Assenger Drop-Off Before the Flight

There's really not a lot to say about this, other than that I took it with my cell phone camera at a major U.S. airport recently. I didn't touch the photo - promise. Can't make it up.



Do I feel a new series of posts coming on - "Signs from the Road Warrior?"

Husband Mini-Me at the DMV

An uncomfirmed theory is brewing out there for females.

I was at the DMV the other day to get my license renewed and I overheard the customer next to me requesting something.

It wasn't the request that caught my attention, but the tactic that got her what she needed from the DMV man. In order to resolve her issue, the DMV man asked her to complete a form and have her husband fill it out with his employment information, a process that would normally take a week total to complete.

But, the customer replied, "my husband's right over there," as she pointed to a cluster of two dozen occupied standard-issue plastic office chairs in the waiting area. Her "husband" didn't wave, acknowledge, or otherwise identify himself, and I'll never know if he was really there.

The fact that her husband was "present" turned the DMV man into a wish-granting wizard, allowing him to skip the entire required documentation altogether. No husband interview, no verification of the husband's employment, or any effort to identify him. Mini-Me prevailed.

Does this mean that by simply saying that your husband "said this" or "is within a five-mile radius," that women will be served better?

The DMV Mini-Me theory. Could it be true practice?

You Scream, I Scream...for Samples

It was a sweltering day recently - in the 90s - and we went to the ice cream shop we discovered. It serves the best homemade ice cream in our part of the country - we're convinced.

On this particular visit, my wife, who was pregnant at the time, had to get there before they closed at 9 pm. This means HAVE to get there.

We thought about the trip at 8:51 pm. So, under the pressure of the ice cream attack, we flew out the door, jumped in the car, and sped on back roads through woods to arrive at 8:59 pm.

There were open! We were the last customers. In front of us, a couple was ordering, and then we realized we might miss the ice cream. Why? Because the husband - who appeared to be high maintenance - starting asking to sample different flavors as the lights went out.

This sampling guru also provided the added bonus to his wife of describing the color, texture and ingredients he could identify both visually and by taste in each flavor. An ESPN analysis of each dollop. Necessary? No.

Take the sample and let's go. The shop staff graciously served us anyway, in the dark, but samplers need to take a moment and analyze the state of the situation before deciding to request multiple samples, especially at closing time. His wife wasn't pregnant, so no excuses.

Multiple samplers. Ever been behind one, or several?

Court Reporters Have the Last Word

Bumper stickers are clever and we've all seen tons of them. So why bring them up again now?

There was one I noticed at a red light this last weekend that was slapped onto a chrome rear bumper - and I need to specify rear bumper, because people sometimes place bumper stickers in areas that don't necessarily constitute a bumper, like the back hatch, the interior dashboard, and the occasional enthusiast that decides to plaster his entire car with them in lieu of a new paint job - and it said something that I've never seen:

Court Reporters Always Have the Last Word.

Funny. One, because when have you ever seen a bumper sticker that mentions court reporters without mentioning their rather unique recording machine. Two, it's a great play on words. Three, it deviates from the overused elusions to physical shenanigans that you often see - like Alaskans Always Do It Better in the Dark.

Bumper stickers. Seen any lately?

The Wooden Iron…

Could it be? My wife and I were recently walking through an eclectic, historic and popular area of town on the way to one of our favorite eateries. Among the well-dressed suburbanites in this picturesque scene and in an area known for its intellectualism, I stopped briefly as we strolled down the sidewalk on one side of the street.

What caught my attention was a restaurant we passed that had a big sign perched at the top of its entryway, with the words “The Wooden Iron.” At first glance, this name seemed perfectly normal, and kitchy enough to spark a potential diners’ attention. However, upon further consideration, one might come to the conclusion that having a wooden iron is really not possible.

In perhaps taking this too far, a hot stoking iron is by nature made of iron. A hot iron made of wood would simply burn up. Along the same lines, a clothes iron made of wood would produce a lot of challenges, as the wood would smolder and then burn your clothes. Further, if you were to take an iron vitamin made of wood, how could you digest it?

The Wooden Iron. An interesting phrase that poses a lot of ironies.

Where's the Fire?

So here it is. The first post. And the observation that sparked the idea for a blog.

I'm rounding a right corner the other day in the car, attempting to slow down to make the turn - presumably a safe one - and things were going great when I checked the rearview mirror.

As I slowed down more, my brain misfired when I looked back in the mirror one second later, because this time there was a menacing grimace coming from thick lips of a woman with a high stack of hair and Linda Richman-style brown shades shearing through my back windows into my pupils.

Judging from her concentrated grin and tight hunch over the tan steering wheel of her roaring aqua-blue Jaguar, I imagine she wanted me to turn as fast as the natural forces of gravity and mechanical physics would allow. My question to her out loud was "where's the fire crazed lady?"

Maniacal tailgaters - what's up with them and where's the fire?