Running off to Denver
I’m heading to Denver this morning. Denver is known as the “Mile High City”, because everyone who lives there smokes so much marijuana that they can’t even see the ground. They’re so high only dogs can hear them. But, I kid. It’s actually called the Mile High City because of its altitude above sea level. That, and the marijuana.
I’ll be flying into Texas on the way, stopping for a couple of hours at DFW, a three-letter airport code that means “Shitfuck, I’m in Texas”. Every gate at the airport is at least a six-mile walk to your connecting gate. It’s ok, though, because on the way you’ll be sure to pass a Taco Bell offering a special on ‘Stuff’.
Then, on to Denver. It’s a mile high. That means that when we go up to our cruising altitude over Texas we’ll go up about five miles, but when we land we’ll be coming down only four. Someone owes me a mile. Maybe it’s all these stolen miles that make Coloradans so high. I’m going to have to talk to someone about this.
We’re about to board. I hate flying. It’s like strapping yourself in a congested incubator with a hundred people you don’t like and a few of your favorite pathogens, then paying some benevolent corporation to push the incubator down a rather steep hill. When you get out at the bottom, they charge you a courtesy fee for not cudgeling you with an axe handle. Charge only, no cash.
It’s not always that bad. Sometimes it’s worse.
Going to Denver to complete my PQ - “Physically Qualified” - process for my ninth season in Antarctica. I’m starting to get modestly jaded about the whole process. Mostly, I’m tired of paying someone I don’t know every year to stick a greasy finger in my butt.
That guy can’t possibly see his feet.
Switched planes at DFW. Got off of one S-80 and walked six miles to another S-80. I always land at the forgotten gate at the lost corner of the airport, the one where they ran out of money when they were remodeling. Gate C-39 was danger close to having livestock wandering the floors. Walked back into civilization. Did manage to stop at Taco Bell and ate a half-pound of food. Not sure what it was, but that isn’t important. Everything at Taco Bell is the same, they just stack it up in different ways. This one had the beans on the top.
The plane from DFW to DEN was full. Every seat was taken. The vast majority of the passengers were young college girls going to some kind of summer camp, probably for full-contact bikini championships. There were half a dozen Swedish women as well.
I could tell they were Swedish because of the following:
1. They were Swedish.
2. They were speaking something that sounded suspiciously like Swedish.
3. They were wearing clothes that said “We’re Swedish”.
I was sandwiched between Sigmund the Sea Monster and the turd pile that Bill Paxton was turned into at the end of “Weird Science”. Not that I mean to be so critical. I only got three hours of sleep, and the incubator was flung down an extra bouncy hill.
Leaving Denver now. During the last four days, I’ve been to two baseball games (one win, won loss), visited some friends, worn a Scottish dress at the Renaissance Faire*, been prodded by a giant lesbian**, and provided backup vocals for a rock band. All in all, a successful weekend.
I’ve got center seats on both flights, all the way from DEN to DFW (see previous), and then from DFW to BWI. It’s possible that I’m sleepy enough to not care.
* Renaissance Faire - Every year when I fly to Denver for my PQ, I schedule it around the Renaissance Faire in Larkspur, Colorado. We’ve made it an annual tradition to go and dress in period drag. We made up a game called “Freakshow Bingo”, which consists of the familiar five-by-five bingo card with different sights we’re hoping to see at the Faire rather than numbers. These sights might be an anachronistic costume (this year, that was Batman wielding a lightsaber), an amputee, tragic sunburn, an obese man with a sword, etc. The first person to fill up a row or column wins bingo. We dress in drag to include ourselves as the “Free Space” in the center. We feel that if we didn’t allow others to stare at us and laugh, then what we were doing might technically qualify as a hate crime.
**Second time for her. I told her I had Indian for lunch and asked if she’d wear a little sailor hat for me. She said “no”. I was just trying to inject some levity in what, to me, was a highly distressing situation.
Then, on to Denver. It’s a mile high. That means that when we go up to our cruising altitude over Texas we’ll go up about five miles, but when we land we’ll be coming down only four. Someone owes me a mile. Maybe it’s all these stolen miles that make Coloradans so high. I’m going to have to talk to someone about this.
We’re about to board. I hate flying. It’s like strapping yourself in a congested incubator with a hundred people you don’t like and a few of your favorite pathogens, then paying some benevolent corporation to push the incubator down a rather steep hill. When you get out at the bottom, they charge you a courtesy fee for not cudgeling you with an axe handle. Charge only, no cash.
It’s not always that bad. Sometimes it’s worse.
Going to Denver to complete my PQ - “Physically Qualified” - process for my ninth season in Antarctica. I’m starting to get modestly jaded about the whole process. Mostly, I’m tired of paying someone I don’t know every year to stick a greasy finger in my butt.
That guy can’t possibly see his feet.
Switched planes at DFW. Got off of one S-80 and walked six miles to another S-80. I always land at the forgotten gate at the lost corner of the airport, the one where they ran out of money when they were remodeling. Gate C-39 was danger close to having livestock wandering the floors. Walked back into civilization. Did manage to stop at Taco Bell and ate a half-pound of food. Not sure what it was, but that isn’t important. Everything at Taco Bell is the same, they just stack it up in different ways. This one had the beans on the top.
The plane from DFW to DEN was full. Every seat was taken. The vast majority of the passengers were young college girls going to some kind of summer camp, probably for full-contact bikini championships. There were half a dozen Swedish women as well.
I could tell they were Swedish because of the following:
1. They were Swedish.
2. They were speaking something that sounded suspiciously like Swedish.
3. They were wearing clothes that said “We’re Swedish”.
I was sandwiched between Sigmund the Sea Monster and the turd pile that Bill Paxton was turned into at the end of “Weird Science”. Not that I mean to be so critical. I only got three hours of sleep, and the incubator was flung down an extra bouncy hill.
Leaving Denver now. During the last four days, I’ve been to two baseball games (one win, won loss), visited some friends, worn a Scottish dress at the Renaissance Faire*, been prodded by a giant lesbian**, and provided backup vocals for a rock band. All in all, a successful weekend.
I’ve got center seats on both flights, all the way from DEN to DFW (see previous), and then from DFW to BWI. It’s possible that I’m sleepy enough to not care.
* Renaissance Faire - Every year when I fly to Denver for my PQ, I schedule it around the Renaissance Faire in Larkspur, Colorado. We’ve made it an annual tradition to go and dress in period drag. We made up a game called “Freakshow Bingo”, which consists of the familiar five-by-five bingo card with different sights we’re hoping to see at the Faire rather than numbers. These sights might be an anachronistic costume (this year, that was Batman wielding a lightsaber), an amputee, tragic sunburn, an obese man with a sword, etc. The first person to fill up a row or column wins bingo. We dress in drag to include ourselves as the “Free Space” in the center. We feel that if we didn’t allow others to stare at us and laugh, then what we were doing might technically qualify as a hate crime.
**Second time for her. I told her I had Indian for lunch and asked if she’d wear a little sailor hat for me. She said “no”. I was just trying to inject some levity in what, to me, was a highly distressing situation.