The Oasis

Hey, Party Peoples.

A part of me was hoping to get into Corner Brook one of the days I was home during Christmas but it just wasn't in the cards.  Considering the last time I was there, however, perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.

Y'see, growing up in Stephenville (a small town on the west coast of Newfoundland) in the Eighties was tough for an imaginative (read: "geeky") kid.  If you were lucky and you could time it just right, you might score a few dog-eared comic books at the Sweet Shoppe or A.V. Gallant's variety stores, but it was hit or miss.  It's not like you could have set up a subscription service with a corner store.     

I personally kept VHS rental joints like The Video Screen and Debbie's Video Shoppe (hmmm, was that a "shop" or a "shoppe"?  I can't remember now...) in business single-handedly.  It's because of awesome mom n' pop places like this that I first saw all the sc-fi, horror, drama, action, comedy and fantasy confections that gave me an imagination and creative spark as an adult.

But if you wanted comics, cassette tapes, board games, toys or any other flights of fantasy flotsam you were kinda S.O.L.  After all, these were the days before E-Bay and well, er...the internet.  Me and my circle of peeps would speak in hushed tones about stores in far-away lands where you could just walk in and procure The Dark Knight Returns trade paperback, a copy of Ronnie James Dio's Sacred Heart album or Leading Edge's Aliens board game all in one fell swoop.

But in Stephenville, if you wanted shit like that you had to mail away orders to places like American Comics.  Often times your order had to be sent in with a list of alternates in case what you were asking for was sold out by the time they got your letter.  I don't know how many times I'd get a delivery, feverishly rip open the box and be crushed because three-quarters of what I ordered wasn't there.

Listen, I'm not one to get all sanguine and sentimental about growing up in a small town in the Eighties, folks.  Frankly, if you had interest or hobbies like mine, it kinda sucked.

But there was hope.  There was a reprieve.  There was...

Corner Brook

Now, I'm pretty sure that if you search the town's website or pour through it's tourism brochures, you won't see Corner Brook described as an 'Oasis' anywhere.  But I'm tellin' you right now, in all honesty, as a kid, a trip to Corner Brook was akin to going to friggin' Manhattan.

I have very precious memories of being taken out of school on a Friday afternoon by my folks.  My Dad would use the weak-ass excuse that he had business in town.  Business that apparently couldn't have been done on, say, Saturday or any other day of the week, but I certainly didn't complain. 

Makes me wonder if Math class was in the afternoon.  It would certainly explain my deplorable showing in that particular subject.

Anyhoo, as soon as the announcement was made, I'd be so giddy with excitement that I could barely pay attention in class that morning.  Er, more so than usual, I mean.  The forty-five minute pilgrimage would often be spent looking at indistinguishable tree-packed scenery, reading stale magazines or adding fuel to the fire if one of my parents was tormenting the other.

The last ten minutes before arrival was allocated to preparation of singing the official "Corner Brook Arrival Celebratory Anthem".  Just as we cleared city limits me and Dad would strike up with our respective tunes.  If I remember correctly, my selection was an original composition called "We're Here Because We're Here" (which, co-incidentally, was the extent of the lyrics for the entire song) and Dad's contribution was that timeless, yet unheard-of classic "Down on the Labrador".  Mom added her own two-cents by shaking her head and maintaining that we were all "touched".

Eventually we realized just how stupid and juvenile this was, so we stopped doing it about three years ago.

Our first stop would typically be at The Glynmill Inn, a beautiful, Victorian-style manor overlooking Glynmill Pond.  To me, it always seemed like an incongruous oasis within itself: a pretty, picturesque, sylvan garden and manor smack-dab in the middle of mountainous, serpentine streets, strip malls, Honda dealerships and the omnipresent sulfurous reek of the nearby Abitibi Price pulp and paper mill.

The Inn was the home of The Ewing Gallery, presided over in the Eighties by Lance and Tess Ewing.  I always though that this stately couple were as out of place amongst the indigenous population as the Inn was amongst the city.  I always wanted to know if they were natives.  I always suspected that they were exiled "Mr. & Mrs. Smith"-style retired American Secret Agents who had chosen to go incognito in Corner Brook because they thought it was "quaint".         

Lance always reminded me of a gregarious, rugged version of Heinein-award winning science fiction writer Arthur C.Clarke.  Tess (who I'd nick-named "Tessica" for some reason) was considerably more ethereal.  Whenever we had to swing by their house instead of the galley we would sometimes get a rare glimpse of her in a window or doorway: a slender apparition in a housecoat.  At my Dad's art exhibits, however, she was always elegant, well-spoken and dignified.

I have the utmost warm feelings for these virtual strangers.  It's because of their sponsorship of my Dad's artwork he managed to help me pay for university and as a result I didn't graduate under an insurmountable avalanche of debt.

After all the professional artist business was concluded, we'd often have lunch at the relatively opulent Carriage House dining room at the Inn.  Being a stupid kid with a woefully underdeveloped palate I'd often opt for just a simple muffin so I wouldn't spoil my appetite for the eagerly awaited repast which would inevitably conclude out visit.

Just for the record, though, the last time I checked about three years ago, they still made the best apple cinnamon muffins in the galaxy.

The highlight of our trip would follow soon after: a trip to The Valley Mall.  Speaking as someone who absolutely hates venturing into a mall now, it's amusing in retrospect when I think about how important this place was to me once.  In the Eighties, the Valley Mall was the friggin' shiznit.

It was a little slice of nirvana.  There was an A&A record store, a place where I could easily procure the latest metal opus.  Leisure World had a back shelf well-stocked with Avalon Hill wargames like Squad Leader (http://www.boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/1035/squad-leader) and Panzerblitz (http://www.boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/2238/panzerblitz), fantasy games like The Creature that Ate Sheboygan (http://www.boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/1783/the-creature-that-ate-sheboygan) and a slew of intriguing-looking but intimidating Advanced Dungeons & Dragons hard cover books.

Coles bookstore was another highlight.  Here I might find a trashy compendium of sci-fi or horror films, a movie review guide or a  Star Wars book (which, towards the end of the decade became increasingly scarce as people became all Star Wars-ed out).

Another lynchpin for me: The Fun Villa arcade.  It was great being in an arcade which was the antithesis of the one in Stephenville.  It wasn't dirty, smoky or a place where I'd be offered weed every two minutes.  Here I could watch teenagers play Pac-Man (the machine was always w-a-a-a-a-a-y too busy for snots like me to even get close to it), destroy the Death star umpteen times in the vector graphics Star Wars game and guide "Winky" the plucky, well-rounded hero of Venture through an electronic, snakealicious, neon maze.

