The first wrinkle I ran into was the lack of parking at said airport.  I had thought it might be a problem but before I left I checked the airport’s website which showed hundreds of open spots in their economy lot ($12 a day isn’t terribly economical).  But it was closed when I got there.  This being Washington DC, there’s no where else to park with0ut a permit or a room reservation at a hotel, so I was forced to park in the daily lot ($20 a day).  I was in a ripe mood by then.

 I did a self-service check-in and moved my seats around a bit.  Not that I really needed to, but I like shuffling up the seats.  When it came time to pay for my bags, the computer said, “They’re Free, man!”  American Airlines is pretty informal I guess.  I printed my boarding passes and noticed that in big bold letters it said “PRIORITY ACCESS”  I didn’t what that meant so I asked the guy at the desk.

“Hey what’s all this priority access stuff here?”

“That entitles you to have free bags, priority security, priority seating and access to our lounge in Chicago.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

The tickets were a gift so I figured they were a super gift.

I made my way to the security area ready to make a little triangle over my head and do the shoes, belt, computer thing and saw a sign with a friendly arrow saying “Priority Access This Way”.  So that way I went. 

It led to a little room where there was a man in a tailed tuxedo who asked if he could take my coat.  Well dressed thief I thought.

He took my coat and carry on and set them beside a lazy boy recliner and asked if I’d like to relax and have tea and biscuits while they x-rayed by bag.  I said no.  I got ready to take my shoes off to send through too, but Jeeves said that wouldn’t be necessary.  Another person brought me a glass of champagne and I wondered whether I should go to Iowa at all or just live here in Priority Land.

Jeeves brought me my coat and bag and said something like, “Your wares have been approved and you may egress through the rear doors.  Have a jolly good flight and a very merry christmas to you, sir.”

I said thanks.

I walked out, never being x-rayed and headed to my gate.  About then I wanted a biscuit and realized I blew my moment to get one.

I saw one of those Pizza Hut huts and decided some morning pepperoni would do the trick.  Except they didn’t have any.  They had omelette pizzas.  That’s some serious bull crap right there, man.  You’re Pizza Hut.  If you’re open, sell normal pizza.  If I wanted a Root-N-Tooty Fresh-N-Fruity pizza I’d have gone to IHOP.  I punched the manager in the eye to illustrate my point.  He understood.

I sat around a bit waiting for boarding.  People watching in airports is fun.  The Las Vegas airport is the best for it.  You can always tell the arrivals from the departures.  The arrivals are all “Woo-Hoo!  Gimmee a 200 proof drink in a giant plastic boot!”  The departing say nothing… they stare at the floor and wonder at what point in their visit did they lose control of their life and pondered the taste of shoe leather.

While I was waiting, a mom-type came to the counter and said she needed her ticket adjusted to allow for her to carry on her child in her lap.  I glanced over at her child and it was a pudgy little thing in dire need of a face wash.  His name may have well been Booger McSnooty-Contagion.  I thought to myself, maybe you should just stuff him in the overhead bin and call him a carry on.  Just then I looked up and Booger MC had climbed into one of those “Is Your Carry On Too Big” boxes to prove he could indeed fit as a carry on.  Problem solved.  I laughed out loud at the kid trying to be luggage.

The first flight from DC to Chicago was fairly uneventful. 

I did at least get an attractive seat mate.  When I fly alone, I do this mental game as I see people walking up the aisle of the plane.  I look them over and begin chanting “Please don’t sit by me, Please don’t sit by me.”  Or if they get a positive review I begin wishing “Sit here!”  Never once has “Please don’t sit here” saved me.  For once though, “Sit here!” worked and I rode next to an attractive lawyer who let me have the arm rest.

That was about it until Chicago… and then things went bad.

What am I?

My dorm had some of the most unique people one could imagine.  We all (mostly) got along well.  Sure there were times when people made brown in the urinals and times when people fired RedHots with sling shots down the hall, or my favorite the time I had to tackle a drunk gut with a hunting knife so he wouldn’t stab someone.  But other than that, things were great.

I never followed up on the guy who left me a card to be a DJ.  I don’t know why.  But something changed in college… we decided to steal a radio show for ourselves.

I don’t recall whose idea it was to do it, it wasn’t mine… but someone thought a small group of us should have a radio show on the WGMU radio station.  The only problem was that air time was reserved for COMM majors in their junior year or taking broadcasting classes.  We went to the radio station and were told to fill out some forms.  The forms were scary and indicated that there was no way for us to get on the radio legitimately.  That’s when we noticed the schedule board.  It was a big blackboard with all the time slots on it and people’s names or show names written in.  We saw a few empty spots.

I grabbed a piece of chalk and wrote our show name in one of the slots.  “Late Night Chaos” would run from 9pm-Midnight on Saturdays.  It wasn’t a prime slot, but we figured the station bosses wouldn’t be listening and we’d be less likely to be discovered as fakes.  My limited radio career was born.

