Wednesday, February 06, 2002
Fly the terror-filled skies
Luggage collected. Exodus. Migration from Gate B27 to B10. Another search (number five; J-E wondered if he could qualify for “Frequently Searched” miles). They examined the bags and told Mr. Moseler to open a wrapped present for a Moseler sibling in Milwaukee. It was a gift of marzipan candy that to the airport authorities—who had never heard of marzipan the same way they had never heard of a Palm Pilot—looked suspiciously like brightly colored C-4 explosive with sugar ribbons on top. Mr. Moseler was asked–we're not kidding—to take a bite out of each offending morsel right there on the spot, to prove that the stuff wouldn't blow his molars to Kingdom Come (like, if it did, they wanted to see him burst like a flaming pinata right there in the check-in line). He courageously refused, and they miraculously let him board without further incident. The new plane finally left at 10:30 a.m., two-and-a-half hours late, that is, if you disregard the twenty-or-so hours that they were already late.
The Moselers finally got to Milwaukee and had ten minutes to spend with their family.
Via InstaPundit.Com, John-Erik's Airborne Adventure
So let me get this straight—Bush signs an emergency bill giving the airline industry millions of dollars to keep them solvent in the wake of September 11th and service actually gets worse?
I've even heard they no longer serve food on flights anymore. Not that the food was anything to write home about, nor very satisfying as a meal, but what's the excuse? Afraid of a terrorist using a spork to take over the plane?
Oops, I think I should shut up now.
Programming contest
I see that Google is having a programming contest to see who can program a neat (and scalable) feature into their search engine. The introductory download is a bit steep at 54M, but hey, it might be something interesting to look into.
Facility in the Middle of Nowhere
When we moved here, we asked Lou what our address was. He said it was simple: “Mr. And Mrs. Planetmort, Facility in the Middle of Nowhere, CA 91023.” In fact, since we are our own zip code, you could actually address mail to me “Planetmort, 91023,” and I'd get it. (I know; I've tried it.)
It does seem to exist, according to MapQuest, and it's near or on, Mount Wilson in California.
What a cool name for a place to live. Heck, it sounds like a cool place to live, where you can basically make up any form of address. Hmmm, I wonder if a postcard were addressed to “Sean Conner, 33066-2408,” would it get to me?
Probably not.
But I think I have a name for our new place: Facility in the Middle of Nowhere. Has a nice ring to it.
Now, about that link …
Now, about that link to MapQuest …
You may not realize it, but that thing is four hundred and seven characters long. Four hundred and seven! A bit silly if you ask me …
Be home, get home
It's funny the things that we worry about.
Most of my friends would have anxiety attacks over the threat of losing their job. Me? Not really. Been there, done that, still have the corporate golf shirts. Hey, I even lost my car and I didn't break a sweat.
But here it is, almost two years to the day I wrote this:
I've already lost a car and my job. What's next? My home? I'm not worried at all. Even if I do loose my home, it'll be less stuff I have to worry about. It's not like I'm actually going to loose my home. I'm not. It's just that over the years, I've learned not to worry about things. I have my health. I have my family. I have my friends. All else is icing.
So it's quite ironic to have found myself having a nervous breakdown over the impending move. It was quite bad. Very bad. Break down into uncontrollable sobbing bad. Fortunately, Spring was there to comfort me and help me through this anxiety attack.
I still can't quite pin down why I feel this way. As I wrote to my friend Hoade: “Yes, I've studied Buddhist thought and that I should let go of this place but it's proving harder than I thought and it's not entirely because I'm too sentimental; I'm too sentimental being completely overwhelmed in a situation that is fast turning into what looks like a money sink. So there you go.” The sentimental bit—I've lived here since August of 1988 (except for a period of time between August 1992 and October 1993 when I lived in Boca Raton, then moved back) and the place was once owned by my Mom, and I inherited this place when she died in early 1994. To give something up she worked for so hard for is not an easy thing for me.
The money sink bit has to do with a lot of repairs that have to be made. Individually they all quite small but it's just the number of them that is overwhelming. At least to me. Then there's the time it takes to get this place fixed enough to rent or sell (I'm leaning towards renting), during which time we have to pay for two places.
Spring did assure me that there are always options and that things will work out. Heh. A lesson I forgot somewhere in the past two years.