Other stops might include a trip to the pet store to get food for my pet tarantula Max.  I was aware at the time how long these spiders could live and always wondered if she'd still be around when I was forty.  Alas, here I am and she only passed away just recently after being the star attraction at the Deer Lake Insectarium for the past six years!   

When comic books became a hot commodity some enterprising dude had the foresight to open up a shop on Park Street.  I was an easy mark for this guy and my folks would often indulge my weakness for Batman and X-Men comics as well as Empire Strikes Back trading cards and various hard-to-acquire toys.

The last time I went to Corner Brook a few years ago, I went back to his shop at its new location on Broadway.  Much to my disbelief the guy still recognized me.  Either Newfoundlanders are so in tune with people that they never forget a face or I bought so much crap from him in the Eighties that I made a lasting impression.

The store itself was in chaos.  It looked as if someone had dynamited a warehouse of Todd McFarlane toys and then hung up an hours of operation sign.  Nothing was organized.  Nothing was priced.  Thank God he was preoccupied with another customer since I was almost killed in a live-action game of Jenga when I made the mistake of looking for a price tag on some 3.5 edition D&D manuals. 

I managed to extricate myself without too much awkward, "Jedi Mind Trick"-style pushy sales conversation.  Although I found some tempting wares (like a Tony Esposito figure from McFarlane's hockey series, a few Marvel Legends I didn't have and some sweet-ass horror film figs by Neca), the total absence of price tags terrified me.

I also made a tactical error when I mentioned out loud that I'd rabidly collected hockey cards every single year except (for some stupid reason) 1979, which was Wayne Gretzky's rookie year.  Well, when he overheard this, told me that he had it and was willing to part with it for a paltry $600.00.  In retrospect, that probably wasn't such a bad deal.

On the way out, the owner (who's name I've never known), said loudly: "Hey!  Make sure you bring $600.00 back for that set!", half-joking and half deadly serious.

My last tour through the Valley Mall about four years ago was pretty depressing.  The upper level, once dominated by a large Zellers, upscale clothing stores and the entrance to a computer tech school (Keyin Tech?  Beothic Data Processing?) had all been cleared out to make room for the employment equivalent of The House of Pain: an ICT Call Center.  Eeeeesh. 

It wasn't much better downstairs.  Coles bookstore was gone.  The Fun Villa (not to mention 98% of all arcades from the Eighties)...GONE!  A&A Records...GONE!  This was replaced by a CD Plus, where I took pity on the bored staff and bought an Arctic Monkeys CD to give them a highlight for their day.  Leisure World was still hanging on.  I trekked to the back of the store, hoping to find a perfectly preserved mother-lode of  Eighties board gaming artifacts just sitting there, waiting for some savvy collector who knows their value to rescue them from a life of eternal neglect.  Instead all I find are endless, boring shelves of yarn, Styrofoam balls and tole paints.        

Even the food court has been gutted.  For a moment I pause and mourn the Borg-like assimilation of the mom n' pop Burger World into a Tim Horton's kiosk before moving on.

Back in the Eighties, we'd leave the Shangri-La sensory overload of the Valley Mall and make our way up to the Corner Brook Plaza for a meal fit only for an advertisement-indoctrinated twelve year old.  Back then the Plaza was, in the immortal words of Kevin Smith, the 'Dirt Mall'.  At the time it was anchored by a K-Mart on life support and featured cheesy Newfoundland bric-a-brac stores and discount clothing outlets.  The only draw for me in this mall back then was the "methinks thou dost protest too much" Family Bookstore, which was a schizophrenic pastiche of magazines (including some you wouldn't think to find in a so-called "Family" bookstore), pop paperbacks, Newfoundland music tapes, and cake pans (?).            

But the other big pull to visit this mall: they had a real, live McDonald's.

Like so many other kids in the Seventies and Eighties, McDonald's was always a pretty big fixture in my life.  When we moved away from Sydney, Nova Scotia (where a trip to the notorious Sydney River location http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sydney_River_McDonald%27s_murders was quite common) and moved to Stephenville, this childhood institution was ripped away from me.

Exiled from what I considered to be civilization at the time, I lamented the introduction of such major childhood technological developments as the Chicken McNugget.  American-sourced Saturday Morning cartoons were torture for me as Grimace, the Hamburglar and chief ringleader himself Ronald McDonald tempted me with their unattainable, transfat-tastical wares.

The only available option to appease my prepubescent fast-food cravings were home-made, non-flavor engineered burgers which recalled this awesome Eddie Murphy skit:



Or, A&W, which, at the time, I'd dubbed "A & Double-Spew".

Just like everything else, Corner Brook got an A&W first, which resulted in an unfortunate onion-related mishap.  Back then the venerable fast-food franchise was going through a bit of an identity crisis.  In an ill-guaged attempt to be more contemporary (I suppose), they'd eliminated their classic "burger family" menu in lieu of some new taste "treats".  Instead of using yummy, kid-friendly minced onion on their burgers like McDonalds, they started using huge, sauteed, slivered onions.

And let me tell ya folks, nothing says "tastes like evil" to a twelve year old's palate like huge sauteed slivered onions.

I remember one trip when Dad relented and took us to A&W for lunch in Corner Brook.  I got one of these new-fangled burgers and closed by eyes hoping the fast-food trappings (paper wrapper, undeniably burger-like appearance, omnipresent fries) would trick me into thinking I was partaking of my precious McDonalds.

One bite was enough to convince myself otherwise.  I could instantly detect the nauseating texture of huge, slivered, half-cooked onions.  I almost yarfed right there in the back seat of the car.

Dad tried to remedy the situation by scraping most of the onions off.  Unfortunately he scraped them right onto the floor of the car.  Later we tried to find as many as the pungent f&^%$^& as we could, but that car stunk like onions until we unloaded it (at a severely depreciated price) many years later.

I also found out down the road that the only food my Dad hates with a passion is half-cooked, slimy onions.  Co-incidence?  I think not...

So when Stephenville got it's own ersatz A&W years later I never darkened it's doors.  In fact, before the franchise came to it's senses and realized they had an untapped vein of nostalgic gold on their hnads our hometown location soon closed down.  Fast-forward a few years later and A&W experienced a miraculous resuscitation when they re-instituted the old, familiar, raw-onionated Burger clan (The Momma Burger, The Papa Burger, The Teen Burger , The Baby Burger, The Uncle Burger, The Grandpa Burger, The (Obviously Named After A Distant Italian Relative) Mozza Burger, and the presumably forthcoming Second-Cousin- Twice-Removed Burger).   

