It’s taken me about a month to write this properly, but mostly due to having some other things to do. Now that this is out, I can get to more current posts, but for now, enjoy the rueful tale of my holiday travels, 2007 edition. Note: To receive the full effect, you may need to reload the page until all the pictures have downloaded.
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It's a little amusing that my last post had to do with a minor delay in air travel. During this year's holiday travel period, I descended from the light, airy heights of 'delay' to the stinking, putrid sewer of 'multiple cancellations'.
It began with a flight from friendly Portland International to my least favorite airport thus far in my life, Minneapolis-St. Paul. PDX gave me no troubles; I arrived via red line MAX, sped through check-in and security, and noshed on a Good Dog/Bad Dog polish and fries. While I would have much preferred to be looking forward to the pleasant PDX-Denver-Moline trip via United, it was the NWA flight through Minneapolis that I was on, and I wasn’t looking forward to taking a stroll through the track meet that is Concourse C.
I don’t normally mind the rigmarole that is catching a connecting flight, except in the case of MSP, Concourse C. For whatever reason, whenever I am transferring in MSP, my connecting flight is always on the exact opposite end of the airport than my arriving flight. The layout of MSP, as I noticed when trying to find my way out of it, is much like a prison, resembling a large square with a few offshoots. Unfortunately for any traveler, the way from concourse to concourse is not through the rec yard contained in the middle of the square, but along the outside walls, forcing anyone to take an inefficient route along right angles and long corridors—instead of the mythical ‘straight line’—to connect.
Artist's Rendering of Catching a Connecting Flight at Minneapolis/St. Paul The second dislike I have of catching a connecting flight from MSP to MLI is the fact that the plane used for the short trip is always a tiny plane, sometimes with only one row on either side of the aisle, with seats and such generally in a tarnished state, and usually with a grumpy crew. It’s good that it is a very short flight, as it’s easy to get claustrophobic in such a small plane.
On this journey, the flight to MSP went smoothly, and I was hoping it was a good omen for the next flight. There was supposed to be some fog in Moline early in the day, but it was predicted to lift by the evening. I deplaned and ran into an old friend from high school, Dan Phelan, right by the connecting flight board, where we both noticed that the flight to Moline was cancelled. That began the long walk that is ‘Escape from Concourse C of MSP’, or at least trying to find our way to the NWA ticket counter to try to figure out what we could do, or perhaps what they could do for us. Due to it being a ‘weather cancellation’, the best they could do was give us a discount on a hotel and a flight two days later.
This being, oh, the holidays and all, I found that to be an unacceptable solution to this problem. Dan left to try to find out about car rentals, and I called NWA tickets to cancel that leg of my flight, since you can’t do so at the ticket COUNTER at the AIRPORT. You cancel my flight and then force me to listen to bad muzak and lies about how you value my call? Pffft.
So, after a few calls and then some more running around, Dan and I determined that every single one of the car rental agencies in MSP had no available rental cars. Not a one. After wandering around again to see if there was anything else we could do, or if we could find a bite to eat outside of the concourses, I began to get overwhelmed by a feeling of powerlessness. If there is one common modern establishment designed to relieve ordinary citizens of power, rights, and information better than an airport, I’d love to hear about it.
I made the decision at that point to split from Dan and get a hotel room where I could eat and access the internet for more information and travel options. Here I entered into the period of my journey that provided the best customer service, that being my very brief stay at the Holiday Inn off of I-35W in Minneapolis. There was Wi-Fi, room service, water, cable, and a cab called for me for the next morning. Compared to dealing with the airlines, this was high pampering, this was paradise.
Anyhow, I managed to figure out the best possible alternative to relying on the airlines to get me home two whole days later: taking a Greyhound bus the next morning that would deliver me to Davenport, by way of Chicago, a mere thirteen hour trip, arrival time just after one in the morning. Instead of three days off schedule, a day-and-a-half didn’t seem too bad.
Up early the next morning, I waited for my cab in the falling Minnesota snow. It was warm enough for the snow on the ground to be slushy, and coupled with the likely balding tires of the cab, I wasn’t sure I was going to escape the Holiday Inn parking lot. Thanks to the shoving of a hotel employee, I did, and things quickly cleared up as we got on the highway and to the bus depot. I checked in there, got my ticket, and readied myself for a couple of hours wait until my bus was to depart towards Chicago.
