A few decades ago, the creators of “Star Trek” looked into the future and saw a transportation system whereby all you had to do was utter four words, “Beam me up, Scotty,” and you’d be wherever you needed to be in seconds. Turns out it was just a tease.
Here I sit on my second flight of the day, this one eight hours in length, wondering how I can find out the name of the jerk who invented reclining chairs on airplanes, so that I can look him up and stick the back of my big, fat head in his lunch to see how he likes it. Congress needs to get on this one right away: Pass a bill that outlaws reclining chairs on airplanes. All it does is empower inconsiderate, self-centered blockheads who don’t even realize everyone at work despises them, their spouses are sick of them and they’ll have small turnouts at their funerals.
If you’re among the growing class of airplane seat-recliners, it’s time to take inventory. I mean, really, do you want a small turnout at your funeral.
Oh well, at least the veteran stew crew is pleasant enough. Oops, that’s right, can’t call them stews anymore. A quick check of the political correctness manual shows they must be called flight attendants at all times. Wouldn’t want to offend anyone.
Oh great. Now the guy behind me is grabbing the back of my chair again, helping himself up. Why does he think that’s OK? On what planet is that OK?
At least there’s one benefit to having such a long flight to Maui: I now have no excuse not to become the last literate human to read Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code.” Good stuff so far, except you have to pay attention, which is always a challenge.
These seats really are too close together. There should be a law against it. Ever notice how fat people tend to spread out on airplanes once they fall asleep? Makes you wonder if maybe their legs are trying to tear apart from the massive bodies that put so much stress on them every day.
For as little time as we’ll get to spend on the beach, the long flight isn’t worth it. No, what makes the trip worthwhile is the basketball, having a front-row seat to three Kansas University games in three days against big-time competition.
The airplane touches down, the voice says it’s 4 o’clock Hawaii time on the nose, precisely 24 hours before the Jayhawks tip off against Arizona, the first test of the season.
At 4:01, Gary Bedore already is on the phone, finding out that Micah Downs (ankle injury) practiced Sunday and is expected to make his debut against Arizona.
It wasn’t until I got to baggage claim that I saw former celebrity Kris Kristofferson, whom photographer Nick Krug informed me was on the plane.
Bedore runs into old friend R.C. Buford, general manager of the reigning NBA champion San Antonio Spurs. Buford was on Larry Brown’s KU staff during the 1988 run to the national title, but that won’t keep him getting a few dirty looks at Allen Fieldhouse if he one day steals his close friend Bill Self to coach the Spurs.
It’s nearly an hour drive to the hotel and Bedore is behind the wheel, the ocean and sun to his left, a few clouds hanging out in the mountains to his right. The winding road calls to mind Pacific Coast Highway on the ride from Los Angeles to San Francisco.
Curvy roads with Bedore behind the wheel: Bad. Curvy women in hula skirts: Good. Haven’t seen any of those yet, but will let you know when I do.
Now that I’ve watched the sunset and banged out a column and a blog, it’s time to find a good meal.
I spent $11 bucks on two snack boxes and one turkey wrap on the flight. Somehow, that didn’t quite cut it. I’m off to get something to eat. Later.
Into the fire (11-21-05)
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