Well, when Corner Brook got a McDonald's in the early Eighties, that was like taking wonderful and giving it a healthy dollop of awesome sauce.  I have very fond memories of Dad finishing up an exhibit at the Glynmill Inn, taking us up to McDonald's in the plaza parking lot and letting me gorge myself on a twenty pack of Frankensteinian, mechanically separated Chicken McNuggets.

And this was back in the day when you were excited to bite into one that wasn't gray on the inside.

It also has to be mentioned around this time I developed a debilitating, life-long phobia of drive-thru's thanks to my Dad.  Quite often he'd deliberately mis-pronounce things, make shit up out of the blue, request items that weren't even on the menu or ask for a side-order of "smiles".  The poor girls manning the wickets were probably feeling debased enough in their day-glo, lime-green, MARK I-era uniforms (which, I'm surprised, didn't kill the appetite of the average customer even before they'd ordered) without having to contend with such smart-assery.

Hmmmm, I wonder how many loogie-burgers we ate over the years?

Well, of course, now I live in a place where I could re-enact my very own Super Size-Me experiment every day of the week.  Even Stephenville has it's own McDonald's now.  Between this and digesting such unappetizing but enlightening fare as Fast Food Nation and Food Inc., needless to say, the place holds very little appeal for me anymore.            

Well, the last time I went to Corner Brook Plaza a few years ago it had realized it's revenge by laying low its hated rival, the once-proud Valley Mall.  It had experienced a complete Renaissance, and was now chock-a-block with high end clothing stores and a pilfered and regenerated Coles bookstore.  In other words, it had become just like any other boring, small-town generic mall on the planet.

I haven't been back in a few years, but it's my understanding that the Valley Mall is now entirely dedicated to commercial space.  It's inadvertent role as a haven for geeky childhood interests had been swept away.

Funny how the progress of time can sometimes feel like de-evolution for someone still in commune with their inner child.  Even though everything I could ever want is within my fingertips I still cherish how important these modest touchstones were for a somewhat lonely, awkward, imaginative kid seeking solace and escape from the ordinary.

Farewell, Fun Villa, wherever you are.

EPIC:  Information on the City of Corner Brook.  Please note that the city still seems insistent on using the bland slogan "Our Spirit...Your Success" versus  the considerably more esoteric "Oasis For Geekery in the Eighties".  Oh, well.
http://www.cornerbrook.com/

ALSO EPIC-ISH:  The Valley Mall doesn't have a website since it's deader than Fatty Arbuckle but it looks like there's a new comics/toys/boardgames store opened up in town.  Good to see that rural Newfoundland geeks still have a home!
http://thelair.ca/  

50% BONUS IN THE EPIC DEPARTMENT:  Website for the beautiful Glynmill Inn:
http://www.glynmillinn.ca/

FAIL: Let me tell ya, Kind Readers, I've been there...

Glass Half Full

Good day to you, Loyal Reader.

In light of my recent "Ultraman" confession I've been doing some soul-searching regarding my entries up to this point.  After reviewing what I've written thus far I fear that the tales previously told may have left you with the impression that I've hated every single job I've ever had.  This is simply not so.

Truth be told I've had as many as...um, two jobs in the past that I've liked!  So, there!  To all of you that think I'm being unreasonably Emo about my main topic of discussion I lob a hearty "HAH!" in your general direction.

In thinking about these past two cherished gigs I've managed to nail down what an ideal working environment would be for me.  As a corollary, here's a list of workplace conditions I'd ideally want to avoid in the future if possible:

•  Being completely sedentary by sitting in a chair in excess of eight hours everyday.  Especially if sitting down for that long isn't by choice but because you will fail to achieve the inhumane level of production being asked of you on a daily basis if you don't.  I.E. If by getting up to pee, stretch your legs, have a quick chat with a friend or (perish forbid) eat lunch for thirty minutes makes you fall behind in your work to the point that your day is considered a complete failure you may want to seek an alternate vocation.
• I don't want my primary mode of communication to be by phone.  Now I'm not opposed to communicating my phone at all but if your new boss hands you a headset to wear from day one onward, you can officially take this as an omen (or an ottoman, I'm not sure which).  I generally hate to deal with people exclusively over the phone because (1) You can't read people very well (2) Wearing a headset for eight-plus hours every day will give you a chronic case of swamp-ear and (3) I'm not a thirteen year old girl.  Or at least I haven't been for a long, long time.  Ahem, you probably should ignore that. 
• I don't want to stare at a computer screen for hours on end.  Again, this isn't bad in short bursts but if you're zoning out on that sucker for more than two to three hours in a sitting, it's time to move on.  Especially if combined with the previous two conditions.  Every health professional I've talked to has told me that the sort of modern Dickensian sweat shop created by big business for their drones to toil in is slowly killing them.  I know for a fact that my posture is completely f#@&#$ and before I left work I had the beginnings of an nicely-developing "Mr. Burn's"-style hump from slaving away continuously at a workstation designed by former Nazi scientists who were fired from the S.S. for "excessively cruelty".
• As a grown adult I want to work in a trusting environment where my employer believes that I can think independently and apply positive tenants to my daily work experience.  These tenants include, but are not limited to, intelligence, free will, independence, wisdom, training, experience, and common sense.  I don't want to work for someone that has (theoretically) hired me for all the above reasons and then promptly demands that I sit down, shut up and "do exactly as I'm told".                 
• I don't necessarily want to be paid gobs of money.  It's been my experience that if you work in an environment where you get compensated disproportionately for a job you have no control over, it's a recipe for inevitable madness.  The robotic, practical side of your brain will pursue the perpetually dangling carrot to the point of exhaustion while the creative, active portion of your skull slowly atrophies like Joe Bonham in "Johnny Got His Gun."

Now, conversely, for the sake a maintaining a positive, "glass half full" outlook, here's a l'il sample of what I would consider to be a great working environment:

 


So basically I'm looking for face to face interaction with real-live people, the freedom to be snide to the grossly ignorant, the ability to discuss relevant topics of interest in a vaguely abusive setting and be semi-mobile at least.

That's not asking too much, is it?   I know these jobs exist; I've had two gigs in the past that I absolutely loved and embodied this philosophy somewhat.

