting, you board first, all four of you. You exit first, all four of you. While on board you are kingpins.
The prettiest stewardesses are specifically chosen to serve you. They can’t wait to tuck you in, to make you ever so comfortable. They light your cigarette, they clean your eyeglasses, they marinate you in hot and cold beverages. They serve you meals almost fit to be on real plates and give you portions large enough to feed three people.
You are showered with newspapers, magazines, and ever constant smiles, you are it, the one and only. They just love you to pieces. After all, you might be a producer, a director, a corporate giant, a crown prince, or best of all, a practicing surgeon. You keep them guessing of course.
And the seats, oh the seats, the kind you just sink into and stretch in every direction. You just have to fall asleep and dream nice dreams, even so-called naughty dreams about that blond gal that leaned over far enough to enable you to see her perfect 34 C boobs as she served you.
Fade away to the present. The scene opens with me wedged in an air coach seat, surrounded on either side by two men large enough to be Sumo wrestlers. My knees are gently nudging the back of the seat in front of me I get dirty looks. I am in a straight jacket, my legs are glued together. I long for sleep, for oblivion, with out success.
I wait for the “Fasten seat belt sign” to go off so I can proceed to the Blue room. There are a number of drawbacks. All the cells are occupied and there are four standbys waiting to serve their sentences before me. Finally inside, claustrophobia sets in. Airlines consider every inch of space and their standing-room-only bathrooms can easily be measured in inches. “Please, please, whoever is listening, don’t crash now, “ I plead, as I maneuver awkwardly in the mini-room designed for Lilliputians.
Returning to my non-smoking seat, I squeeze myself into my measured space just in time to inhale the so called second hand smoke of smokers sitting in the permitted area some three seats behind me. Die bold smokers inhaling deeply of the weed, relaxing as they smoke themselves to an early death. With some satisfaction I listen to the coughs and wheezes of the right to smoke enthusiasts before I suspend breathing.
There is nothing more righteous than a holier than thou former smoker. I plead guilty as charged.
There is an infant who took off the moment we took off. His cries are piercing enough to puncture the fuselage or even the ozone layer. I smile at the baby, I throw love at the baby, I whisper sweet nothings, all to no avail. The Sumo wrestlers are snoring, goody, goody gumdrops. What could be next. It’s movie time. Airlines have a committee of sadists who choose their selections. I opt out. Enough torture. There is one saving grace, the baby stops crying.
Our section stewardess is going through the ‘safety features’. “Kindly note the exits located in the nose, the middle of the aircraft, and the aft compartment indicated by the red exit signs.” I am not reassured. I simply refuse to jump out of a plane at an altitude of some 36,000 feet with or without a parachute. She goes on, “Also note that your seat cushion functions as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.” Water landing? Is this a seaplane?
I am a seasoned air traveler, but listen as she dutifully continues. “In the unlikely event that cabin pressure suddenly drops, kindly extinguish all smoking materials. An oxygen mask will drop from the overhead compartment. Place mask firmly over your nose, pull on the strap, and breathe normally,” Breathe normally as the plane gaily somersaults through space? Who are they kidding?
We are further instructed on how to loosen and tighten seat belts. (The belt will keep me anchored to my seat in the event we hit turbulence determined to hit back. If we crash I will be able to take off, securely fastened to my seat. How cosy.)
The food cart is coming down the aisle trapping all passengers in front of the device. The food, packed in foam and plastic containers, is fighting for space on my tray. (Even food fights for space in the coach section.) Eating this tripe, while my arms are pasted to my torso, is no easy task.
The fasten-seat-belt sign goes on followed by a voice telling us that we will be experiencing some minor turbulence for the next little while.
I struggle with my belt and get my ‘doggie’ bag ready. ‘Some’ turbulence turns out to be SOME turbulence. It’s fun and games as the food on my tray and in my system try to join hands. Some forty-five minutes later we begin our descent. Seat backs are up. Seat belts are on. Feet are anchored to the floor, and first-time fliers are biting their fingers to the bone. Veteran fliers like myself remain outwardly calm while experiencing some turbulence inside.
I know that one out of every three landings will be anything but smooth. I am prepared for the leapfrog, a specialty of some pilots. We land and hop, skip and jump merrily along. My statistics hold true. Thank you, I say as I stagger out. I now march some two miles to the baggage carousel.
I do not rush. I know I will get one bag right away. It’s the second or third bag that will be at the tail end some sixty minutes away.
I’ve been thinking. I do that from time to time. There is a thing out now that permits one to stretch full-length, walk about, luxuriate comfortably in washrooms and in dining room areas, it’s called trains.
Leaving my firm meant leaving all perks, including first class air travel—at four times the price of coach seats. What’s so special about first class seats aside from the inflated price you might ask? The answer is plenty.
