Over the next few months we– collectively all of us and our distant relatives, there is a wedding, afterall,– are going to be doing a lot of traveling.
Kat just forwarded to me her American Airlines receipt email.
Menu: Food for Purchase
The first airplane ride I ever took was a short flight from Dulles many many years ago to one of the NYC airports. I remember that we were ferried by helicopter to the other one. It was a big helicopter.
Ah! The email that I sent myself with the photos has arrived. BRB.
Aw. The photos are downloading.
Anyway, my second airplane ride was from some airport in the vicinity of NYC to Frankfort. There were printed menus that were about 1/3 of a piece of paper. There were suggested wine pairings. It was a sampling menu.
I’ve flown a little bit recently, and each time I fly, I am reminded of why I hate flying.
I knew things had gone down hill when we were on a Delta flight from Cincinnati to Budapest back in the Dark Ages when homes were illuminated by the warm glow of a 60-watt incandescent light bulb. The Delta magazine said Woodford Reserve was available on every trans-Atlantic flight. So I asked for Woodford Reserve because Cincinnati is just across the river from Kentucky. And bourbon was just becoming vogue.
(The martini phase was fun.)
The photos have arrived!
Anyway. I was told there was no Woodford Reserve.
And so I got out a black magic marker from my bag (I really do carry markers with me on big trips) and I wrote, “LIAR” in the boldest handwritten font I had in me.
This was my first real life confrontation with the epistemology of words.
Like. Words have meanings.
It’s all Gauker’s fault.