Comfortable, productive air travel these days is an empty middle seat and a person in front of you who doesn’t recline. Fifteen rows deep on the aisle of this foil wrapped paper towel tube is where a Southwest draw of B13 put me, and the Gaslight Anthem Dave recently sent me is stirring.
I’m still processing last night’s high school reunion that wasn’t mine, and really resembled more the gathering of a fan club. I think the party favors may have been a one word thesaurus of “smart,” because variants of it were what I heard all night from the many I chatted with. The descriptive verbs weren’t all about intelligence. One woman shared with me how she was helped after the death of her husband to draw strength and embrace her new independence, even though it was involuntary and unwanted. Yeah, that one was about heart. I was moved and provided a deeper understanding, but not at all surprised. That one brief conversation was my reason for being there. Well, plus hanging with my pal Glenn.
Now, failing to fall back, I’m an hour shy of the sleep I might have enjoyed and destined for another few days in Vegas, this time for our annual Customer conference, this year at the MGM Grand where the advice I read about playing Blackjack there was, “Don’t sit down.” Screw it. I’m taking their money. As HAL9000 would robotically say, “I can feel it.”
“Give me the fever that just won’t quit.”