concoursec.txt

click the link below to read my ramblings written while trapped in concourse C of O'Hare airport yesterday. I booted my laptop and typed till I got bored. It's strange.

Here I am again sitting trapped in concourse C of O'Hare Airport. I hate Chicago. It's been years since I was here, and its exactly homember it. Dirty.

It's been a day to remember if nothing less. I've gained a new fondness (probably better worded "distaste" or "horror") for that modern miracle known as the airline industry.

To be fair, mother nature played her part in my predicament. Snow has been flurying for days, and I was in Canada afterall. This isn't a country known for grass skirts and girl drinks- this is a place where my flannel-oriented fashion sense seemed almost pathetic in comparison to the natives amazing ability to bundle up and face temperatures approaching absolute zero. Frankly I'm amazed the residents of this nation manage to breed. Between the extreme cold, and hockey, I suspect that a full third of the male population has to have lost a testicle to either the bitter cold, or a body check from a gigantic opponent wearing armor and swinging a big stick at you. Hockey is sorta like jousting, but no horses are involved, plus medieval sports didn't have penalty boxes, just corpses.

Oh yeah, air ports. My first flight was cancelled. A simple flight from Ottawa to Pittsburg. There was no snow outside really, at least, none to speak of. After much shuffling of terminals and airlines, I finally was informed that my flight would leave in a few hours, and land me in Chicago.

Now things are never this easy, so it only was expected when I learned that my flight was delayed. And not for a good reason. No, the wings were fine, and there was no shortage of complimentary crackers. No we were missing a flight attendant. Frankly, to leave on time, I would have been willing to fetch my own peanuts, but I suspect that there are probably some sort of federal regulation against that.

Anyway, 2 and a half hours after my US Airlines flight to Pittsburg was to take off, I took off an an Air Canada flight to Chicago. A pleasant flight. The meal didn't make me ill. The large man sitting next to me was polite even if his gigantic blue notebook wanted consume 20% of my precious lap space. No matter, I couldn't have moved my knees far enough to retrieve Vanessa for a happy game of Mahjongg. Hell, who was I kidding- I needed Quake at this point. I was stressed as hell.

My stress was not likely to improve- as I stepped forth from the terminal in Chicago, I discovered (big surprise!) that my next hop- a United Airlines flight to Grand Rapids had been (you're gonna be shocked by this one people) Cancelled! Really!

So I walked 7 miles to the ticket counter and waited for almost an hour to talk to a very courteous representative. While waiting in line my hopes were further thwarted as I overhead an attractive blond who was, like me, an infinite distance from home, tired of standing in lines, and had also just discover that her rerouted plane was (surprise!) canceled. That wasn't enough- a gentlemen next me who looked like he was 'In the Navy' in both the Village People and military sense of the terms also complained that he had no chance of arriving in LA on time to do whatever he had coming. All around me tired people looked as if they could claw anyone who pissed them off's eyes out at the drop of a pin. Humanity at its finest no doubt.

After explaining my predicament to the plesant women at he counter, she spent some quality time staring at her tiny screen and mumbling. Finally she came forth with options: Wait 4 hours for a "Stand By" and wait 7 hours for a "Confirmed". If these options fail, I was at a loss- I mean, what happens now? Does the airport close? Can I sleep here? I can't afford to live on the food considering the prices they charge. Those boothes piss me off- they have a captive audience. We can't go back through the metal detectors. They know better than that. We are going to stay on the concourse until either we leave on a plane, or on a stretcher, passed out from not eating for days at a time while waiting for planes on "Stand By".

I debate my options. Several hours before my stand by. I could go see the sights, but let's be realistic here, I'm not an out doors person, and its much warmer in the airport than outside that big revolving door. So I head to the concourse. For the second time today I go through the metal detectors. I beep for no apparent reason. I didn't beep at the last airport. Was their iron filings in the sandwich they fed me on the last flight? What a crock. Even more embarassing was the fact that the putz decided to search my carry on. Its contents were simple enough: Scuttle (my libretto), Vanessa (my NEC Versa LX super monster baby) a book of Who Tabliture given to me by Kathy, a book of Who concerts given to my by Kurt, a few magazines, my tickets, my birth certificate, and a ball of cables large enough to be used if the NBA is short a ball in the finals next year.

Of course the nice man wants me to turn scuttle on. And true to form, scuttle's batteries are dead. I swear that laptop has no battery life at all. He probably thinks that it's really a bomb when I tell him that it won't turn on and that the batteries are dead. He looks carefully at it for a bit and moves on. After 5 minutes, he is obviously bored and decides that I'm not a terrorist and he lets me go.

Now for the most exciting part of my journey thus far- the journey from the ticket counter to Concourse C. Now I'm not sure if I've been in O'Hare before, but I know I've never been down this tunnel before. I can't describe it, except that it is gently illuminated by pastel lights on each wall. Gigantic neon tubes pumping bright multicolored lights contrast nicely. And as I zip along on people mover conveyer belts, I am soothed by plesantly obnoxious beeping music that just isn't working for me. Normally I'd walk along these conveyer belts. Their speed, plus my own gives me an effective speed approximately identical to the speed I could sprint if I was 14 again. And someone who was in shape. I don't think I was ever 14 or in shape. This time I slump along the railing and ride the conveyer for a mile or so. It's the most fun I've had all day.

Finally I arrive on the concourse. It looks like a refugee camp. The terrible weather has obviously caused the cancellation of an uncountable number of flights. Groups of people huddle about in clumps up and down the concourse. Some look like they've been here for days. Many look quite hungry. They probably couldn't find cosigners for loans in order to produce enough capital to purchase a coke or a french fry.

I stumble to gate C29 which clearly states 'Now Boarding for Hollywood'. I know that isn't right. I know that in about 3 hours it will state "Now Boarding for Grand Rapids", but I'm on stand by for this flight, so I know that I won't be among the passangers. No matter, I've got 3 hours. I decide to find some people that are smaller than me and mug them. Good thing the security guy didn't take my Scuttle- I can wack them over the head with it.