Appalachian Trail goodness can be found here:
http://atjournal.wordpress.com
Not much there at the moment, you understand, as I haven't left yet =)
July 19, 2009
July 5, 2009
June 26, 2009
Attempting the Possible
I've decided to hike the Appalachian Trail, from Maine to Georgia.
As someone who rarely gets excited about...well, anything, it's refreshing to have something concrete to look forward to.
Of course, shopping for gear and gadgets is fun, as is learning about the physical demands that will likely destroy my earthly form (hopefully only to rebuild it, stronger). Logistics, planning, and the like, also all well and good. And though I love the out-of-doors, independence, and random acts of adventure, I think what I most look forward to is putting myself to the (extreme) test in two related areas in which I constantly find myself lacking - perseverance and commitment.
I'm interested to see whether I can stick it out when things are no longer exciting, interesting, or new. In the words of someone's taunting reality check: "Will you still be inspired after every view starts to look the same and the Trail seems like an endless green tunnel?" As someone who has taken up and abandoned, and even taken up again, more hobbies, obsessions, distractions, and occupations than I care to remember, I have absolutely no idea.
As far as commitment? Five to six months (or more) of living out of a backpack, even with regular shelters and stay-overs in towns along the way, is something that I think, if I could really wrap my head around, would stop me dead in my tracks. So this is the one aspect of the journey that I'll leave in the realm of blissful ignorance for as long as I can.
Anyway, when it comes down to it, and that blood clot hits my brain or that meteor hits the earth or, y'know, whatever...
I'd rather be under a tree than at a desk.
June 25, 2009
A sentance or too
These tpos are here purposedly: there so my sister e=mails me back.
(Man, that hurts me)
(Man, that hurts me)
June 23, 2009
Poker metaphor? How original!
I'm gonna win first prize in this hold 'em tournament - a prescription drug.
Between me and easy living lies a huge field of competitors made up of other patients, overworked/undercaring medical assistants, flighty doctors, and a fucked up health care system that will gouge you financially and emotionally.
Oops, back to the metaphor. fratr
First, I need to find the doctor.
After waiting most of yesterday for her to call me back, her assistant does, only to tell me the doctor left and won't be back for a week. My rage over her negligence simmers to a boil. Early this morning, I begin a chain of phone calls that end in me finally locating, and even talking to, the doctor in her farther office, two trains away. "Come over and pick up the prescription," she says. "Just tell her you're from my other office and she'll let you in."
It's early in the morning. I take my seat at the table, fully rested and ready for action. The early rounds proceed as normal, ebb and flow, gradually building a competitive stack of chips. By midday I've reached the midpoint of the tournament and am doing reasonably well.
Big Laydown
I arrive and am sent up, past absolute throngs of people who look like they've waited out their youths in those chairs.
Only to find another dense pack of idle, mopey-stared humanity. I stare at a flickering fluorescent and wonder whether I should try to fix it. After several exchanges of patients through the office/waiting room door, I realize she probably doesn't even know I'm there, so I wait for the next patient to leave.
Every chip counts, so when I see this opportunity to take the pot, I go for it.
The door opens, and I quickly my my way over. Inside, the doctor is sitting at her desk, but blocking the doorway is a spry and vigilant medical assistant I didn't even know was there.
I open with a raise, hoping everyone folds, but I'm immediately called by two people.
"I'm Joe, just here to pick up-"
I make a continuation bet after the flop, if they missed it, they'll fold.
"Yes, just go downstairs and sign up on the clipboard," the sprynurse cuts me off.
She raises. Probably has something...
I look past her to the doctor, who nods.
The third player calls, also showing strength.
"Ok." I head downstairs.
I just don't have the cards to beat them, so I fold.
Final Table
Downstairs, I'm told to go upstairs, again, but I relate the futility of that method. She gives me the clipboard to shut me up more than anything else.
There's only 8 of us left, and I find myself alone in a hand with one of the bigger stacks of chips at the table. She's been a tough opponent, lying several times to my face. That's poker.
The snobby assistant takes the clipboard back and makes it clear that she'll be ignoring both it and me for as long as I care to wait uselessly.
She checks, smugly.
I go outside to cool off, but I march right back and station myself right in front of her.
I check too, we'll see the flop and I'll let her make the next move.
Without looking up, she says "You can sit in a chair while you wait."
She means "Go away."
She bets half the pot.
"Chairs are all taken." (They were)
I raise.
"Then you can go get some coffee."
She re-raises.
"I don't drink coffee."
I count up her stack and put her to a decision with a re-raise.
She'll have to go all-in to call me.
"Okay, well..."
She folds. I take down a huge pot and am that much closer to the finish line.