I don’t know when the last time you might have kicked back for a while in a bus station, but this was a pretty interesting place. There were bright colors on many of the wall panels and benches and such, gray tiles and pillars, and a wide variety of people. I needed some fluids and some form of sustenance for the day’s journey, and since there were only vending machines, I had to cash in a twenty dollar bill for quarters. Jangling with change, I bought some water, a Gatorade, and a pack of raspberry-coconut Zingers. Then I found myself in Hell of Holiday Travel, Part II.
On this journey, the flight to MSP went smoothly, and I was hoping it was a good omen for the next flight. There was supposed to be some fog in Moline early in the day, but it was predicted to lift by the evening. I deplaned and ran into an old friend from high school, Dan Phelan, right by the connecting flight board, where we both noticed that the flight to Moline was cancelled. That began the long walk that is ‘Escape from Concourse C of MSP’, or at least trying to find our way to the NWA ticket counter to try to figure out what we could do, or perhaps what they could do for us. Due to it being a ‘weather cancellation’, the best they could do was give us a discount on a hotel and a flight two days later.
This being, oh, the holidays and all, I found that to be an unacceptable solution to this problem. Dan left to try to find out about car rentals, and I called NWA tickets to cancel that leg of my flight, since you can’t do so at the ticket COUNTER at the AIRPORT. You cancel my flight and then force me to listen to bad muzak and lies about how you value my call? Pffft.
So, after a few calls and then some more running around, Dan and I determined that every single one of the car rental agencies in MSP had no available rental cars. Not a one. After wandering around again to see if there was anything else we could do, or if we could find a bite to eat outside of the concourses, I began to get overwhelmed by a feeling of powerlessness. If there is one common modern establishment designed to relieve ordinary citizens of power, rights, and information better than an airport, I’d love to hear about it.
I made the decision at that point to split from Dan and get a hotel room where I could eat and access the internet for more information and travel options. Here I entered into the period of my journey that provided the best customer service, that being my very brief stay at the Holiday Inn off of I-35W in Minneapolis. There was Wi-Fi, room service, water, cable, and a cab called for me for the next morning. Compared to dealing with the airlines, this was high pampering, this was paradise.
Anyhow, I managed to figure out the best possible alternative to relying on the airlines to get me home two whole days later: taking a Greyhound bus the next morning that would deliver me to Davenport, by way of Chicago, a mere thirteen hour trip, arrival time just after one in the morning. Instead of three days off schedule, a day-and-a-half didn’t seem too bad.
Up early the next morning, I waited for my cab in the falling Minnesota snow. It was warm enough for the snow on the ground to be slushy, and coupled with the likely balding tires of the cab, I wasn’t sure I was going to escape the Holiday Inn parking lot. Thanks to the shoving of a hotel employee, I did, and things quickly cleared up as we got on the highway and to the bus depot. I checked in there, got my ticket, and readied myself for a couple of hours wait until my bus was to depart towards Chicago.
I don’t know when the last time you might have kicked back for a while in a bus station, but this was a pretty interesting place. There were bright colors on many of the wall panels and benches and such, gray tiles and pillars, and a wide variety of people. I needed some fluids and some form of sustenance for the day’s journey, and since there were only vending machines, I had to cash in a twenty dollar bill for quarters. Jangling with change, I bought some water, a Gatorade, and a pack of raspberry-coconut Zingers. Then I found myself in Hell of Holiday Travel, Part II.
Marlo Stanfield Rides the Big Gray DogIn airports, there are sometimes TVs, and they usually seem to be showing CNN. In the Greyhound station, there was one TV, and it showed some bastardized version of CNN headline news that had one half-hour newscast, played every half an hour ad nauseum. Seeing as I arrived early, I was able to hear, again and again, about some young girl reporter, a suit against an insurance company that came to a favorable outcome too late, and Kyle Turley’s emotional plea to other active football players to pitch in and help the decaying ones that had come before. I’m writing this a month later, and still I can hear audio from that newscast in my head. I cursed packing my iPod charger in my checked baggage, especially when we entered the overtime period of waiting for our bus.
