the thrills & delights of interglobal air travel

While rescue crews were chipping New Englanders out of blocks of ice during the recent never-ending cold snap, SWMBO and I managed to escape to Tropical Climes for a week. To do this, we had to fly on two large aeroplanes and do the Homeland Security Terrorist X-Ray Dog-Sniff Lambada in three airports. Though I was a bit distracted and disoriented through the whole forced-march ordeal, I tried to pay attention, and as far as I can tell, our Safety in Airports and the Skies is now the responsibility of 114 separate new paramilitary and law-enforcement agencies, all of whose employees are required to have graduated from Junior High School and to have minimum I.Q.s of 80.

I have no hips to speak of, and so when I was required to remove my belt, while holding all my pocket belongings in my arms, my trousers began to fall to my knees as I staggered to a chair where I was instructed to remove my shoes. I have been in undignified and uncomfortable and anxious situations -- the day I was drafted, and in various living rooms being scrutinized by the parents of my high school dates. But the Nueva Aeropuerto Lambada is about the worst.

As far as I can tell, Miami International Airport is now under the direct management and supervision of the Clown Division of Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey.

Our hosts in the stratosphere were American Airlines. Fruit juice, coffee and soft drinks are still free, but if you want anything solid, or booze, or earphones to watch the movie, bring lots of cash. I think they are also charging for those itty-bitty pillows.

There were some new security wrinkles since the last time I went through this ordeal. Sky terrorists, apparently, are logical and thrifty fiends and always buy second-class one-way tickets. Anti-terrorism experts have concluded that their first move to skyjack an airplane is to try to sneak into First Class and use the First-Class bathrooms in the front of the plane, by pretending to have to go real bad while the Second-Class bathrooms in the rear of the plane -- both of them -- are Occupado. So we were given two stern new instructions over the public-address system:

1. Second-Class passengers are now forbidden from even thinking about using the First-Class bathrooms. Evacuating in your undies is prefered.

2. For three hours, keep your ass parked always in your seat. No standing, no stretching, no deep knee-bends in the aisles, and particularly, no loitering near the bathrooms or the galley.

I've never paid for a First-Class seat, but once I was forced against my will to go forward and endure First Class on a transatlantic flight. Have you ever wondered what First Class is like? Well, I can tell you, I've been there. The flight attendants (both sexes) are topless and all about 23 years old, and they sit in your lap and wiggle and giggle while they pour your cappucino or 12-year-old single-malt Scotch. The bathrooms have claw-foot bathtubs with bubble bath, and can accomodate two. A masseur or masseuse is available on request. There's a never-ending buffet of paté and Beluga caviar, and the jeroboams of Champagne are French.

Here is a joke circulating among the Fabric Arts community:

Q. Why can't you bring knitting needles on an airplane?

A. They're afraid you'll knit an Afghan.

Oh, hell, well, I'm a pretty tough old bird and I can endure just about anything. But on the flight home, we were subjected to a torment that most people won't ever have to endure until they arrive in Hell Everlasting: A movie called "Wimbledon." The gorgeous adorable lovers, Kirsten Dunst and some vapid lox named Paul Bettany, are both world-class tennis stars, he a bit on the washed-up side, she rocketing to the top. I didn't pay for the earphones, so had to endure this piece of talentless crap in mime. Several people jumped out of the airplane 20 minutes into the film. You think you've seen boredom? Not until you've tried to watch a movie all about championship tennis.

I am happy to report that one of my all-time favorite actresses, Eleanor Bron, is still working, unhappy to report that it was in this piece of drek, as Bettany's loving and supporting mom who never lost faith in his ability to make tennis balls go over a net. Sam Neill also had the thankless task of being Dunst's superprotective multimillionaire father.

These eugenically selected Caucasian superathletes were given the imaginative names of Peter Colt (a Brit) and Lizzie Bradbury (a wisecracking American babe with ... you'll never guess this ... an attitude).

Here, let me spoil the whole thing for you: Against all expectations, Bettany wins the Men's Singles championship, gives his racket to the 14-year-old ball girl who has developed an unhealthy drooling crush on him, marries Dunst, they reproduce (probably by unartificial insemination), and teach their adorable infants -- a boy for you, a girl for me -- to play tennis on the rooftop court above their Manhattan penthouse.

By the way, American Airlines no longer provides breathable air on its aircraft, at least not in Second-Class. You can find more people wheezing, coughing, sneezing and gasping in a small sealed intimate space, but you have to go to a big-city influenza quarantine hospital to find them.

More later about where we went -- which was one picante screwy loony loco meshugine place. Want a hint? Okay, here's a hint. The local authorities want everyone to know that

Ku droga nunka mi ta salbá,
pero lo mi wordu uzá ...
gará ... i te asta matá.

This time, first correct reply ... okay, the pizza slice again. I am working on how to actually get the pizza slice to the winners. I am thinking something involving coupons. Your suggestions deeply appreciated.