The other night, I was driving to the airport, to settle down for my semi-sort-of nightly gig. My jams are playing, it’s still semi-sort-of light out (Which is a cause to celebrate for any third shift dude or dudette!), and the speed limit on the last road I take to reach the airport is 55.
I can drive 55. Especially with all the windows open and the jams playing. 55 at 56 (years) feels like 70.
Old I am getting. Say this not did you need to. Read more
This is a request to the parents out there, taking their little bundles of joy (and drool) on a fun-filled flight across how ever many miles to show them off / let them get loved on / get a instant babysitter at Gee-Gaw and Pee-Paw’s place.
As for the big bundles of joy (and drool), you’re on your own with them.
My request: Get off the plane and head down the ramp. Do not stop for anything – an undercarriage flush, an oil change (or changing the “filter”), getting the fluids topped off (or drained), or any detailing you might think of doing before you come ’round the bend to the sounds of delight and screaming.
Just. Get. Down. Here. Read more
If you’d like proof – real, tangible proof that the concept of personal space is dead, or at least on life support and someone’s hand is on the plug…
Come join me at the airport. Read more
One of the “gigs” I find myself in lately is working at the airport…
I pause to allow you, dear reader, to be a tiny bit envious. I don’t blame you at all – Honestly, I do an internal happy dance every time I get to use the phrase, “I work at the airport.”
See? There I go again. Read more