A bus came, one bound for Chicago, at the stated time, and for some reason there were so many people booked on this trip that the powers that be at the station decided to board that bus with the people heading for Madison, Wisconsin. Thinking about this later, I was struck at how backwards this was: fill the early bus with the people who are traveling the shorter distance, causing those who are going all the way along the line a shorter amount of time to make a longer distance. Lame-brained decisions aside, we didn’t get much information from the Greyhound employees present except for the notification that a bus was on its way, this happening somewhere in the middle of the two or three extra hours we waited. I went to the desk to inquire if they knew if I’d still be able to connect, but they were not given any sort of information or power to handle more than the basic customer booking needs.
So, my Zinger supply exhausted and a sense of being hunted by some invisible malevolent force growing, I endured another delay in travel. The bus did eventually arrive, and after boarding and waiting for the bus to actually get en route, I notified my relatives that I was actually traveling once again.
The bus ride was not really too unpleasant. I read ‘No Country for Old Men’, solved a couple of crossword puzzles, and listened to some music. We were passing by where we’d normally stop, since a vast majority of the riders were only going to Chicago, so we made excellent time. We made one meal stop, where I decided that if McDonald’s was where I could get calories to help me get home, then so be it, I will eat Chicken McNuggets for the greater good.
As we came within a couple of hours of Chicago, I got to meet my row companion, a young African-American male named Tony. He is a basketball player in some small Minnesotan college, and was heading home to holiday with the families. Prior to boarding the bus, he had smoked some marijuana, as he was riding the bus due to an aversion to airplanes and likely mild claustrophobia. He was rather disappointed when he was unable to smoke the blunt he had ready when it seemed like we were making another short stop somewhere. He was a nice guy; we talked about relationships, basketball, heading west, and Chicago. I certainly still wish his basketball team good luck.
The other passengers, I should also say, were rather interesting. There was what looked like a gangster pimp wanna-be sitting in front of me with his woman, and while he talked and strutted loudly sometimes, he curled up on her like an infant on his mother; strange relationship dynamics. There were some kids that were mostly well-behaved, a few families, a cool bus driver, and a young man that resembled Marlo from HBO’s ‘The Wire.’ I did not see Snoop or Chris, though, so I figured I was safe.
As we came close to Chicago, my dad called and informed me that he was on the way there to meet me as the Davenport Greyhound station said that the Chicago-Davenport bus was cancelled. I got into Chicago, where the Greyhound station is a very crowded, busy place, and watched Larry King interview Damien Echols and his wife. Somewhere near ten, my day-saving hero dad arrived at the depot, and we began the exploration of the third level of Holiday Travel Hell, also known as The Road Trip of Everlasting Infamy.
There was one hell of a winter storm moving through the Midwestern states, and it had already caused a massive car pile up at the Nebraska-Iowa border. We were hoping to avoid as much of it as possible and get into Davenport before anything got too bad. I took over driving at the oasis on I-88, and the trip was smooth until we were about thirty miles away. Then we ran into a blizzard.
While I have driven in winter weather before, this was far and away the worst I have ever experienced in terms of… well, in all terms: snow, ice, wind, visibility, danger, feeling like the universe is just going to flick you off of it. There were times when the half-dollar sized snowflakes were coming in so fast and dense that we could hardly see six feet in front of the car. Even when it died down, the wind and drifts were so bad and the roads so well coated by snow that I was navigating by the reflective distance posts and the tracks of the cars that had gone before me in order to figure out where the road still was. We had to stop at one point to get the ice off the windshield and the wipers. When we got into town, we had to travel past the barren cornfields where the wind and drifts slammed into us like vengeful spirits of NFL linemen.
I’ll put it this way: we were within 30 miles of home at around midnight, and I didn’t get home until 2:45 in the morning.
I did make it home, though, using all nerve and concentration I had. I was a bit exhausted the next day. After arrival, then came the task of getting my luggage from NWA. They wouldn’t release it to me in Minneapolis because they were just automatically putting cancelled flight luggage into a transfer area. We called the baggage contact number many times both on my day of travel and of arrival, and couldn’t learn a thing despite having my luggage tag number and flight and all of that. One time my mom called, and they asked what sort of bag it was. She said black Samsonite. The lady made sounds like she was looking around, then said she didn’t see any bags like mine. Hmm, no bags like a black Samsonite, one of the most common bags EVER? Long story short, we went in the next day, they took me back into a storage room, and there it was, right there in front of me.