Back when we still lived in residence at St. Mary's a buddy of mine managed to weasel his way into coordinating the student elections.  So, for every election, he'd retain his cronies (myself included) at the amazing rate of $10.00 a hour to mark names off a list and facilitate the voting process.  And by "facilitate the voting process" I mean hand someone a ballot and direct them to the slot after they'd managed to scrawl their secret "X" on it and fold it up.

The guy that ran the whole affair was a notoriously bad speller (and still is to this day).  I remember cracking up at the schedule for the first day because the name of two friends (Mike and Cheryl) had been mangled so badly it looked as if "Milk and Cereal" were working a shift together.  To this day Cheryl still answers to "Cereal" (along with "Roadie", but that's another story).

These elections were a blast.  I've always wanted to work with my friends and this was a real treat.  After someone cast their ballot at one poling station we'd have to use walkie-talkies to transmit their names to all the other stations so they could cross them off on their own lists, thus preventing them from voting again.  In the evenings when things got slow inevitably this would degenerate into the following call-ins:

"Yeah, new voter here...first name, 'Adoodie', first name 'Ahmed'."
"Head's up, people.  We got last name 'Torres', first name 'Clint'!"
"Alright, I need you to cross off 'Ocksmall', O-C-K-S-M-A-L-L, first name 'Mike'."
"Okay, I can't find this name on my list.  Last name is 'Weiner', first name 'Drew', middle initial is 'P'!"

Oh, some of the poor, naive girls we worked with.  We'd get them every time.  Sometimes it would take minutes for them to clue in and we'd just be dying on the other end of the 'talkie as they repeated the 'names' over and over again, their volume growing in direct proportion to their level of frustration:

"Mike HUNT!  Jill, can you see 'Mike Hunt' anywhere down there?  I can't find the friggin' thing at all!" 

Now that's not to say that we didn't do a great job. We actually drove up the voter turnout considerably.  It got to the point where we'd come up with all sorts of comically vaudevillian ways to get every SMU student to vote in the elections.  This obsession got so bad that one night I had a dream that we'd set up a voter station at 'Jumbo Video' and got Lenny Kravitz to play there.  When I shared the idea next day everyone laughed at me and thought  I was nuts.  Jerks. 

This goes to show a truism that big business often forgets: if you trust your people to get the job done and allow them some freedom to have a bit of fun occasionally, you'll empower them, keep their morale up and production will follow naturally.  Funny how these kernels of common sense don't seem so common sometimes. 

Like the "Festival Coast Tourism" gig that I talked about in a previous entry, the other assignment that I liked a lot could scarcely be called a job as well.  It was another make-work type project where I was hired by our local community college to compose and assemble a thousand student orientation packages and also determine the feasibility of an alumni association.

First some background info.  The "College of the North Atlantic" that at worked at has gone through so many name changes I've lost track.  From what I can remember it started out as the "Bay St. George Community College" (limiting it's range a bit) then morphed into the "Western Community College" (vague but catch-all), then became the blatantly trendy "Westviking College" and now it's known as the desperately rugged-sounding "College of the North Atlantic."

Kinda conjures up mental images of classes filled with students dressed in identical rubber boots, yellow rain slickers and Sou'wester hats with cock-eyed, pipe-smoking instructors espousing nuggets of wisdom like: "I sees he, says I to she."    

Anyhoo, I was charged as a twenty three year old kid to tackle these barely-legitimate make work projects.  Energized by the blind trust, responsibility and freedom only granted by employers who's own money they aren't spending, I launched into my duties with tremendous vigor.


Perhaps too much vigor. 


I remember my supervisor taking me aside two weeks into it and telling me: "Look you gotta slow down!  You're gonna work yourself out of a job!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  My parents had it installed like software into my brain, "Matrix"-style that you never slack off doing a job.  NEVER EVER.  You kept hammering at it every second of every day of every week of every month until it's done.  You are never supposed to be IDLE.  That's just lazy.

So, once again, the things that I'd been taught about work were proving to be less than accurate.  I nearly had a mental breakdown consciously forcing myself to slow down.  It's still impossible for me to stop working or slow down until something is completed to my satisfaction.

Considerable stretches of time were spent taking stock in my surroundings. A buddy of mine had been hired in the library to do archiving and both of us had a blast trying to quantify all of the interesting characters at the school.  His supervisor, the guy who ran the library, was an interesting cat who looked like a combination of special effects wizard Dennis Muren and oddball physician Dr. Lawrence Jacoby from "Twin Peaks".  He even had the off-colored lenses for his glasses.  After being a first-hand witness to some of his quirky behavior we both concluded that doing whatever rabbit-hole academics it took to acquire a Master's Degree in Library Studies took too great a toll on the normal human mind and we hastily ruled it out as a future career path.

Another mutual friend would often stop by the school for lunch.  He'd managed to snag a summer job as a DJ at the local radio station CFSX and would regale us of how he nearly got fired for playing Led Zeppelin's "Over The Hills and Far Away" versus such corn-pone classics as Ian Tyson's horrendous "Navajo Rug" which was in heavy rotation at the time.



I guess we all had our crosses to bear.  

Speaking of music, at the time U2's much-maligned "Zooropa" album had just been released.  For some reason we became completely obsessed that summer with the song "Lemon" and made every possible opportunity to warble the lyrics to anyone within earshot.  In an inexplicable twist to residence pranks, if either of us left our office doors open (which was a disused classroom idle during the summer break) for any length of time we'd come back to find the blackboards completely covered in the song's lyrics, making the room look like the secret inner sanctum of the world wussiest serial killer.



More often than not one of our supervisors would pop in on us unexpectedly.  Can you imagine trying to have a respectable, serious conversation with a barely-legitimate authority figure while surrounded by mad scribblings like this:

Lemon
See through in the sunlight
She wore lemon
But never in the daylight
She's gonna make you cry
She's gonna make you whisper and moan
And when you're dry
She draws her water from the stone  

In between all this wacky tomfoolery I had to procure 1000 condoms for the orientation kits.  For months I  had tons of prophylactics lying around in my "office".  If (perish forbid) a girl I wanted to impress popped in to visit I had to dedicate at least ten minutes trying to convince her that I wasn't predisposed to any freaky-deaky Wilt Chamberlain-like propensities.

I also had to include a letter from our Mayor with the kit.  This story likely explains why I hate trying to do things over the phone and often have a constant state of anxiety associated with it.