Last Hand
With no hope of getting in to see this doctor through any traditional means, and my frustration and need for medicine mounting by the second, it's time to act.
This is it, heads-up poker between me and the only person remaining.
I bound back up the stairs and perch where I can see the door, watching for it to reopen and give me a two-second window to react.
The cards are dealt.
It opens, I squeeze toward it, and reach it just slightly ajar.
I'm first to act.
Inside, the doctor calls the next patient, a name I'll never remember, because I'm too busy pushing the door open, stepping inside, and closing it behind me.
I'm all in.
Between me and easy living lies a huge field of competitors made up of other patients, overworked/undercaring medical assistants, flighty doctors, and a fucked up health care system that will gouge you financially and emotionally.
Oops, back to the metaphor. fratr
First, I need to find the doctor.
After waiting most of yesterday for her to call me back, her assistant does, only to tell me the doctor left and won't be back for a week. My rage over her negligence simmers to a boil. Early this morning, I begin a chain of phone calls that end in me finally locating, and even talking to, the doctor in her farther office, two trains away. "Come over and pick up the prescription," she says. "Just tell her you're from my other office and she'll let you in."
It's early in the morning. I take my seat at the table, fully rested and ready for action. The early rounds proceed as normal, ebb and flow, gradually building a competitive stack of chips. By midday I've reached the midpoint of the tournament and am doing reasonably well.
Big Laydown
I arrive and am sent up, past absolute throngs of people who look like they've waited out their youths in those chairs.
Only to find another dense pack of idle, mopey-stared humanity. I stare at a flickering fluorescent and wonder whether I should try to fix it. After several exchanges of patients through the office/waiting room door, I realize she probably doesn't even know I'm there, so I wait for the next patient to leave.
Every chip counts, so when I see this opportunity to take the pot, I go for it.
The door opens, and I quickly my my way over. Inside, the doctor is sitting at her desk, but blocking the doorway is a spry and vigilant medical assistant I didn't even know was there.
I open with a raise, hoping everyone folds, but I'm immediately called by two people.
"I'm Joe, just here to pick up-"
I make a continuation bet after the flop, if they missed it, they'll fold.
"Yes, just go downstairs and sign up on the clipboard," the sprynurse cuts me off.
She raises. Probably has something...
I look past her to the doctor, who nods.
The third player calls, also showing strength.
"Ok." I head downstairs.
I just don't have the cards to beat them, so I fold.
Final Table
Downstairs, I'm told to go upstairs, again, but I relate the futility of that method. She gives me the clipboard to shut me up more than anything else.
There's only 8 of us left, and I find myself alone in a hand with one of the bigger stacks of chips at the table. She's been a tough opponent, lying several times to my face. That's poker.
The snobby assistant takes the clipboard back and makes it clear that she'll be ignoring both it and me for as long as I care to wait uselessly.
She checks, smugly.
I go outside to cool off, but I march right back and station myself right in front of her.
I check too, we'll see the flop and I'll let her make the next move.
Without looking up, she says "You can sit in a chair while you wait."
She means "Go away."
She bets half the pot.
"Chairs are all taken." (They were)
I raise.
"Then you can go get some coffee."
She re-raises.
"I don't drink coffee."
I count up her stack and put her to a decision with a re-raise.
She'll have to go all-in to call me.
"Okay, well..."
She folds. I take down a huge pot and am that much closer to the finish line.
Last Hand
With no hope of getting in to see this doctor through any traditional means, and my frustration and need for medicine mounting by the second, it's time to act.
This is it, heads-up poker between me and the only person remaining.
I bound back up the stairs and perch where I can see the door, watching for it to reopen and give me a two-second window to react.
The cards are dealt.
It opens, I squeeze toward it, and reach it just slightly ajar.
I'm first to act.
Inside, the doctor calls the next patient, a name I'll never remember, because I'm too busy pushing the door open, stepping inside, and closing it behind me.
I'm all in.
June 22, 2009
June 21, 2009
Okay, those two previous smatterings of internet were a copout, but I truly tried to write before that, and couldn't think of anything. And now I've exhausted this topic! This information age is tough on the old word-producer.
I know, I'll tell you my super special secret realization of the day! Here it is:
Every time you talk, you're making the ear drums of everyone around you vibrate! You are inside their friggin heads! How about that?
I know, I'll tell you my super special secret realization of the day! Here it is:
Every time you talk, you're making the ear drums of everyone around you vibrate! You are inside their friggin heads! How about that?
June 20, 2009
Choices
Pink playing cards, awesome! I reach for a pack.
Hold!
What's this, two varieties? Closer inspection is warranted.