A bus came, one bound for Chicago, at the stated time, and for some reason there were so many people booked on this trip that the powers that be at the station decided to board that bus with the people heading for Madison, Wisconsin. Thinking about this later, I was struck at how backwards this was: fill the early bus with the people who are traveling the shorter distance, causing those who are going all the way along the line a shorter amount of time to make a longer distance. Lame-brained decisions aside, we didn’t get much information from the Greyhound employees present except for the notification that a bus was on its way, this happening somewhere in the middle of the two or three extra hours we waited. I went to the desk to inquire if they knew if I’d still be able to connect, but they were not given any sort of information or power to handle more than the basic customer booking needs.
So, my Zinger supply exhausted and a sense of being hunted by some invisible malevolent force growing, I endured another delay in travel. The bus did eventually arrive, and after boarding and waiting for the bus to actually get en route, I notified my relatives that I was actually traveling once again.
The bus ride was not really too unpleasant. I read ‘No Country for Old Men’, solved a couple of crossword puzzles, and listened to some music. We were passing by where we’d normally stop, since a vast majority of the riders were only going to Chicago, so we made excellent time. We made one meal stop, where I decided that if McDonald’s was where I could get calories to help me get home, then so be it, I will eat Chicken McNuggets for the greater good.
As we came within a couple of hours of Chicago, I got to meet my row companion, a young African-American male named Tony. He is a basketball player in some small Minnesotan college, and was heading home to holiday with the families. Prior to boarding the bus, he had smoked some marijuana, as he was riding the bus due to an aversion to airplanes and likely mild claustrophobia. He was rather disappointed when he was unable to smoke the blunt he had ready when it seemed like we were making another short stop somewhere. He was a nice guy; we talked about relationships, basketball, heading west, and Chicago. I certainly still wish his basketball team good luck.
The other passengers, I should also say, were rather interesting. There was what looked like a gangster pimp wanna-be sitting in front of me with his woman, and while he talked and strutted loudly sometimes, he curled up on her like an infant on his mother; strange relationship dynamics. There were some kids that were mostly well-behaved, a few families, a cool bus driver, and a young man that resembled Marlo from HBO’s ‘The Wire.’ I did not see Snoop or Chris, though, so I figured I was safe.
As we came close to Chicago, my dad called and informed me that he was on the way there to meet me as the Davenport Greyhound station said that the Chicago-Davenport bus was cancelled. I got into Chicago, where the Greyhound station is a very crowded, busy place, and watched Larry King interview Damien Echols and his wife. Somewhere near ten, my day-saving hero dad arrived at the depot, and we began the exploration of the third level of Holiday Travel Hell, also known as The Road Trip of Everlasting Infamy.
There was one hell of a winter storm moving through the Midwestern states, and it had already caused a massive car pile up at the Nebraska-Iowa border. We were hoping to avoid as much of it as possible and get into Davenport before anything got too bad. I took over driving at the oasis on I-88, and the trip was smooth until we were about thirty miles away. Then we ran into a blizzard.
While I have driven in winter weather before, this was far and away the worst I have ever experienced in terms of… well, in all terms: snow, ice, wind, visibility, danger, feeling like the universe is just going to flick you off of it. There were times when the half-dollar sized snowflakes were coming in so fast and dense that we could hardly see six feet in front of the car. Even when it died down, the wind and drifts were so bad and the roads so well coated by snow that I was navigating by the reflective distance posts and the tracks of the cars that had gone before me in order to figure out where the road still was. We had to stop at one point to get the ice off the windshield and the wipers. When we got into town, we had to travel past the barren cornfields where the wind and drifts slammed into us like vengeful spirits of NFL linemen.
I’ll put it this way: we were within 30 miles of home at around midnight, and I didn’t get home until 2:45 in the morning.
I did make it home, though, using all nerve and concentration I had. I was a bit exhausted the next day. After arrival, then came the task of getting my luggage from NWA. They wouldn’t release it to me in Minneapolis because they were just automatically putting cancelled flight luggage into a transfer area. We called the baggage contact number many times both on my day of travel and of arrival, and couldn’t learn a thing despite having my luggage tag number and flight and all of that. One time my mom called, and they asked what sort of bag it was. She said black Samsonite. The lady made sounds like she was looking around, then said she didn’t see any bags like mine. Hmm, no bags like a black Samsonite, one of the most common bags EVER? Long story short, we went in the next day, they took me back into a storage room, and there it was, right there in front of me.
I'm still here?!?!The rest of my visit home was quite fine. There was much food and family, plenty of cookies, and good times that were had by all. Then, I tried to leave.