So I call the Mayor's office and speak to a nice secretary that sounds like she has a problem with her adenoids.  Eventually she patches me though and this is the first thing I hear:

"A-KACHK!!!  *COUGH, COUGH, COUGH*   BLAK-HUUURRRRKKK!!!  HAWWWWWWK!!!   Snort...(sniffle)."

The voice on the other end of the line seemed to be suffering from severe emphysema.  I waited patiently as the hacking died down and then struck up again.  On an alternate phone line I hastily dialed a "9" and "1" and was poised to dial "1" again if I heard a thump hit the floor.

Eventually the cacoughany ('Cacoughany?'  Geddit?  Huh?  Dooya?  I'm tellin' ya, every one's a friggin' Maserati!) died down and I heard: "Yeah, (first initial of first name omitted)?"

"Yes, Mayor (Omitted), my name's David Pretty.  I'm calling on behalf of Western Community, er...Westviking College."

Endless awful silence.

"And I'm, uh...assembling an orientation kit for the students in September."

"Uh-huh."

Finally a sign of life!  I hung up the other line, happy that I didn't need to get a paramedic on speakerphone to try and talk me through some sort of emergency medical intervention. 

"And we'd love to have a letter of welcome from you to include in the orientation kits."

"A what!?"

"A letter, sir.  A letter signed by you that we can include in the student orientation kits welcoming them to the college and to the town."

A disproportionate span of time was once again consumed by terrible silence.  I held my breath and prepared to hang up, hoping to cut my losses and write this off as the worst crank call in recorded history.

"Yes, 'by!" the Mayor suddenly shouted, forcing me to hold the phone away from my ear for a second time.  Suddenly the man became animated as the venerable, respectable senior statesman I'd expected.  "Come on over tomorrow afternoon and I'll 'ave something for ya."

I swung by his office the following afternoon and true to his word, he'd composed a perfectly professional letter and hand-signed every one.  Although the phone conversation had been terribly awkward, the man certainly came though nicely. 

For the other part of the job I had to determine if an alumni association was feasible for the college.  I contacted a slew of other schools with already-existing alumni groups like Kwantlen College (now "Kwantlen Polytechnic University", Ooooooooo!  Fancy!) to see just how they'd determined the likelihood of first setting one up.  They were very helpful, sending back survey templates that they'd mailed out to graduates in an attempt to gauge interest, determine what activities and privileges they'd like to see and if they'd be willing to pay a small dues to ramp up their benefits.

I composed the package, got it approved, procured the mailers and return postage, then fired it off to about two-hundred graduates.  And then waited.  And waited.  And waited some more. 

Barely any of them came back.   

At the time I wasn't really that surprised.  The economic recession at the time had hit Newfoundlanders particularly hard.  It must have been galling for many graduates to have invested their time and money in a practical trade only to see no career results materialize upon graduation.  Hell, if I was them and got a survey in the mail asking them to confront their folly and if they'd be willing to pay dues for what amounted to wound-worthy salt, I would have turfed that f#@%^& thing as well.

Regardless of the reason, I was stuck.  What the hell was I going to do?  As per my own supervisor's advice I'd taken my sweet time getting to this stage in the work term and within a week or so I had to go in front of a board of directors with the results.

I went to my supervisor and he told me all the right things: "Well, you did your part. It's not your fault that people didn't respond.  The questionnaire you sent to them wasn't particularly long or difficult to answer.  It was the exact same format that other schools have used to good results.  I'd say work with what you got back and don't worry about it."

Even still, the meeting with the higher-ups was pretty awkward.

"So, what was the survey return percentage?"

"Um...about thirty percent."

"Okay.  And what percentage of people who responded wanted to join an alumni association?"

"Er...about the same."

"And your conclusion?"

Yeah, as if that wasn't self evident.

"I'm afraid that there just isn't enough interest at this time to justify establishing an alumni association for Bay St....er, Westviking College just yet." 

Uneasy exchanged glances followed but I saw in this a chance to be optimistic.  Glass half full, as it were.    

"But, perhaps mail isn't the best way to correspond with alumni about this sort of thing.  For the past two years at St. Mary's I've been using this thing called 'email' to keep in touch with friends.  I'm fully confident that there's tremendous potential here and one of these days you'll use more sophisticated and easy ways to reach these people and for them to reply to you.  In light of this and how enthusiastic the responses were from  those people that actually did respond I just sense that the college will have an alumni association sooner rather than later."

Their collective faces brightened considerably.  The mood in the room seemed to relax.  

"Well, we thank you very much for your diligent and honest efforts, Mr. Pretty.    We'll take your report into consideration and we wish you all the best in your upcoming year at St. Mary's."

And that was that.  

Y'know I kid about this stuff but I think it's quite telling that in many ways I had more trust, responsibility and opportunities to be creative and self-determining in a workplace as a twenty three year old kid than I did as a man close to forty years old in his last "real" well-paying gig.  In tune with this entry's title I'm trying to stay positive here but I gotta tell you that experiences like this really set me up with unrealistic expectations for what was to come.

But still I remain your humble, eternally positive, potential servant.

Drink?

EPIC:  http://www.cna.nl.ca/alumni/

BONUS EPIC: http://www.penny-arcade.com/patv/pa-the-series/
As another example of a dream workplace, if Mike and/or Jerry ever see this and want to hire me I can tell them right now that I can string a sentence together, have sales experience and work cheap.

BONUSER (?) EPIC:



FAIL:  http://www.usabilitynews.com/news/article2528.asp Maybe I did better than I thought?

Plane Crazy Part II

And a fine day to you, Kind Reader.

Some grief comes from traveling with my fellow Newfoundlanders who generally like to avoid air travel at all costs.  When forced to fly they often appraise the aircraft with a level of skepticism exhibited only by "The Amazing Randi" when asked to test drive a flying carpet.  And, in some ways, I think they're justified.

The second to last time I flew into Deer Lake it was pretty intense.  It was a Dash-8 again and we were thrown around a lot coming in for a landing.  There were quite a few audible exclamations and the guy sitting next to me acted as if he were listening to some irresistible jig, the heel of his foot beating out a continuous ode to terror.

My experience on the way back was particularly odd, but this time it had nothing to do with the weather.   The plane was filled with teenagers escorted by teachers, bringing to mind such cozy relationships as Kate Austen and Edward Mars on "LOST". Anyhoo, I just assumed that they were part of some team, class or band. 

