This is a sunset somewhere over the southeast, as we traveled from Atlanta to St. Louis:
That same sunset, but without the plane in the way. Sometimes the fuselage helps, sometimes it does not. You may say it helps, especially when you are in the plane:
I love the next picture. There are a half-dozen stories in there. On the left, the man is explaining he’ll be home when he gets home. There’s the guy rushing, the three men in the middle who are beaten down by life and this airport. Just out of the margin is a clutch of young troopers, headed off to parts unknown. There’s the kid studying, or about to throw up, on the floor. The lady in the foreground is relaxed, her companion is ready to fly and the guy on the far right is doing business on his phone.
Of course I took this picture to point out the fancy plug/USB station, but people are always the better picture:
The sun setting over the Atlanta airport. We sat there, the sun in our eyes, for a long time. Seems the plane parked in our spot was running late.
Caught a two more sessions, had lunch with a friend, listened to my adviser give some tips on a panel and then we rushed to the airport.
And these are my parting thoughts about St. Louis. The cynical consensus seemed to be that people would have preferred a different conference location, but that could be that folks found little to do downtown, diagnosed the WiFi as lousy and had already experienced a 6 a.m. fire alarm.
I’ve only been there twice, and the first visit to St. Louis was on a long layover that let us discover the cross-town trip on the MetroLink to the arch, an eye-opener for many in our little group, and a few minutes at the arch. I’m no expert. There might not be a lot to do, as some people claimed, after you’ve seen the arch and the Cardinals and gone to either Six Flags or Budweiser, or for the hearty, both. But we didn’t come to do those things. St. Louis has seen some hard times, like most everyone else along the Mississippi, even when it wasn’t the Big Muddy that brought those times downstream. But the people we met this trip have all been friendly and kind. If you so much as walk around with a curious look on your face people were willing to stop and offer directions, even if you didn’t need it. People were chatting with strangers in the “We’re all in this together” sense, even if you didn’t know what you were in.
We’re long on hospitality where I’m from, but they have no shortage of it in St. Louis, either.
I did not get to try the barbecue steak sandwich, but maybe next time.
Our hotel was nice. We crashed with a friend, and the pullout sofa could have been much worse.
The airport, is another tragic matter. It took 52 minutes to join the security line and make it through the other side of the metal detectors. A careless TSA guy almost crushed The Yankee with a tall stack of those ubiquitous gray tubs. He did not notice or care. The people working there know they are in a bad spot, the passengers let them hear it, and there’s not much they can do.
They have five detector screening stations. Three were opened. And this was not, we’re told, an unusual crush at the checkpoint. “We don’t have enough people” muttered the second ID checking person. Really? There’s only 20 percent of the country unemployed or underemployed, and most of them would look good in blue. St. Louis County was at an unadjusted 8.8 percent earlier this summer, and everyone is convinced these numbers have been depressed. It doesn’t get much more shovel-ready than a small government job, and yet here we are.
This isn’t about jobs in St. Louis, though, that nightmare is about staffing. This is being two waiters short on Valentine’s Day, only Valentine’s Day is every day.
So we’d arrived at the airport with just over an hour to spare and barely made it to the plane in time. That was nice, but at least my shoes and toiletries are safe. Oh, and the people in line, the poor regulars that fly through this airport frequently, they secretly loathe the place. I’m sure the feeling is mutual. This is what air travel has become.
Oh, and this:
Home, after an inordinate pause to get a jetway in Atlanta. That narrowed and closed our window for barbecue in Newnan, where we learned about the town’s two Medal of Honor winners, Col. Joe M. Jackson and Maj. Steven W. Pless. They received their medals on the same day, and the legend goes that LBJ said something like “There must be something in the water down in Newnan.”
Read the details about what those two great men did and you’ll realize: he was right.
Dinner in town, pizza at Mellow Mushroom, marveling at the suddenly full streets. Everyone is back in town, marking the almost-end of summer.
At AEJMC I was asked to give a presentation on what the future of journalism might look like and how we can prepare our students for such unforeseen adventures. I come down on this with a fantastical view of the future that is grounded in the mundane need for the soft skills. So, teach them holograms, but also insist they can still write. Major, we said, in journalism or communications, but consider a minor in computer science.
You don’t really get that from the slideshow, but that’s what our panel topic was about. Since I made a slideshow, you may gaze at its wonder, which pre-supposes that there will be changes in the newsroom atmosphere between now and the year 2055, here:
Took in several other nice sessions, ran into friends from my doctoral program I haven’t seen in a while, other professors I’ve meet from around the country and even my boss. Had lunch at a grill that featured a deliciously messy barbecue sandwich. For once I managed to not get anything on my suit. We had dinner at a little Italian joint we discovered that was sort of the Burger King of the genre. They are also not afraid of cheese, which is apparently the midwestern conception of Italian. That’s fine, too.
Sat in on a business meeting, went back out to visit some more. And now I’m ready to collapse before another day of conferencing. We’re spending less than 48 hours here this time. We’ve only just arrived, but it is almost time to pack up and go again. Maximize your time.
We are on the road again, but this time only for a short trip. And our flight was in the late evening, which was a change. Usually we have the up early and rush-rush-rush itinerary, but with the 8 p.m. flight I could sleep, finish my presentation, eat, pack the day of the trip, run errands and so on.
So I bought stamps, which made me consider the wisdom of alternatively putting the destination address in the return address spot. Would that really work? I mean, aside from convincing the recipient that your a cheapskate? If you put an envelope in the mail and the to address was local and the return address was across the country, do you think the postal machines would catch on? Or does that just become the letter that is finally delivered 35 years from now that you occasionally read about?
