Why? Why Georgia? Why?

Disney Vacation 3.4.07 – Philadelphia; Atlanta; Orlando, Fla.


Spring Break began Friday, and I bummed around here for a few days before leaving for Disney – an all-expenses paid vacation. Unfortunately, my means of transportation are somewhat limited until I can find myself an old shitty truck. I teamed up with the fourth leg of our Disney crew – a co-worker of mine whom I can neither consider a friend nor tolerate.

To cut the Philadelphia International Airport’s high parking fees, her mother and grandmother drove the three hours it takes to get to the City of Brotherly Love. (Although, I say if you get on I-80 and take it to the Northeast Extension, you can get to Philadelphia faster than taking 11-15 to Carlisle and taking the Turnpike). As happens with politics, my liberal/centrist-minded view of politics made for awkward conversation between grandma and me.

We get to Philadelphia, and I find out that PIA’s Terminal E is an absolute pigsty. PIA is the only airport I’ve seen whose terminals are completely different from each other. One has an upscale mall, the other has a bathroom that fits four people and has a toilet paper covered floor.

Atlanta must be the funniest city in the U.S. Or shall I say it has the funniest-looking people in the country. I saw guys with killer mustaches. One guy was dressed like Hank Williams. I saw about a dozen guys my age with John Stockton-length cargo shorts and fluorescent-colored Polo shirts. Each and every one of them goosestepped across the terminal as if they were leading a marching band across town square.

The three-hour layover in Atlanta was killer. Fortunately, Hotlanta has plenty of scenery – as I like to call it – and it also features one of my favorite newspapers, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. (I’d be lying if I said I don’t read it for redneck letters to the editor). I also got to spend my time watching Atlanta airport officials folly with dead bodies.

In Orlando International Airport, Disney picked us right up and put us on a bus with whiny 8-year-olds, foreshadowing a magical kingdom of spoiled brats. One overheard conversation went as follows:

Mom: “Respect adults”
Brat: ::disgruntled noises::
Mom: Okay, that’s three strikes! You don’t want Mommy to use the “bad boy” word, don’t you?
Brat: No
Mom: Well, if you behave for the rest of the bus ride, you’ll go back down to no strikes.
[Further down the road]
Brat: MOMMY, I have no strikes. Right, mommy?
Mom: No, not till we’re checked in.

Are you kidding me? “Bad boy word.” Whatever happened to three strikes and you’re out? And what punk kid ever had three strikes? ‘Okay, well I’ll let you destroy your sister’s toys twice, but the third time well then you’re in trouble. Or almost trouble. Trouble meaning the “bad boy word.”’ Man up, parents. If I acted up, my dad didn’t use “bad boy words” or strikes. He would give me my deserved smacks or spanks or whatever you call then these days. Sometimes, I’d be public humiliation. But it made me a man – not one of these cowardly “If-there’s-a-draft-I’m-moving-to-Winnipeg” Prima Donnas who wear two Polo shirts with both collars popped up. Do you want your boys to look like Calvin Klein manwhores or a walking tattoo billboard? Then don’t give strikes.

(Part II of VI to come Saturday).



I'll be the first to admit John Mayer's music is a little too girly, but the man does know how to play guitar really, really well.