Welcome to: (Insert Destination Here)

Having to crouch while peeing in the lavatory of a Boeing 737-400C is not a skill that a man of my size has mastered just yet.

For full effect, download “Madness” by Muse and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Bonneville Senior: “You know the best way to sum up Idaho is that we have bi-polar weather; you never know what you’re going to get.”

Okay Forrest Gump’s soon to be mother, if bi-polar weather means a euphoric high for small doses of time, followed by psychotic depression, intermingled with guilt, isolation, anxiety, possible hallucinations and morbid suicidal ideation, then Idaho’s meteorologists have some messed up jargon. Trust me on this one, bi-polar weather is no stranger to my family’s forecast.

For the record, I do find it ironic that Forrest Gump was being shown on one of the random TV’s while I was wasting away at Boise International Airport.

Everyone is so defensive at the airport, it’s like the circle of trust has been violated and tossed into the gutter like used birth control, only to be replaced with animosity, distrust, and a cauldron of luggage, followed by death stares from fellow flyers if you’re caught looking anywhere close to where they’re seated. It’s a foreign world that has become so airtight ever since 9-11. And we, as a culture have evolved right along with the increased security and anal attitudes.

Airport Security: “Sir, can I please swipe the palms of your hands?”

Swipe the palms of my hands? With that magic square of cotton that is supposed to tell you if I have rabies, syphilis, C4, unfiltered money, or an illegal alien hidden in my grips? Or do you always swab down every handsome scruff who looks a little but suspicious because he’s 6 foot 5? I know, I get it, I’m a victim of profiling. Swab away.

I will say that this blogpost was started at one location, and completed at another, 554 miles away, that distance being traveled in just 90 short minutes. Mind=blown, I know. I’m used to traveling by now, I’ve been a traveling salesman for the last three years and counting. I should be used to it by now. Should be, I guess. The hassle of rental cars, boarding passes, jet lag, key cards, parking lots and palm-swabbing sometimes wears me out.

Tyler Durden: “Everywhere I travel, it’s a tiny life. Single serving sugar, single serving cream. Single pad of butter, the microwaved chicken cordon bleu hobby kit. Shampoo-conditioner combos, sample packaged mouthwash, tiny bars of soap. The people I meet on each flight, they’re single-serving friends.”

This is my life as a salesman, and it’s ending one single-serving friend at a time.