Misdirection At 30,000 Feet
A variation of the BNC can be used to ferry blankets to single passengers. But if they ask for a pillow, you're totally hosed.
*Nother is not a word.
Since the dawn of man, all humans have known someone who had a friend who was a flight attendant. Here, now, I am that friend.
They smell too. It's somewhere between charred meat and car exhaust. Utah, so far, has been one big smorgasbord of icky smells.
I had heard about this place from a Mormon FO who was big into theater, and I thought he was yanking my chain. But it's real; it's actually a few blocks from my apartment. Here's how it works: you submit your DVD copy of Dead Alive, Robocop, or The Exorcist that you've never seen (but inexplicably still own), and in two weeks they sell it back to you, having scanned through it and slashed out all the profane/violent/erotic scenes. Like I said, you don't even believe this.
As a post script, you'll notice the place is dark and seemingly uninhabited. That's because, strangely enough, Hollywood took issue to having its babies surgically rearranged without its permission, and so are currently suing the bejeezus out of this place.
Oh my heck.
And here they are making a poor dog wish he was dead.
The water was warm when we got to it, and blessedly stink-free. And shallow... I think I've read that the lake is thirty feet at its deepest point. The sand is rippled and the color of sand on the surface, but when you pick your foot up, there's a plume of deep black. Lucy, having been mostly insane since I've known her, delighted in smearing black sand-mud all over her arms and howling. And the flies stayed mostly on land, so we had a respite to contemplate the sole residents of the lake, brine shrimp... more commonly known as sea monkeys.
There are a few ducks hanging out in the biblical flood plains the sprinklers have created, but they don't go in the pond. It's her pond.
That's an I and an O on the first switch, a tumped-over equal sign on the second, and a colon on the third. I tried them all, and nothing happened in my room. Perhaps varied trigonometric functions were occurring like mad on the floor below me.
Later, the pilot navigated us to a place called Earl's, which he said was renowned for its 'talent.' Turns out the talent, as I had guessed, was ladies. The waitstaff seemed to have been culled entirely from Victoria's Secret, but sported a few more clothes. A few more. But before I call Earl out for his superficiality, let me state that there were plenty of other bars along the street, but everyone was at Earl's.
Eschewed Molson in favor of a beer called Rhino. It was still beer.
That evening there was a thunderstorm. This is what it looked like:
It's amusing, trying to take a picture of lightning. I have enough picture of this damn cloud to make a silent movie.
Oh yeah... the customs agents at the border there are not nearly as scary as the signs would have you believe: