And I think it's gonna be a long long time

My flight from DFW to St Louis last weekend was largely uneventful. I was seated next to two new age intellectuals, both married (not to each other), who insisted on talking the entire time we were in the air.

Among the gems I overheard was the woman saying that her son had her last name and her daughter had her husband's last name. I can see trying to carry on a mother's maiden name if the father has other brothers, sure. Someone explain to me, though, the purpose of giving the daughter the father's last name. I want to understand.

Just as I was giggling at the self-important nature of their overall conversation, the talk gave way to celebrity baby names. Oh my God, I thought, I'm one of them.

I made it off the flight as quickly as I could, for fear of certain assimilation. Running to the gate for my connecting flight to Columbia, MO, I reached the gate just in time to watch our aircraft pull up.

It was a Jetstream. A prop-plane. Prop as in propeller. As in so old it is probably not functional.

I cautiously made my way up the rickety stairs from the tarmac and found my seat. As the other seven passengers took their places, our timid stewardess exclaimed, "You guys can sit wherever you want today - just make sure you balance the weight out over the wing." Really? Is that something you want to leave up to me and Bobby Jo from Huntsville?

After a few minutes, the July heat started leaving visible pit-stains on me and my fellow travelers. I vowed at that time to find and assassinate the guy who chose the faux-leather seat covers over the stain-resistant poly-cotton blend.

So we sat, boiling in our own clothes, and watched our stewardess take out a 5-pound bag of ice and begin throwing it, with excessive force, against the floor of the plane. I assume she was trying to break up the ice, and not our plane, but I can't say for sure. If I just could've gotten my hands on that ice.

Finally we took off on our grand, 30-minute voyage. The air kicked in, leaving me to worry only about the propeller whirling outside the window, three feet from my head. Somewhere in my brain, the pilot of "Lost" fought swiftly for real estate against my trusty book; luckily, David Sedaris is a tough fighter.

Five minutes after beverage service, our trusty flight stewardess walked a trash bag around to collect our cups. What intrigued me most, thought, was what sat in her other hand: a brown paper lunch sack, top rolled over two or three times, filled with an assortment of mints. But not the 500-count assortment you might buy at Walgreens. No no, dear reader. It appears as though this woman, bless her heart, went to every restaurant in the greater St Louis area, collecting handfulls of after dinner mints. We were offered a choice of spearamints, butterscotch candies, logo wrappers claiming I should eat at Joe's, all the penny candy you could ever need.

I shouldn't complain though, at least one part of my body was fresh. Such luxury accommodations at the low, low price of $350. Thanks a lot, Osama. I think next time I'll take the bus.