I'm window-seat bound towards the front of the plane next to a short-haired kid with his head down.  I stood there in the aisle for a bit waiting for him to acknowledge my presence.  I really need for him to move in order for me to sit down.  I shuffle around obviously.  Nothing.  I tried clearing my throat. Zip.  I grazed him slightly with my coat.  Zilch.      

Eventually I blurt out: "Uh, excuse me, but I think I'm supposed to be sitting by the window."  He mutters "Yeah, okay" but doesn't budge, forcing me to pull a Tyler Durden and either give him the crotch or the ass.  I leerily opted for the former if only because this allowed me an incrementally precious amount of additional clearance.

Not two seconds after being seated he asked me: "So, you're sitting here, are you?" and I thought to myself: 'Hmmm, odd question.  I thought we'd covered that already.'  I managed a  grateful-sounding "Yeah, thanks" and then struggled to shoe-horn my bag under the seat in front of me. The bag ended up on top of what I thought were drum sticks until I realize it's a collapsible cane.  So, he wasn't being a rude prick after all!  He's blind!  Well, color me an asshole! 

I finally get a good look at him.  He resembled a youthful combination of Henry Rollins and "Sling Blade".  His  eyes were clearly atrophied.  Before the plane took off the flight attendant came over to address him personally.  His slightly-to-the-left-of-center responses made me wonder if there wasn't a less obvious issue he was struggling with. The guy across the aisle began chatting with him but soon stopped when the kid starts reaming off "Rain Man"-like stats about aircraft makes and models.  "Mr. Friendly" gets a bit freaked out by this and spent the rest of the flight watching me try and contend with him with growing amusement.    

Mercifully we got airborne without a hitch.  I tried to feign sleep but since he couldn't see my terrible performance, he started lobbing questions at me.  At first his comments were restricted to observations about how "smooth" the flight was, to the point where he seemed to be in a state of nirvana. 

I soon got the impression that he'd been through some rough flights before on aircraft like Dash-8's and was likely relieved by the relative stability of the small jet we're on. I initially agree with him about his dubious appraisals of the Dash-8's but inadvertently piss him off later when he asked my opinion of "power saws".  I told him that I didn't know very much about "power saws", not realizing until later that this was his nickname for Dash-8's based entirely on the noise that they make (please see Part I).

As I'm trying to puzzle out his cryptic references, he's reaming off aircraft model numbers, asking if I've ever flown on any of them.  I tried to explain that I'd been on a lot of different planes but never remember their names, (gosh darn it!)   While all this is happening people seated within earshot are staring at me, waiting for me to give an answer that might cause him to snap and beat me to death with his folding lunch tray. I thank the powers that be for the complete absence of turbulence since I think that would have set him off. 

All the while he seems on the verge of tears of happiness because the flight is so "smooth".  The stewardess came by several times just to make sure he's alright but apparently she had no idea that I even existed. Things took a decidedly more surreal turn when he started talking about a flight he took out west.  He starts name-dropping "celebrities" that were on the same flight, none of whom I recognize. 

Before I can reply he asks me if I have kids.  Before I can answer he tells me that his dog just died.  Before I can offer sympathies he tells me he's going to Halifax for a "co-op".  Before I can get an elaboration he asks me to speculate as to what sound his cat would likely make if it were here on the plane with us.  Before I can give my best "See N' Say" aircraft-trapped cat yowl he begins to panic because the stewardess (who's name and the name of all of her sister he can recall in a flash) doesn't return in a timely manner to pick up his drink glass.

I try another Oscar-worthy stab at sleep-fakery.  It half-works and the awkward Q&A ceased for a bit. 

I almost feel envy for the poor guy when the landing gear came down and there was no indication of solid ground below us due to the heavy fog.  I fact, I didn't even know we we're landing until the runway appeared out of nowhere ten feet below us. He grilled me with questions about the sound the landing gear made and the time it will take for us to nuzzle up to the terminal.  I felt like mashing the call attendant button and telling the stewardess "Hey! You're trained for this, you talk him through it!" 

Even after the entire plane had nearly cleared out he was still sitting there, making no effort whatsoever to get up.  Now, I'm not asking him to get off the plane by himself, just stand up and let me leave.  When I told him I was coming through all he did was shift his legs back incrementally.  I wedged my way past (ass option this time) and fled from the increasingly claustrophobic quarters with relief.

Now I've avoided flying home for Christmas the last two years since weather played major havoc with my last trip back to Halifax three years ago.  At that time I was diverted to St. John's and my luggage went M.I.A. for nine days.  This disaster made up my mind that I'd visit my folks back home in Newfoundland only during the summer months since the weather should be considerably better. "Should be" being the operative words there.   

Taking a flight at 4:30 kinda sucks since you tend to hang around all day feeling anxious.  There was little obvious reason for this on my last flight back from Deer Lake to Halifax since it was a beautiful day, weather wise, in Deer Lake.  We showed up a good hour before our flight was slated to leave and breezed through the nigh-deserted airport's prerequisite steps for departure.  We achieve gate-proximity within a few minutes (not much of a challenge since all five gates at the Deer Lake airport are within twenty meters of one other) and took a seat by the window to watch our plane come in.

As we began to board in earnest, my considerably more significant other noticed that her distinctive aqua-blue suitcase had been taken off the plane and was now back on the baggage cart. As I handed my boarding pass to the gatekeeper I asked him what's the deal was with the bag and he replied:

"Well, the weather in Halifax is really bad with heavy fog and electrical storms.  We may have to take on extra fuel. If we do that, we have to compensate by bumping some bags."

Before I could formulate the appropriate rebuttal he plowed on with a perfectly-groomed customer-service honed spiel:

"If your bag doesn't arrive at your final destination just fill out a missing claim form at the other end.  We have another flight going out to Halifax this evening.  Your bag will be on that flight for sure, and we'll delivered right to your door, free off charge."  

"The last time that happened it took nine days for our suitcases to arrive!" I said, managing to finally managing to wedge in a protest.

"Oh no, that won't happen this time," the gatekeeper assured us while waving us through.  "Now if you'll just step on board we'll be underway shortly."

We walked out to the plane, wistfully looking at our bag sitting forlorn on the cart like Lassie.  For some reason the troubling cause for it being left behind was distant in our thoughts.  But, lo and behold, we got some good news not long after.  We were seated close enough to the (mercifully doored) cockpit to hear the captain tell the ground crew to put the rest of the luggage back on the plane.  We cheered our small victory as the now-empty baggage cart pulled away.   

