The Unmistakable Stench of N00b

Right now I am partaking in an experiment, 20000 meters in the air (approximately- Eric Dreier if you ever read this, feel free to call me an idiot for coming up with that number), as we glide over the handsome Canadian wilderness. I am attempting to become the first person I know to write an entire blog/journal entry from an iPod. That's right- I will demonstrate that this sleek, versatile, sexy Steve Jobs brainchild was worth every one of those 240 precious bones, even if it kills me. Whether this experiment will succeed or not and whether this entry will ever see the light of day is mostly a function of A) my patience when it comes to typing and retyping words over and over again on a tiny, tiny screen and B) my ability to hunt down Wifi hotspots of the non-paying variety. Time will tell.

First things first- somehow, Kevin Beddor's bold prediction, sage philosopher that he is, has indeed come to pass: while my three compatriots are bundled up cozily together a few rows behind me watching Dragonball Z, I find myself isolated... and seated next to two Icelandic señoritas. Not only that, but the airline, apparantly also foreseeing this situation and wanting to lend a hand to a worthy cause, has graciously written the Icelandic translation for love, "Asta", on my head cushion. It would seem from afar that the fates are smiling on me. All the more pity, then, that the staff of the St. Paul Intl Airport had to start my trip by defecating so thouroughly all over my already fragile self-esteem and turning a once proud and oh-so-suave individual into a shell of his former self.

Flustered. That's the only word to properly describe my mental and emotional state as I began this trip an hour or so ago. Not paniced (spelling error?), not even really all that worried, just supremely flustered. And unprepared. Walking through Humphrey Terminal, what should been a familiar routine instead felt more like a pop quiz, thrust on me suddenly and unexpectedly by the cruel and sadistic travelling gods. It began when I nearly walked through the metal detector without removing my belt and metallic chained wallet. Not my finest moment, admittedly. But even that didn't prepare me for the spectacle that I unwittingly created as I attempted to board the plane and found myself being stared at incredilously by the lady checking tickets, who had discovered that I had placed my luggage retrieval sticker on the wrong side of my ticket- god forbid!- and was apparantly awed at the sheer depth of my stupidity. Naturally, the "are-you-retarded?" stare that I was forced to endure as I was pulled aside, grinding the line to a painful halt, was swiftly augmented by the gleeful giggle of my good friend and travelling companion, Luke Olson, just a few paces behind me.

This is gonna be a long year.