No waiting, you board first, all four of you. You exit first, all four of you. While on board you are kingpins.
The prettiest stewardesses are specifically chosen to serve you. They can’t wait to tuck you in, to make you ever so comfortable. They light your cigarette, they clean your eyeglasses, they marinate you in hot and cold beverages. They serve you meals almost fit to be on real plates and give you portions large enough to feed three people.
You are showered with newspapers, magazines, and ever constant smiles, you are it, the one and only. They just love you to pieces. After all, you might be a producer, a director, a corporate giant, a crown prince, or best of all, a practicing surgeon. You keep them guessing of course.
And the seats, oh the seats, the kind you just sink into and stretch in every direction. You just have to fall asleep and dream nice dreams, even so-called naughty dreams about that blond gal that leaned over far enough to enable you to see her perfect 34 C boobs as she served you.
Fade away to the present. The scene opens with me wedged in an air coach seat, surrounded on either side by two men large enough to be Sumo wrestlers. My knees are gently nudging the back of the seat in front of me I get dirty looks. I am in a straight jacket, my legs are glued together. I long for sleep, for oblivion, with out success.
I wait for the “Fasten seat belt sign” to go off so I can proceed to the Blue room. There are a number of drawbacks. All the cells are occupied and there are four standbys waiting to serve their sentences before me. Finally inside, claustrophobia sets in. Airlines consider every inch of space and their standing-room-only bathrooms can easily be measured in inches. “Please, please, whoever is listening, don’t crash now, “ I plead, as I maneuver awkwardly in the mini-room designed for Lilliputians.
Returning to my non-smoking seat, I squeeze myself into my measured space just in time to inhale the so called second hand smoke of smokers sitting in the permitted area some three seats behind me. Die bold smokers inhaling deeply of the weed, relaxing as they smoke themselves to an early death. With some satisfaction I listen to the coughs and wheezes of the right to smoke enthusiasts before I suspend breathing.
There is nothing more righteous than a holier than thou former smoker. I plead guilty as charged.
There is an infant who took off the moment we took off. His cries are piercing enough to puncture the fuselage or even the ozone layer. I smile at the baby, I throw love at the baby, I whisper sweet nothings, all to no avail. The Sumo wrestlers are snoring, goody, goody gumdrops. What could be next. It’s movie time. Airlines have a committee of sadists who choose their selections. I opt out. Enough torture. There is one saving grace, the baby stops crying.
Our section stewardess is going through the ‘safety features’. “Kindly note the exits located in the nose, the middle of the aircraft, and the aft compartment indicated by the red exit signs.” I am not reassured. I simply refuse to jump out of a plane at an altitude of some 36,000 feet with or without a parachute. She goes on, “Also note that your seat cushion functions as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.” Water landing? Is this a seaplane?
I am a seasoned air traveler, but listen as she dutifully continues. “In the unlikely event that cabin pressure suddenly drops, kindly extinguish all smoking materials. An oxygen mask will drop from the overhead compartment. Place mask firmly over your nose, pull on the strap, and breathe normally,” Breathe normally as the plane gaily somersaults through space? Who are they kidding?
We are further instructed on how to loosen and tighten seat belts. (The belt will keep me anchored to my seat in the event we hit turbulence determined to hit back. If we crash I will be able to take off, securely fastened to my seat. How cosy.)
The food cart is coming down the aisle trapping all passengers in front of the device. The food, packed in foam and plastic containers, is fighting for space on my tray. (Even food fights for space in the coach section.) Eating this tripe, while my arms are pasted to my torso, is no easy task.
The fasten-seat-belt sign goes on followed by a voice telling us that we will be experiencing some minor turbulence for the next little while.
I struggle with my belt and get my ‘doggie’ bag ready. ‘Some’ turbulence turns out to be SOME turbulence. It’s fun and games as the food on my tray and in my system try to join hands. Some forty-five minutes later we begin our descent. Seat backs are up. Seat belts are on. Feet are anchored to the floor, and first-time fliers are biting their fingers to the bone. Veteran fliers like myself remain outwardly calm while experiencing some turbulence inside.
I know that one out of every three landings will be anything but smooth. I am prepared for the leapfrog, a specialty of some pilots. We land and hop, skip and jump merrily along. My statistics hold true. Thank you, I say as I stagger out. I now march some two miles to the baggage carousel.
I do not rush. I know I will get one bag right away. It’s the second or third bag that will be at the tail end some sixty minutes away.
I’ve been thinking. I do that from time to time. There is a thing out now that permits one to stretch full-length, walk about, luxuriate comfortably in washrooms and in dining room areas, it’s called trains.
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