First flight out: cancelled due to flight crew issue. They rebooked me for the next day on two different airlines in order to get me out of there. My mom got her wish of an extra day out of it, and I caught some lunch with my dad the next day, and I was able to watch a bit more football.
Second flight out: I got in there, was randomly tagged for secondary screening in security, endured about a half an hour of this old Iowan s-l-o-w-l-y pawing through my carry on bags, and got to the gate, enthused that perhaps NOW I was going to end this putrescence known as holiday travel. Then there was a ground hold in Chicago where I was connecting through. They said they’d be checking connecting flights to see if this would make people miss their exchanges in O’Hare. I doubted they were going to check connecting flights of other airlines, so I hung around close to get some information, and then when they finally received the okay to start boarding, it put our departure time at one that would cause me to miss my flight. I had to cancel my flights, and they so kindly reschedule me for a flight on NWA out the next morning, the sadists.
I get up early the next morning to check my flight and to get ready, but sure enough, that third flight is cancelled, with the computer saying I’m rescheduled for the next day. Not even later this day, but set to fly out in the next year, as these cancellations had brought us to New Years’ Eve.
This is when I knew I was facing a cackling Loki of a demon, reminiscent of the invisible poltergeist villain of that epic movie ‘Groundhog Day.’ Had I perished in that snowstorm, doomed to haunt the Quad Cities for eternity, with no chance of escape? I was hoping to get home in time to visit Ivy and Patrick in Montana, but this was not to be.
I called up NWA and implored them to find a way to get me home before 2008. They did, but we had to go out of Cedar Rapids and not Moline. In another bout of customer service wonderfulness, I called Cedar Rapids to check on the flight, since the airline was saying delayed but the Cedar Rapids website was saying on-time. They told me they couldn’t help me and I’d have to talk to the airline. I explained the difference in information I was trying to clarify with them, even asking if someone could just check a departure monitor in the terminal. I was informed that that was an impossible task for a living, breathing employee of the Cedar Rapids airport to do, thanked them for nothing, and hung up.
First flight out: cancelled due to flight crew issue. They rebooked me for the next day on two different airlines in order to get me out of there. My mom got her wish of an extra day out of it, and I caught some lunch with my dad the next day, and I was able to watch a bit more football.
Second flight out: I got in there, was randomly tagged for secondary screening in security, endured about a half an hour of this old Iowan s-l-o-w-l-y pawing through my carry on bags, and got to the gate, enthused that perhaps NOW I was going to end this putrescence known as holiday travel. Then there was a ground hold in Chicago where I was connecting through. They said they’d be checking connecting flights to see if this would make people miss their exchanges in O’Hare. I doubted they were going to check connecting flights of other airlines, so I hung around close to get some information, and then when they finally received the okay to start boarding, it put our departure time at one that would cause me to miss my flight. I had to cancel my flights, and they so kindly reschedule me for a flight on NWA out the next morning, the sadists.
I get up early the next morning to check my flight and to get ready, but sure enough, that third flight is cancelled, with the computer saying I’m rescheduled for the next day. Not even later this day, but set to fly out in the next year, as these cancellations had brought us to New Years’ Eve.
This is when I knew I was facing a cackling Loki of a demon, reminiscent of the invisible poltergeist villain of that epic movie ‘Groundhog Day.’ Had I perished in that snowstorm, doomed to haunt the Quad Cities for eternity, with no chance of escape? I was hoping to get home in time to visit Ivy and Patrick in Montana, but this was not to be.
I called up NWA and implored them to find a way to get me home before 2008. They did, but we had to go out of Cedar Rapids and not Moline. In another bout of customer service wonderfulness, I called Cedar Rapids to check on the flight, since the airline was saying delayed but the Cedar Rapids website was saying on-time. They told me they couldn’t help me and I’d have to talk to the airline. I explained the difference in information I was trying to clarify with them, even asking if someone could just check a departure monitor in the terminal. I was informed that that was an impossible task for a living, breathing employee of the Cedar Rapids airport to do, thanked them for nothing, and hung up.
