Golf Snot Aloft

Golf Snot, a name given to me by a girl in highschool (a snot in her own right) seems timelessly appropriate forty years later as I stand over putts with my nose usually running (spring/summer-allergies, fall/winter-coldweather) and dripping on the ball. This results in a poorly struck putt and collective revulsion from other members of my foursome.

Thinking (this is the beginning of a poorly constructed sentence) a trip to desert climes at this time of year would be liquid-booger free I bought a ticket on Alaska Airlines to strike out from Portland, OR to Phoenix, AZ for four days of golf excess.

Portland is a quaint settlement that can be described as a "Big Little Town" or a "Little Big Town", but since nobody seems to call it either one of these descriptors I'll defer to its historical name of "Stump Town", a name culled from its early appearance of shoddy architecture amid a landscape of tree stumps and mud. My dense point here is that it is one of the best places to fly in and out of for a major international airport, even though any significant destination can only be accessed through a connecting flight to Seattle, WA. But, I deviate from my flight plan.

There was only one other person at the ticket counter at 5AM on a rainy tuesday morning so I quickly found myself at the security checkpoint where interesting and colorful things began to happen. An old boy about two bodies in front of me frustrated from having to re-enter the x-ray for the third time commenced to kicking the machine which only inspired two slaggard looking tubs in TSA blue and white to haul him off amid screeching protests from his old lady.

At my gate early boarders were called up, one of them being a an old Greek Orthodox (I'm guessing here) nun in a wheelchair. She looked like a bunged-up version of Batman sans mask sportin' a big crucifix, a cane, and two plastic grocery bags full of crap. My rows boarded next and there she was - on the aisle, in my row at one with her seat. I politely asked if I could scoot by and with a jerky wave of the hand she dismissed my like the sinner that I am. Seven seconds later I was planted in my seat watching Sister Demetrius retrieve her cane and most of the innards of her two garbage bags that I had drop kicked as hard as I could under the middle seat. I was not proud but I was content that lack of civilty was a condition I was beginning to nurture with some enthusiasm. I felt validated when the flight attendant could not get her cane and garbage bags away from her to meet federal safety guidelines. It was a joy to watch the struggle and clash of two professional women going tooth and claw. Claw won and cane and crap were stowed overhead.

At thirty thousand feet she stood up in the aisle and stretched like Nadia Comenici, a grace that defied her apparent infirmaties and annoyed the sweet shit out of me. I'm just not going to tell you the rest. It would make make me look like someone who has had serious problems with women of the cloth which, in fact, is the truth but is not the point. Anyway, it was cold in Phoenix due to a weather anamoly and I never removed a jacket the entire time.

The return trip illustrated the fact that a man with a boyish figure is not accorded the respect by men who are actually built like men, i.e., six feet plus with real biceps and stuff. The former was now overpowered by the latter who comandeered both his seat and half of mine. His right elbow was glued to the armrest leaving me to assume the tuck position with arms plastered to my sides similar to what sailors do prior to jumping from a burning aircraft carrier. At thirty thousand feet the tide turned. The drink cart arrived and when he reached for his Aquafina with his right hand I had him. I planted the better half of my left side on the armrest including all of my arm and part of my ribcage. We both stared straight ahead: Sunni and Shiite ready for battle. He heaved a slow sigh and accomodated my position. I never moved even though it resulted in severe thigh cramping and a possible twisted bowel. Still, I would have traded my seat for half of one of his biceps.

More airline melodrama on tap.

Houston. We have a problem...

Off the launch pad and this sentence, the first of thousands, did not begin with "I". Busting with pride, that's what I am.

Like most of you my hope is this does not erode into a bunch of high-minded sludge. Simply, I worry, fear, desire, hope, wonder, get angry, get angrier, have a HagenDas.

Under the category of wonder: Do you really give a crap what I think about Ibsen; Lindsay Lohan; string theory; sweet chili sauce; or training Labrador retrievers? Well, you might if you saw Casino Royale and differ with my opinion of "Bravo!, Here, Here!" for Daniel Craig. I like him because he can look old...like me...like me most of the time.

Next Week: The results of my colonoscopy.