Summer Horror Flick

(Caution: This post deals with issues that some readers may find disturbing, especially those who are frightened by humans whose age is in the lower end of the single digits. Aunty Christ, that would be you.)

I've said it before and I'll say it plenty more times before I leave this earth: why do the wrong people travel? After a winter of ice and snow storms that convinced me never again to travel in the winter, I am now beginning to think summer is even worse. I thought I'd seen the height of descending plane turbulence earlier this month during my flight into O'Hare earlier this month, but that was a walk in the park compared to coming into Denver this afternoon. When the pilot screams out "Flight attendants be seated -- NOW!" you know it's going to be more than a bumpy flight.

Adding to the agony were those damned monitors that showed our speed and altitude. We were at 12,000 feet and bouncing, then at 14,100 trying to go back down, then 11,000, then back to 13,000, then 10,800 as the windows sounded like they were about the shatter, now back up to 15,000. And as if this weren't agony enough with half the plane clutching rosaries, there must have been 30 babies on that plane. Yes, I said babies, those ugly miniature Orson Welleses pooping their diapers and screaming at ear damaging volume, and of course we'd passed the point of not being allowed to use electronic devices to drown out the volume. No phrase in the English language is more redundant than "ugly baby." Why, oh, why must people travel with those foul little creatures in tight confined spaces?

What about all those empty cargo cars on the Rock Island line? Those little creatures could scream to their hearts' content across the Mojave Desert while their parents could have a break for a few days until their "precious" cargo arrived at their destination. Snakes on Plane was supposed to be a horror movie? Not one tenth as scary as a plane load of babies.

Just shy of babies, the second most annoying travelers are tourists coming to San Francisco. I've made the mistake of being in Union Square a few times the past couple of weeks, and they are stumbling around awe struck at whatever there is to be awe struck about San Francisco. Oh, wow, it has hills and homosexuals! Woo-hoo! Getting off the BART yesterday evening at Powell Street, a horde of them just arriving from the airport stormed in front of me toward the exit and then, all ten of them with their roller boards behind them, stopped dead in their tracks standing abreast and stopping all traffic behind them as they fumbled in their pockets for their tickets in order to exit. As I weaved through them, a women offered blandly, "Oh, I guess we're in your way." I bet these are the same people who lurk around the boarding gate when they're calling zone 1 even though they are zone 7.