The last time I flew, I was on leave and had hitched a space-a ride from Warner-Robins AFB out to Travis on a KC-135 tanker, and found myself on a bench seat atop a hundred thousand pounds of really, really cold jet fuel.
That was nine years ago, so I wanted to be super-prepared this time. I got to the airport two hours early, anticipating ticket mixups, undermedicated baggage checkers, Guardsmen with M16s, drug-sniffing dogs going after the kitten fur on my pants leg, quarter-mile lines at the security gates, interrogation chambers with polygraphs and sodium pentothal, cavity searches with bullet-nosed flashlights — you know, stuff like that. Turns out it took me all of about ten minutes to get through check-in.
So I’m cooling my heels at Gate 4, putting off reading some Marxian economics.
(Yes, the conference doesn’t start until Wednesday, but a flight tomorrow would have gotten in at 10:25 at night, and my presentation’s bright and early the following morning. So I’ll have some time to shop for a nice pair of cowboy boots in San Antonio.)
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