Grounded

I don't spend much time on airplanes. What traveling we do is usually done in the car or the truck, or for super-long road trips we'll rent a mini-van or an oxcart. Airport horror stories around the holidays are usually enough to remind me that no matter what my lot in life, there's no reason to go to Milwaukee.



But you have to love those tv news stories about people stranded in long lines at the airport. They always show someone stretched out across two plastic seats, sawing logs as the intercom drones on and the camera tilts up and down to show all the CANCELLED flights that won't get off the ground because it rained in Iowa.



But what if you had been on this flight? I just read about some woman, apparently drunk, who broke bad on a flight from Puerto Rico to Chicago, slapping people on the butt, yanking their hair and grabbing other passengers. The plane landed in North Carolina so that the woman could be safely delivered into the hands of the authorities. She was all packaged and ready for shipment: the flight crew and two passengers bound her to a seat with duct tape to prevent her from totally freaking out.


And I bet she is also one of those people who always sit at the next table over from us at a restaurant. I don't care if the restaurant has four gold stars in the Michelin Guide, or two golden arches, no matter where I eat, there is always someone who insists that everyone in attendance wishes to hear what they have to say about a) their trip to Rochester last summer b) the fading fortunes of their 401-K plans c) how the flank steak seems a bit, I don't know, overdone or d) the eternal ingratitude of their daughter-in-law ("And we all tried to tell Frank she was wrong for him!")



Why do people holler in restaurants? Why didn't Frank realize she was just looking for a father for little Brattleboro, and she never really cared for him at all? How cool would it be to duct-tape some contumacious drunk to an airline seat?



These are the questions that confront us all.