Attention TSA: Do Not Hire.My mom and I drove out to the airport, where it appeared that the plane was on time. I promptly went to get through security, and upon handing my Oregon Driver’s License to the TSA employee, was met with skepticism. In Oregon, when you change your place of residence, you submit it to the DMV and are mailed a little sticky label to put on the bottom of your license, where your new address will be displayed. It does not change any other vital information—such as height, weight, DOB, restrictions, etc.—but is often flimsy and easily marred through use. This TSA boob took a long look at this, tilted it this way and that, looked at it under some UV security-feature-revealing light, and then asked me if this was what they did in Oregon.
I said yes.
He said really?
I said yes.
He said… really?
I said yes.
He then inquired why that when a liberal state does something new, it’s all good, but when a conservative state does it it’s a big deal. I shrugged an gave some non-committal answer, as he really had all the power in this situation, and would likely have given me a full body cavity search had I made an earnest defense of my position, and with this being an event that would potentially delay my travel home, I could not afford to chance it. He gave me the hairy eyeball and my ID back, and I proceeded to the conveyer belt and the metal detector. I stepped through the detector, and some other ham-fisted, beef-necked TSA jackass steps up and takes a long, curious look at my license. I stand there pleasantly as he scratches his prominent forehead at this anomaly of identification method for a minute or so, before silently handing it back.
I am now quite sure that this country is safer for our choices in airport staffing. Surely if a small Iowa airport can be staffed with detective-caliber cunning and instincts as these two possessed, our larger airports—not to mention sea ports—must strike fear into the hearts of those committed to striking terror into our hearts and damage to our nation.
And if you agree, I have a bridge in New York to sell you.
Anyhow, the plane did arrive, I did get on it, and it did get to Minneapolis, and I did catch my connection, and did arrive in Portland before 2008. I caught a cab from a gentleman I think was Russian who got me home in very good time. I was reunited with my cats, my homestead, and my bed, where I celebrated the New Year by going to sleep at ten, only to be awoken by neighbors and firecrackers when the 7 swerved into an 8. Then the wind kicked up at 4 a.m. and blew an empty Coors tallboy around the parking lot, which I found and crushed mercilessly later while heading to the laundry facility.
Modern Customer Service Management Philosophy, IllustratedWhat did I learn through all of this? First, I hate NWA and their domestic flight service. Despite having quite an nice experience heading to Japan back in March, this experience really ruined everything for me. I will not seek to fly through them again any time soon. Second, I do not want to connect through Minneapolis again if I can help it. Third, I still have plenty of patience left in me.
This was never more evident than when dealing with so-called customer service agents. Whoever is managing the customer service areas of airlines, airports, and the TSA probably is rolling in dough—quite literally—and laughing wildly as they twist their heels over us. People in customer service positions cannot service customers without the information and power to do so, which very few of them ever have. The only one that seemed to on my trip was the desk lady at the Holiday Inn. I was never really ‘helped’ per se by any of these people, but merely herded along towards the cattle gun that was poised to knock me silly long enough for them to take my wallet and shove me out the door. There is no longer any empowerment in travel; no choice, really, and no pleasure. It has been distilled into shuffling, bleating, hassle, and fear.
And they’re surprised the industry is dying. They can’t blame it on fear from 9/11 anymore, and you’d figure they’re covering gas costs through the prices they’re charging these days. If they really want to look at an equation that may lead to why people aren’t flying, they may want to look at adding the awful state of their planes to the awful state of their customer service. Then they might be on to something.
--Noir Cru de Plantation--
This was never more evident than when dealing with so-called customer service agents. Whoever is managing the customer service areas of airlines, airports, and the TSA probably is rolling in dough—quite literally—and laughing wildly as they twist their heels over us. People in customer service positions cannot service customers without the information and power to do so, which very few of them ever have. The only one that seemed to on my trip was the desk lady at the Holiday Inn. I was never really ‘helped’ per se by any of these people, but merely herded along towards the cattle gun that was poised to knock me silly long enough for them to take my wallet and shove me out the door. There is no longer any empowerment in travel; no choice, really, and no pleasure. It has been distilled into shuffling, bleating, hassle, and fear.
And they’re surprised the industry is dying. They can’t blame it on fear from 9/11 anymore, and you’d figure they’re covering gas costs through the prices they’re charging these days. If they really want to look at an equation that may lead to why people aren’t flying, they may want to look at adding the awful state of their planes to the awful state of their customer service. Then they might be on to something.
--Noir Cru de Plantation--
1 comment:
Yay, he's alive! :)
BTW, I-95 runs down the east coast. You were by I-494. :D
Your resident nitpicky assmunch,
~Shagz
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