So you've smelled the rotting corpses. So what? Your keen sense of smell didn't seem to figure into the equation until after the hurricane.

Speaking of odor, Brownie has passed his sell-by date. He's been on Larry King, he's done the talk circuit to death. The dinasour editors at Playboy finally got a whiff of Brownie and decided to do an interview. Now that's cutting edge journalism right there.

News tip to Playboy: Did you hear? Brad and Jennifer broke up.

What a fool believes

He sees

No wise man has the power, to reason away

What seems to be

Is always better than nothing

And nothing at all keeps sending him...

Back to September 11th.

(With apologies to Mike McDonald and the Doobie Bros.)

United Airlines A320 halfway through a four hour flight. FAs preparing meals in the galley for themselves and for the pilot and co-pilot. I watch as they carefully remove the hot tin foil from tray upon tray of delicious first class cabin-style food that United apparently supplies their flight crews. I'm only four feet away and can smell the roast chicken or beef and vegetables, and the apple crumble desert. The fasten seat belt light comes on.

A stack of these meals are carried by one FA down the cabin isle to the rear of the plane so the Stews can sit down and eat. A very hefty Stew then takes a rolling cart and positions it sideways between the front bulkheads separating the first row of seats from the forward galley. She stands with feet shoulder width apart, forming a blockade so that no passenger can enter the galley to access the front lavatory.

The armored door to the cockpit opens very briefly and the hot meals are passed through the door which slams shut with a a decisive clink. The guard FA with her cart now stands with her arms folded across her chest like a genie, she looks down the isle making direct eye contact with no one. As she looks at me and other passengers, her eyes are either up on my forehead or somewhere just off my ear. The expression on her face is like that of a prison guard.

A nine-year old comes forward to use the lav. The guard utters not a single word. Her immutable scowl doesn't change. She simply points toward the rear lavs with her index finger and the startled child turns around and heads back from where she came.

Soon another passenger toddles up. Finger. He turns back. The expression on the Stew's face is stone cold. I'm trying not to look at her. But she's hard to ignore, being the only person facing aft, her eyes penetrating the helpless passengers like a jewelry store security guard. We're all potential terrorists. She's making me nervous with her stares.

The cockpit door cracks open. Trays removed. The pilot comes out to use the lav. The Stew goes on high alert. Minutes pass. He comes out and returns to the cockpit. Now the co-pilot comes out to use the head. More glaring and staring from the attack Stew.

Finally, the crew fed and relieved of bladder pressure, the FA rolls her cart back and secures it. Now she's all smiles again. Her belly full of first class fare and no longer positioning herself to repel a cockpit rush by Osama, she turns on the phoney charm and begins delivering the snack packets and $5 drinks. I can't bring myself to return her cold professional smile.

There must be a special class they take in how to be as pissy as they want, but still give you that smarmy patronizing smile. It's a smile that pretty much says "fuck you." I don't take it personally. They do it to anybody, for no particular reason other than, I guess, they really really hate their jobs and they really really hate us passengers.

Soon, and for the first time during the flight, my own bladder calls. The fasten seat belt light is off so I stand and go to the forward lav. I enter. The sink bowl is brimming over with murky, soapy water. I work the stopper handle, thinking someone may have left it closed. Nothing. The plane takes a little wiggle and the water in the bowl slops out onto my shoes. I open the door and inform the nearest FA.

"Uh, the sink is overflowing."

The Stew isn't interested. "Yeah, we know," she says flatly. There is no attempt whatsoever at responsibility such as, "Sorry. Maybe the lav in back is working better."

It's more like, "Oh, the sink is overflowing? Well ain't that the shits. Get over it."

Fly the Friendly Skies!

Let's just cut to the chase, Joe. Immigrate to Israel and stop agonizing about it. You'll feel better and so will the rest of us.

Chaos benifits the Neo Con PNAC plan. The more instability all at once, the better.

TMW must be somewhere in my neighborhood and know the same guy I know. As things get worse under Bush, my local cretin has stopped information from entering his brain unless it is first digested by Sean Hannity and fed to him in sound bites.

You'd think he would be happy. But as he must increase his dose of FOX 'news' each day to stave off reality encroachment, he has become more paranoid, sullen, and belligerant. I'm hoping he keeps it up. One of these days they are going to take him away in an ambulance, raving like a maniac. Or maybe he will just spontaneously combust. Or maybe his head will explode.

If you know and care about someone in his condition, get them some help. Cognitive dissonance kills! Otherwise, just sit back and enjoy the fun.