Visited the bank, where I learned that the precise point of parking in front of the ATM is the exact spatial section of land not covered by satellite radio. And by satellite radio I mean terrestrial repeaters. We blame Washington and NASA for “killing the space program” when really they only mothballed the shuttle. But I think we should blame Sirius/XM for ruining us on space. Even the space radio people are grounded. Or not. They have between 700 and 1,500 repeaters in North America, depending on whom you believe. There are maps. And the system is in place to mitigate dead spots in tunnels, foliage cover and buildings. There’s four inches in my garage where I can’t get a signal and then at the ATM. What a country.
Even still, the satellite radio can’t find me in this age of wonders. How will I ever cope? I guess I could plug in my own recording of the song I was listening to. But what medium will I choose? The trusty CD or the ones and zeros I have tucked away on my phone and iPod? And is this going to lead to the massive music project that requires I store every song I’ve ever heard on one my mobile platforms?
These aren’t problems. And yet the letdown is still disappointing. You’re telling me I can’t hear that song while I conduct my banking business? My transactional experience will be forever ruined by the nice brick facade my bank has erected that affords me shade and multiple blindspots.
So, yes, there was time on my hands before we left town. And we left. Made it to the airport, where we passed through security, but the metal detector emitted a subtle beep at it’s human companion as I walked through, not the “you have aluminum foil and chewing gum in your pocket” beep, but a different tone, encouraging him to select me for random additional screening. My hands were swiped with a thin cotton swab and that was put in a Star Trek machine that made noises and featured flickering lights. Twenty seconds later the guy was assured I had not been fertilizing my lawn earlier in the day.
There could be several paragraphs here bemoaning the TSA process, where I generally accept the people that work in front of a frustrated and bored populace are doing what they can — bad apples notwithstanding — while basically being hamstrung by what is given them from above.
I could complain about the comfort and design of the plane seat, or the poor quality of the burrito, or just my thoughts on air travel at this stage of society in general. They all sound about the same. But that would make it sound more tedious than necessary.
Instead I’ll just leave you with this.
I’m traveling with my lovely wife, going to a place where we’ll see friends and do things we enjoy. It was a lovely day, on the whole.
This man was almost your president, and since that didn’t work out, he’s become a media consultant:
The Politico version of that story is the first hit if you Google “Kerry equal time.” The second is the inevitable (and immediate) retort, which is the use of archival footage demonstrating a person contradicting themselves at some previous point. This never gets old:
That makes it the classic voted-for-it-before-I-voted against-it, then. Just so we’re clear. There’s not much of a retort for this sort of thing, other than the obvious and honest “It suited my needs at the time.” You don’t expect that anytime soon, either.
Wait —
There’s a noise from the other room.
And that’d be the washing machine.
Which is terrific, because nothing has broken around here since June.
[To quickly recap, in the first year of our lovely home we’ve broke the thermostat (Which costed me $50, a lot of sweat, a dislocated thumb and a big jolt of electricity), the shower (should have cost $1,400, but the home warranty and parts ran us $100), the refrigerator ($50, plus ice and dry ice), the dishwasher ($50 and another electric shock for a friend), the dishwasher again ($50 more), the garage door button ($8), a contact in the air conditioner ($50) and two toilet flappers ($8).]
“Owning a house is fun!” people say. I have a suggestion about that, but I am afraid to say it with too much enthusiasm as a ceiling fan blade may fall out of the sky and give me a concussion.
So the washing machine. The water fills. It grinds and clunks, but does not spin. It drains. Repeat the cycle, give it the technical tap, no change. This just six days after we renewed the home warranty (which is a life saver) with the newly boosted $100 minimum appearance fee. Well, that’s pricey, and washers are even more expensive. To the Googles!
Whirlpool. Washer. Clunking sound.
Two forums — is there a more hit-or-miss effort in modern society than a forum? — and one fix-it page later and I’ve determined the problem may be a coupler. The forums suggest this can be a do-it-yourself exercise that will cost about $20 and take about an hour.
I found this beautiful video:
And took apart the washer and determined that, yes, the coupler had broken. This took 10 minutes.
Now I need a new coupler.
To Lowe’s, where exactly two guys were working the floor. And the second red shirt, or vest as I was corrected on Twitter, tells me they do not sell this part. But I am more than welcome to call their parts place and … he gives me a card as I resign myself to visiting Home Depot. I dislike Home Depot. Their floor staff is even less helpful and the guy who’s eye I finally caught did not know what a coupler was. But I can try the website.
There’s an actual parts place in town, but they are closed on Saturday. Ace? True Value? Nowhere to be found. Home Depot’s website? They don’t carry couplers. Ditto the Lowe’s site. To Amazon! I can buy one for $.20. Yes, friends, just 20 percent of one dollar and it will be mine, minus the shipping and handling and the postal wait. Only that guy is out of stock. To the next option then, where we bought one for $.50, horrified by the notion that this may be the last coupler left in America.
You knew Standard and Poor’s would have an impact, but yeesh.
So we have to wait on that to show up so we can finish the laundry. When all else fails, hit the bike.
So we rode. I did 38.4 miles this evening, covering most of the loop around the city, by the golf course and the airport, through one of the big shopping districts and back out into the country, which you can be in in four minutes in any direction. That last part was entirely racing the sun home.
And the sun won, but only barely.
Steak for dinner, which is good. That supplemented the four pieces of toast I’d eaten today. (It was French Toast, so there were eggs involved.)
It was then that I had the idea: I could take apart the other washing machine and cannibalize that coupler. There’s a reason I’ve kept that thing around … So that will be tomorrow.