To protect our identities, Tim and I chose psuedonyms to use on air.  Tim Parks was Bosco P. Melloncamp.  I was… Floyd W. Floyd.  Matt was Matt.  Floyd W. Floyd finally had a voice to reach the public with.

It was a lot of fun.  We ended up with some listeners and things were going well until…. well… that’s going to have to be another thread.  I’ll tease it by saying it involved the FCC.

Want to hear what we sounded like?

I’m introducing a new feature… PHorgcasts.  (PostHumorous.org, get it?)  I don’t know how often I’ll do them, but here’s one featuring some college radio moments.  Enjoy!

PH.org Cast #1

PS. If I offend anyone by using the term “Gay” in 1992, I apologize.  I rarely apologize for anything I say, but the term and connotation of the word has changed in the 9 years since this was recorded.  Especially to Matt who appears on the presentation.

“Roll out the cannons, boys, and steal us some wine.”

Blech.

It’s a story.  But “The Story of Nick Swisher” doesn’t have as much of a ring to it so I did what I did.  Anyway, here it is.

Anyone who knows me of late knows that over the past few years I’ve become a NY Yankees baseball fan.  I know I’m not from New York and I know the Nationals and the Orioles are close by.  But the Nationals are horrible and the Orioles have issues… and just aren’t appealing generally.  The Yankees put on a good show. 

This is about as serious as Nick Swisher gets.

Anyway, anyone who has paid attention to my clothing knows that I often wear a NY jersey around sporting the number 33 on the back.  That is the number of Nick Swisher, the right fielder for the Yankees and my current favorite player in Major League Baseball.  He is not the best player in the game, but he is a nut.  He is funny, energetic, and always bouncing around.  He reminds me of a little kid who’s had too much sugar and can’t handle the overload.  He really cracks me up.  He just seems like one of those guys who always enjoys the fact that he gets paid millions of dollars to play a game and doesn’t take it or the fans for granted.  He’s really just funny to watch.

After a recent success over a minor medical issue, I decide it was time to treat myself to go see the Yankees play in Baltimore.  I had really good seats, in the 4th row near home plate.  Being a mid-week game in Baltimore, there was almost no one there.  I asked Paul, the user if I could hang out in the front area where the Yankees were doing batting pratice.  He said “ok” and I hung around the net area in front trying to get anyone to sign a ball.  I got a few waves and a nod ot two, but that was it.  When I first got there, Swisher was right in front of me playing catch with another outfielder.  I said “Hi” but he was focused on the practicing.  Or so I thought.

After about thirty minutes, most of the Yankees went into the dugout for pre-game stuff.  Swisher had gone into the outfield to run around or something.  Curtis Granderson came by but only signed a couple of VIP autographs before leaving for the dugout.  I was bummed that I didn’t get any autographs, but also elated that I’d get to watch a fun ball game.  The ground crew started taking the batting cages away and the usher said I had to go back to my seat.

“Hey man, I like that shirt!”

I was looking away from the field and realized the voice was coming from the Yankees dugout.

It was Nick Swisher beaming from ear to ear.  Apparently during batting practice, he noticed I was wearing his jersey.

I smiled at Nick and gave him a thumbs up like, “thanks”.  I’m used to usually getting just a wave from players, but suddenly I realized that Swisher had actually engaged me!  I had a ball and pen in my hand and I held it up to show him to see if he’d sign it.

“Sure man, toss it over!”

Toss it over?  Screw that, by now I realized I was getting the change to interact with my favorite baseball player ever.  I ran over to the dugout, hurdling a security line and Nick extend his hand and said “Hey man, how’s it going?”  I handed him the ball which he started to sign.  Security didn’t seem to care since Swisher engaged me and didn’t seem to mind my being right next to him.

“I’m a huge fan of yours and really appreciate it.  I’m wearing your official World Series jersey, would you mind signing that too?”

“Aw sure, man, that’s awesome, turn around, I’ll sign it between the numbers”

Nick Swisher signed jersey and baseball.

Again I thanked him.  We chatted a bit while he signed my back/jersey and then he thanked me for being a Swisher fan.

“I said, thanks a lot, you just made my day.”

“Naw, man, thank you… enjoy the game alright?”

We shook hands again… that sorta manly/Rambo stlye hand shake and I wished him a good game.

“Every game’s a good game if I get to play it.”  And then he ducked into the clubhouse.

I returned to my seat in awe.

“Did I just have a conversation with Nick Swisher… that he initiated… and now have a signed jersey and ball from him?” 

I did.

Signed Ball (click for larger view)

The game went 15 innings and the Yankees won.  But I was the big winner before the players even took the field.

I wen on E-bay last night just to see what someone would sell something like that for.  Apparently a Swisher signed ball is worth $90 and a signed jersey is worth almost $2000 if it’s an authentic World Series Champion version like mine.  I have no intention of selling either.

Signed Jersey (click for larger view)

Also… it was clear he reconized me in the stand because he’d keep waving, pointing and grinning at me.  It almost seemed like he was more excited about it all than I was… which I doubt.

Thanks again Nick.  You’re the man.