The flight itself was textbook.  To borrow a descriptor from an old buddy of mine, I'd even call it "smooth". We got lurched around a bit going up but soon the seat belt sign was off, and I was contentedly listening to Black Sabbath and reading "Pillars of the Earth" while being served juice and flax corn chips.

We made great time and soon heard the announcement that we'll be landing in twenty minutes.  We stowed our gear, strapped in and felt the distinctive sensation of descent as the landing gear popped.  Nonplussed by the total lack of visibility below us and the flare of lightning in the distance, the good old Dash-8 began a bumpy plunge deeper into the pea-soup fog bank.    

The cabin suddenly went very dark.  An uncomfortable amount of time passed without seeing tarmac lights and feeling that distinctive, cathartic sensation of touchdown.  The bounce started to get worse and my already-skittish fellow Newfoundlanders began to murmur oaths of surprise and divine requests for deliverance.

Then, all of a sudden, the plane lurched into a power climb like a Japanese Zero that had reconsidered the whole "kamikaze" plan at the last second.  We climbed and climbed for what seems like an eternity and the "powersaws" sounded as if they were straining to get us back up to cruising altitude.  The landing gear was pulled back into the belly of the plane like rubber and steel testicles. 

This was not good.  I'd never experienced anything like this before.  Eventually the captain of the plane came on the P.A. system and explained that the unusually thick fog and strong cross-winds (only in the Maritimes, folks) were preventing us from landing in Halifax at that time.  We were now en route to an alternate airport to land, refuel and wait for further instructions. 

And what was that alternate airport, you ask? Not Moncton or Charlottetown, which would likely have only been about a half-hour away.  That would make sense!    We we're headed to Stephenville.

Now I was privy to some inside knowledge that many of my other passengers weren't aware of.  Namely:

1. Stephenville, being virtually closed, likely had limited to non-existent air traffic control, runway and terminal staff.
2. All the excess baggage was put back on board instead of taking on extra fuel.   

On the morose trip back I'm left to ponder the absurdity of all this.  As I explained in Part I of this tale, service to Stephenville has been progressively scaled back over the years with the more distant and less-resourceful Deer Lake airport taking up the slack.  That means that to go home and come back I can no longer directly fly in and out of Stephenville where my parents actually live.  Nooooo, they have to shlep two hours to Deer Lake to pick my ass up and drive me back out there to go home. Yet now Stephenville's airport was suddenly good enough to pull our collective asses out of the fire?

I waited and waited for the captain to switch off the seat belt sign but it didn't happen.  This wasn't good at all.  I'd promised my acorn-sized bladder, which started to pester me for attention as early as mid-flight, that we'd be on the ground soon, sparing us both a trip to the bathroom.  I knew the Dash-8 washrooms made the "Little Ease" cell in the Tower of London look like a tennis court but now I was a-burstin' and knew there was no choice.

The eyes of our strapped-in Diane Wiest lookalike stewardess finally betrayed a promise of emotion as I unhooked my buckle and popped out of my seat.

"Is there any way I can use the washroom?  I really thought we'd be on the ground by now!"

The sleeping pill in a uniform told me me: "Well, the seat belt sign is on so you shouldn't even be up..."

I heave a sigh and began to crawl back to my seat, predicting an eventuality wherein my fellow travelers will soon become very uncomfortable with my presence on the same aircraft they're on.

"Wait!" she says, picking up on my consternation.  "I can't force you to go back to your seat.  I just have to give you a formal warning."

I spun on my heels and rushed past her.

"Thank you!  Thank you! I won't take long," I enthused, blatantly lying through my teeth.

Now folks, I won't go into the gory details here but when the 'ole bladderino reaches a certain capacity it takes a certain amount of, shall we say, patient coaxing to complete the venting process.  This is difficult enough under the best of circumstances let alone whilst being bounced around in a broom closet after being told that standing upright right now is technically illegal.

I eventually squeeze out my ballast and beetle my way back to my seat, thanking the flight attendant liberally as I pass by.  Her facial expression makes me consider the possibility that someone force-fed her a lemon while I was sequestered in the "Chamber of Pee and Fear".        

My harrowing experience is so bad that I'm even leery to except free beer which the stewardess begins to provide for our inconvenience.  Undaunted by my horrifying example, some of my fellow travelers begin the marination process in earnest, perhaps hoping that they won't feel anything when our fuel-deprived plane eventually crashes in a veil of fog. 

I get a chance to see something I haven't seen since my university days: a landing at Stephenville airport.  The conditions are crystal clear and despite some turbulence our pitch is well accomplished.  Mercifully the co-pilot allows us to use cell phones to inform loved ones about delays and then lets us roam free-range out on the tarmac to stretch our legs. Of course, I take this as a rare photo opportunity:
 

Eventually the uber-cool co-pilot re-appears, pouring over a handful of important-looking documents.  He even allows people without phones to use his own cell to get in touch with family members.  The dude gets major props for being so understanding and keeping us informed about what's going on. 

Eventually we're herded back aboard the plane.  Everybody takes the opportunity to use the washroom before we take off and soon the aroma between the Urine Coffin and the cabin proper is indistinguishable.

We're soon told via an announcement that we're going to try Halifax again.  If that doesn't work we're off to Moncton, than, if neccessary, back to Stephenville (!).

The flight back was pretty tense. I preoccupied myself by losing twenty-six straight games of Solitaire on my iPod. The free beer continued to flow but the unknowns in our immediate future made me gun shy.  Others didn't share my trepidations and by the end of it I'm sure some of my fellow passengers are so pickled even their dental records would have burned up at point of impact.             

The hour-long flight felt like it took a week.  The seat belt sign stayed on for the entire flight and it was considerably more bumpy that second time out. Eventually we heard the announcement that we'd be landing soon but nothing we see gives any indication that this attempt will result in a different result. 

It's was very dark out, the fog seemed preternaturally thick and the winds kicked the crap out of us as we descended. This time, however, the landing gear came down and strip lights appeared from out of nowhere.  I'm surprised there wasn't a round of applause as we touched down ever so gently.  I reckon that this probably had lot to do with the fact that for a lot of my fellow travelers this was only just the first leg of an increasingly long journey.

When the plane door cracked open the half-dozen people seated in front of us jumped up anxiously.  A woman standing right in front of us instinctively surged ahead, forcing the stewardess to ask for patience. 

"She's just afraid yer gonna take off again!" one of the more inebriated passengers shouted, giving incarnation to all of our collective thoughts  

Inside the terminal at the baggage carousel our suitcases made an unexpected but welcome quick appearance.  I'm was grateful that after a brief cab ride we'd soon be home. It's was close to 10 pm by the time we landed.  Our flight had left at 4:30 and we should have been in Halifax only an hour later.

