Not a bad flight, all in all. I'm sitting in The Emerald City Lounge with a 20 oz. Pyramid Heffewiezen. I've got 3 hours to finish it.

    I hate layovers. However, layovers with good beer are better than layovers with hangovers.

    Couple o' years ago... musta been '94. I was one of the last of the house to pack up and leave campus for Christmas break. My friend Noah and I decided to go to Max's for a couple beers. A couple beers soon turned into a couple pitchers... or was it three? We just talked and talked and talked and I drank all that beer without moving. After several hours I got up to go to the bathrroom. That's when that phenomena of motion-activated drunkeness set in. I wobbled. I weaved. I felt so damn silly for being so damn drunk. Cheated, in a way. Noah helped me home and I collapsed on my roommates futon.

    A ringing phone woke me bright and early, which was a good thing since I had a plane to catch. It was Chelsea. Could I please break into her room and get her Rose Bowl tickets which were pinned to her corkboard as she had forgotton them. If she hadn't called I may have slept the whole day away.

    I roused Melissa who was driving me to the airport. My head throbbed. I loaded all of my bags into her car. Then I loaded all her bags in the car while she putzed around.

    Finally, we headed out the door but I made her stop by 7-Eleven to get a Big Gulp of Gatorade. Only a 7-eleven on the edge of campus and a stone's throw from the heart of Greek Row would stock Gatorade on tap.

    At the airport I made Melissa help me get my bags to check-in. Too late for that. I had to ditch my half-finished Gatorade to run out on the tarmac with my suitcases. Which meant that when I got to Portland I had to haul my massive suitcases over miles of airport to get them checked. People literally cheered me on!

    I checked in, finally, with that most evil of airlines, Southwest, and made my way on peanuts and juice for the next twelve hours of transfers and layovers to my parent's home in Texass.