On the road
In a taxi, on the road, in the air with Sweeney and Gardiner. It’s our first flight on Virgin America from Logan to LAX and the experience is an amazing one. Given a choice, I’d rather be travelling on Virgin Money, chartered by Richard Branson, owned by Alex Jackson, the Hedge Fund King who was the King of Delta Tau Delta back at Tufts in 1988.
But Alex always had a keen mind for math and could stay up all night drinking rum and entertaining young blondes with old money and then ace the test the next day. I reckon that when Alex was down to his last billion, he had to charter Speedboat out to Branson, who repainted it, loaded it up with Olympians and dropped the hammer across the Atlantic in a near gale. If you want to see a sailboat going faster than a motorboat, just youtube Virgin Money and see what you get.
The people who work for Virgin America are remarkable. They smile when they see you. They ask you what they can do to help you. They are 180 degrees different than the sour pusses on American Airlines who look like they’d rather do hard time in San Quentin than give a rat’s ass about you and your journey. And although I travel bereft of bicycle, as this trip is going to be a test of intestinal fortitude, should you desire to travel with your two-wheel steed, Virgin America will get the job done for $50. American charges at least $75 and they sigh like a dying whale when they do it. And as a bonus, the fine folks at American Airline lose your bicycle at least one out of three trips.
On the jetway, I see a gentleman with a shock of white hair and a pair of torn khaki pants. His glasses are held together with white electrical tape, and his rollaboard suitcase is covered in a flowered motif that would be suitable for a grandmother. But there’s something about his profile that looks familiar, and I say, “Judd, is that you?” Indeed it is, one of the biggest names in sailing, Judd Smith, off to the Etchell Worlds in New Zealand or Australia, I can’t remember which. His boat was already sent by container and his crew is a former Laser World Champion. Judd should do just fine.
Sitting in my chair, enjoying the ride, the gentleman ahead of me gyrates back and forth, snorts, gasps, and makes all around him miserable. For comic relief, I kid you not, a Jack Russell Terrier tear asses down the aisle, then back up. But we travel in a new plane, to a familiar destination, for less than $300 roundtrip. You can’t beat that. Maybe one day I’ll go to visit Peter Massard Hixson, who lives like a true Spartan, an artist, a modern man from another era.
We have copy to revise and Dave works on his computer while I work on mine. After an hour and a half we both have some viable options, as rewriting is part of our opportunity. Then we have to cut the casting callbacks or we will be there all day. We are three happy Musketeers, having laughs and good times. Travelling with Sweeney isn’t as fun as riding bikes with him but it’s pretty close. A trip with Sweeney and the Great Kildow would be a fine bicycle trip indeed.
William F. the younger writes that the “Back in the Day” photos of him wearing the short shorts and the long tube socks are a source of endless joy to all manner of viewers, past and present, including his wife’s co-workers. The supreme irony is William F. was more than ready to toss the photos in the ash can, and I saved them for all eternity, then posted them for the millions to admire. He gets good reviews, God he was a fine looking, happy, well-adjusted child and now he’s an ornery dude.
Some have questioned my sanity for scanning several hundred photos from Back in the Day, but my God, if I could scan a thousand more I would. What would I give for a snapshot of going down the breeze on Dave Ulrich’s windsurfer.
Although our plane is a fine one, we are tired of sitting on it. With the time difference we will all wake up at 4:00 am at the money-saving Ambrose hotel. They have a gym, but it’s not stellar, merely serviceable. I didn’t bring the bike, but I did bring the spinning shoes and I shall find a place to spin. If we get some weekend time away, I will visit Pete and post a great many photos of his life and our shenanigans.
But Alex always had a keen mind for math and could stay up all night drinking rum and entertaining young blondes with old money and then ace the test the next day. I reckon that when Alex was down to his last billion, he had to charter Speedboat out to Branson, who repainted it, loaded it up with Olympians and dropped the hammer across the Atlantic in a near gale. If you want to see a sailboat going faster than a motorboat, just youtube Virgin Money and see what you get.
The people who work for Virgin America are remarkable. They smile when they see you. They ask you what they can do to help you. They are 180 degrees different than the sour pusses on American Airlines who look like they’d rather do hard time in San Quentin than give a rat’s ass about you and your journey. And although I travel bereft of bicycle, as this trip is going to be a test of intestinal fortitude, should you desire to travel with your two-wheel steed, Virgin America will get the job done for $50. American charges at least $75 and they sigh like a dying whale when they do it. And as a bonus, the fine folks at American Airline lose your bicycle at least one out of three trips.
On the jetway, I see a gentleman with a shock of white hair and a pair of torn khaki pants. His glasses are held together with white electrical tape, and his rollaboard suitcase is covered in a flowered motif that would be suitable for a grandmother. But there’s something about his profile that looks familiar, and I say, “Judd, is that you?” Indeed it is, one of the biggest names in sailing, Judd Smith, off to the Etchell Worlds in New Zealand or Australia, I can’t remember which. His boat was already sent by container and his crew is a former Laser World Champion. Judd should do just fine.
Sitting in my chair, enjoying the ride, the gentleman ahead of me gyrates back and forth, snorts, gasps, and makes all around him miserable. For comic relief, I kid you not, a Jack Russell Terrier tear asses down the aisle, then back up. But we travel in a new plane, to a familiar destination, for less than $300 roundtrip. You can’t beat that. Maybe one day I’ll go to visit Peter Massard Hixson, who lives like a true Spartan, an artist, a modern man from another era.
We have copy to revise and Dave works on his computer while I work on mine. After an hour and a half we both have some viable options, as rewriting is part of our opportunity. Then we have to cut the casting callbacks or we will be there all day. We are three happy Musketeers, having laughs and good times. Travelling with Sweeney isn’t as fun as riding bikes with him but it’s pretty close. A trip with Sweeney and the Great Kildow would be a fine bicycle trip indeed.
William F. the younger writes that the “Back in the Day” photos of him wearing the short shorts and the long tube socks are a source of endless joy to all manner of viewers, past and present, including his wife’s co-workers. The supreme irony is William F. was more than ready to toss the photos in the ash can, and I saved them for all eternity, then posted them for the millions to admire. He gets good reviews, God he was a fine looking, happy, well-adjusted child and now he’s an ornery dude.
Some have questioned my sanity for scanning several hundred photos from Back in the Day, but my God, if I could scan a thousand more I would. What would I give for a snapshot of going down the breeze on Dave Ulrich’s windsurfer.
Although our plane is a fine one, we are tired of sitting on it. With the time difference we will all wake up at 4:00 am at the money-saving Ambrose hotel. They have a gym, but it’s not stellar, merely serviceable. I didn’t bring the bike, but I did bring the spinning shoes and I shall find a place to spin. If we get some weekend time away, I will visit Pete and post a great many photos of his life and our shenanigans.
posted by joe berkeley at 6:53 PM
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