Some Random Thoughts Birthed from the Womb of Travel, Impregnated by the Sperm of Boredom

My updating has been inconsistently prolific over the last two months. To quote My Friend Who Looks Jewish But Isn't, "Why is it that some times your blog seems to update itself three or four times in five minutes and other times you appear to be as worthless as your brother?" Okay, that's really a paraquote, as my non-kosher buddy would never say anything that harsh about My Brother (due to his man crush).

I'm currently sitting in either O'Haire or Midway airport. I'm 95% sure it's O'Haire and could probably check my boarding pass to verify, but my boarding pass is on the floor by my delicious iced coffee and picking up the boarding pass would require me to take a sip of the iced coffee and having just put strawberry gum in my mouth, I don't want to do this. You understand.

I'm returning home from a one-day trip I made to Louisville, KY for big-time business. In the future, if traveling away from Louisville, I will hopefully be leaving my home in Louisville, KY, the place I live and love. They have endless supplies of whiskey, baseball bats, horse racing facilities and thus crazy hats, and Ashley Judd's gravesite (she's dead right?).

Louisville is the birthplace of bourbon (known in some parts and hereto referred to as whiskey). I drove by the Jim Beam distillery with my Two Business Associates on our way to Our Place of Business. At the place of business, I was given a tour of a factory by none other than Jim Beam's great great nephew. This man's dad and grandfather are Jim Beam's current master distillers. This means the Jim Beam that is currently ruining your marriage is funding their children's college. Yin Yang. We then finished up our business, shook hands, told each great work, smiled disingenuously with one another, talked about the weather, awkwardly took turns holding various doors open for one another as we walked to the car, and agreed lunch was most indeed in order. That is until the plant manager, a wonderfully written stereotype of Kentucky said, "Or we could go tour a distillery and do some taste testing."

We wanted to see the Maker's Mark distillery, because you know, Maker's Mark is generally heaven in a bottle unless it betrays you and you throw up all over the middle of your living room when your soon to be fiance drops you off at your apartment because quote, "There is no way anyone that drunk is sleeping with me tonight." Classy dame that one. Unfortunately the Maker's distillery was twenty miles down the road and My Associates had a plane to catch. We went instead to the Evan William's distillery where I proceeded to learn the definition of the phrases I often see on bottles at grocery stores: Single Barrel; Aged 18 years; 90 proof; grape jelly.

Something I did not realize and subsequently learned about the world of whiskey today: it too fosters a "tasting society" similar to the world of wine. People go from distillery to distillery, swirl and smell various whiskeys and claim to, "really smell the vanilla" and/or "taste the barrel's wood." Then they take long smooth drinks. All these people are liars and probably should be shot dead. I love whiskey, but here is what all whiskey smells and tastes like: Fire. Is that vanilla you smell? No. That's just a more tame fire. "But I really sense the caramel." Wow. Did you just say that? Please never use words ever again or vote.

Anyways, after three free shots of "tasting bourbon" they let us loose on their gift shop. Convenient strategy. Luckily for me, I only had half of each of my shots (I was working after all) thus I only left with spending $20 on a cool little jug with a Happy Marriage notice posted on the bottle for me and my missus.

Separately, or maybe not, why does the South feature the only names that require proper enunciation to understand. You can lisp your way through Davenport or Bettendorf or Cedar Falls or Chicago or Iowa and people will know what you mean. In the south, everything starts with an L and ends with a Ville. Unless you live there, in which case everything is just mumbled gibberish.

Let's talk a bit more about the airport. People in airports are either rude or stupid. All of them. For those wondering, I'm stupid. I tripped walking up the stairs. The guy sitting across from me, who I will call Mr. Ball Grabbing Dreadlocks Guy because he has dreadlocks and has not stopped grabbing his balls for over an hour, is shouting into his cellphone how he, "can't believe that bitch won't let him see his kid; he's gonna be a great muther facking daddy." I'm sure he is. He was only my third favorite vile Airportian however. My second favorite was a guy who told anyone who'd listen, including the poor soul on the other end of his cellphone, how he was stuck in Moline for four extra hours because the earlier flight he was on was canceled. They offered to send him via bus to Chicago so he could get on his transfer flight to wherever it was people like him go, but he declined citing, "I can not fit on a bus!" We all felt very bad for this probably 450 pound man wearing the short shorts. But no one beats Mr. Favorite. Mr. Favorite was standing next to me in line at the ticket counter. He brought no paperwork and didn't know which of the eight airlines he booked his flight through. But this is America dammit, so it clearly wasn't his fault. This was the lady at American Airline's ticket counter's fault. He threatened, "I will tell Jesus to no longer love you if you cannot find my ticket." He sounds like he has Jesus figured out well, so I hope the woman found the ticket.

In typing about my favorite people, I have since moved from the waiting area to the plane itself. I better get off my computer now before the Latino Stewardess who probably looks older than she really is asks me nicely to. I don't want to talk to her. I'm already disappointed because it seemed as if I was going to sit by myself until the last person to board the plane right before the door was about to close sat next to me. He's sweaty and old. Ain't that the best kind?

Editor's Post Flight Note: Either the sweaty old man or the bizarre middle-aged woman who ate chips and salsa the entire flight farted the entire ride home. It was lovely. Remember children, just because something is loud, ie a plane, doesn't mean it shuts off your sense of smell. Please don't fart in airplanes.