Was I pissed off?  Not really.  Certainly not nearly as upset as many people who were on that plane.  It wasn't Air Canada's fault that the weather was shite.  Frankly, I think they made the right call.

Remember back in April when beloved Polish President Lech Kaczynski was killed in a plane crash?  Well, the flight recorders recently revealed that the pilots decided to land in heavy fog despite multiple warnings from air traffic controllers about poor visibility.

As I said in Part I, I fly not because I like it but because it allows me to see places in this world that are not easily reached as well as spend extra time with loved ones instead of wasting time in travel.  To cope with this I've developed a Zen-like philosophy about air travel: Always be a leaf in a river.  Use this as your mantra next time as you check bags, clear security and make your way to your next gate. 

I promise you, you'll have more piece of mind and it'll make your journey infinitely more tolerable. 

EPIC: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPe2yVQR9f0

 FAIL: http://www.themoscowtimes.com/news/article/pilots-were-warned-in-polish-crash/407431.html

Plane Crazy Part I

Hello, Gentle Readers.

My mother is terrified of flying.  I've been trying for years to convince her that there's nothing to be afraid of.  Unfortunately just as I'm putting the finishing touches on a highly convincing pro-flight argument, something awful happens that destroys my line of reasoning like a toddler versus a house built entirely out of Garfield playing cards.

It's not like I love to fly, it's just that it's a necessary evil.  If I want to continue to see cool stuff on this awesome planet, I just have to accept the fact that I'll constantly be subjected to nosy questions, abuse of my property, legal molestation and being immobilized for hours in a pressure-sealed flying tin can subsisting on hermetically-preserved, individual-portion-sized gruel servings that even Gil Grissom would be hard pressed to identify.

I got acclimated to this strange process in my constant travels back and forth between home (Stephenville, Newfoundland) and university (Halifax, Nova Scotia for those Kind Readers with short-term memories).  Despite some hairy occasions courtesy of Maritime winter weather and annoying pit stops in Sydney, I began to regard these one-to-two-hour flights as mere milk runs.

These routes were almost always served by a squadron of Dash-8 aircraft.  Here's a snap to show you just how friggin' tiny they are:

Whoops!  This might be a bit more apropos:

Or maybe not.

Now, aviation experts can drone on and on about safety records but to me these planes represent the lowest common denominator for air travel.   Here are my top five reasons to avoid flying on a Dash-8:

1. The thing skips along air pockets like a Japanese Zero.  
2. Your most elaborate in-fight meal is likely to be a pack of carbon-datable corn chips.
3. People of girth tend to spill readily into your personal space.
4. The bathroom is the size of a broom closet which can only hold one broom.  A very small broom.  Like a "Swiffer".  But only if you're good with, like, spacial relationships and crap. 
5. The prop engines are so loud you might as well strap two power saws to your head for the duration of your flight. 

Now I don't want to complain too readily about these sturdy little planes, since they've always delivered me to my intended destination physically (if not mentally) intact.  Plus I soon learned that it could be worse. 

When the Stephenville airport began to fall on hard times, "Canadian Airlines" began to scale back their services and eventually backed out entirely.  This resulted in more humble carriers moving in to pick up the slack.  One was "Air Labrador", who used aircraft even smaller than the Dash-8.  Whereas the Dash- 8 has two double-row seats separated by the aisle, this one has a single aisle and then one double-row.  Ladies and gentleman, I give you, the De Havilland Dash-6 Twin Otter:

Crap, sorry.

When I boarded this thing for the first time I was alarmed that there wasn't much in the way of safety protocols.  Not two seconds after we were seated the "stewardess" threw some pre-made Tim Horton sandwiches at us (overhand) and we were off.  I examined the lunch with tremendous caution, since the bread and lettuce looked kinda "vintage".  As the old woman sitting next to me tore into her sammy like a rabid wolverine, I looked towards the front of the plane and was horrified to realize that there was no cabin door to the cockpit!

I watched in horror as the pilot and his co-conspirator began to mouth-wrestle their own whole-wheat ham and swiss sandwiches while piloting this friggin' plane!  It was worse than the bus driver and the "Roll Up The Rim" cup!  After the oral orgy, they bundled up the bag, wrapper, napkins and the rest of the garbage and just crammed it behind their seat.  A stray Pepsi can popped free and rolled around in the aisle for a bit until the stewardess picked it up.  I felt like I was driving around in the back seat of a buddy's Mazda RX Dash-8 instead of some sophisticated aircraft.   Scary stuff.

When it came time for sales conferences or work contest trips I mercifully got to move up to bigger aircraft.  The downside is that the company I worked for often booked the most inefficient, devious and hare-brained itinerary you could possibly devise, likely for the sake of saving a few shekels. When you fly from Halifax to Toronto to Miami to San Juan things are bound to fall apart.

One piece of sage advice to people who haven't flown a lot: go to the airport early, make sure you've got a seat assignment on your boarding pass and don't rest until you've reached your next gate.  Back when I wasn't so experienced a flier I often made the mistake of trusting the staff to actually, y'know, take care of me and stuff. The truth is: they don't care! 

One time I took my boarding pass from the check-in girl and didn't notice the absence of a certain electronic "LR" code and seat assignment for my connecting flight.  I got to the connector queue way ahead of schedule but just as I was about to board the plane, security sent me packing to the front desk because my boarding pass wasn't coded properly.  I shlepped all the way back, battled to get a seat assignment and then ran back to the plane "Amazing Race"-style.

For the record, wheeled carry-on's are only convenient when you're not running like Usain Bolt and dragging your bags on the non-wheeled side.

But most of the time, my issues with flying are with going home and/or coming back, especially since the Stephenville airport has all but shut down.  "Beloved" Newfoundland politician John Crosbie bought up a crap-load of land around the Deer Lake airport and when it came time for either Deer Lake or Stephenville to expand their operations, guess which one got the contract?  Yes, despite the fact that Deer Lake's runway needed to be extended and Stephenville already had an American-built runway large enough to accommodate an emergency space shuttle landing (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephenville_International_Airport), Stephenville got screwed.

Well, that's all for now, folks!  More flights of fancy next time on "You Can't Get There From Here"!     

Thanks for reading...

EPIC: http://www.cyjt.com/

FAIL: http://www.independenttraveler.com/resources/article.cfm?AID=645&category=1