On the left we have pink Bicycle playing cards for 3 dollars and 59 cents. Ok.
To the right, pink Bicycle playing cards for 3 dollars and 59 cents, but this time some portion of the proceeds will allegedly be crumpled up and thrown at Cancer, wherever He is.
This reminds me of that game, Would You Rather. Like, would you rather drown or be burned alive. Oh don't look at me like that, they're always morbid. Pft.
Anyway, this is like that, you see?
Would You Rather buy some cards for 3.59 and not fight cancer, or buy some cards for 3.59 and fight cancer? Easy, you don't buy them at all, because all four suits are white on a blindingly pink background, and nobody at your poker game wants to use them.
Why they invented "facepalm"
“It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”
- Albert Einstein
"Shake your bon-bon...shake your bon-bon...shake your bon-bon"
- Caption under a picture of my high school english teacher in a neon green dinosaur costume.
Thanks, Facebook.
- Albert Einstein
"Shake your bon-bon...shake your bon-bon...shake your bon-bon"
- Caption under a picture of my high school english teacher in a neon green dinosaur costume.
Thanks, Facebook.
February 28, 2009
Apple Store, between 4 and 5 am
This was the earliest I could get an appointment for my one true love.
Despite the pre-dawn hour, there are more than a dozen brightly-shirted Apple employees and as many maintenance crew bustling* about.
*if bustling is, say, 6 on a 1 to 10 scale, they are actually more of a 2, but It's Late and I'm Tired.
Skip to the interesting part, and it's the phenomena that is the... odd... Australian woman, the dual-sleeve tattooed Apple Guy, and me. We are strangers that are forced to interact as our computers quietly** whir away, fixing their own problems with the occasional click of guidance from Apple Guy. What strikes me is that while we are undoubtedly awash in awkwardness, none of us act or seem to feel awkward.
I know, right, "What happened to 'the interesting part?'"
UPDATED SUCKA!
**The whole reason I took my computer in was that it makes a terrible, awful, no good, very bad Grinding sound (think Electric Razor vs. Belt Sander in a gravel pit) . So naturally, for the hour I was there it was silent as a snowflake. Though Apple Guy was kind enough to make a big show of putting his ear next to it in all different places and saying, "Hmm, well, I don't hear anything yet, but maybe it will make some noise later!"
Despite the pre-dawn hour, there are more than a dozen brightly-shirted Apple employees and as many maintenance crew bustling* about.
*if bustling is, say, 6 on a 1 to 10 scale, they are actually more of a 2, but It's Late and I'm Tired.
Skip to the interesting part, and it's the phenomena that is the... odd... Australian woman, the dual-sleeve tattooed Apple Guy, and me. We are strangers that are forced to interact as our computers quietly** whir away, fixing their own problems with the occasional click of guidance from Apple Guy. What strikes me is that while we are undoubtedly awash in awkwardness, none of us act or seem to feel awkward.
I know, right, "What happened to 'the interesting part?'"
UPDATED SUCKA!
**The whole reason I took my computer in was that it makes a terrible, awful, no good, very bad Grinding sound (think Electric Razor vs. Belt Sander in a gravel pit) . So naturally, for the hour I was there it was silent as a snowflake. Though Apple Guy was kind enough to make a big show of putting his ear next to it in all different places and saying, "Hmm, well, I don't hear anything yet, but maybe it will make some noise later!"
September 30, 2008
Smelly Books for Sale!
This place had a book fair the other day, only $1 a book.
But wait, that's not all!
Get there in the last hour, like I did, and you can get as many books as fit in a box for just $5!
Combing random piles of books to determine whether they are worth a dollar is a rigorous mental process. "Might someone else benefit from reading this? Do I need the extra clutter? Will I actually read this?"
But when volunteers begin barking "$5 a box," the criteria slacken a hair:
"Will this fit in the box? Does it have words and/or pictures on the pages? When the End Times come, how long will this burn, providing me warmth and light?"
When all was said and done, I think finding the Bridge to Terabithia was worth the $5. But I'm all set if I ever decide to visit Atlanta, Sicily, or Thailand, refinish some furniture, or need inspirational quotes for teachers or lawyers. Or if I can't sleep.
But wait, that's not all!
Get there in the last hour, like I did, and you can get as many books as fit in a box for just $5!
Combing random piles of books to determine whether they are worth a dollar is a rigorous mental process. "Might someone else benefit from reading this? Do I need the extra clutter? Will I actually read this?"
But when volunteers begin barking "$5 a box," the criteria slacken a hair:
"Will this fit in the box? Does it have words and/or pictures on the pages? When the End Times come, how long will this burn, providing me warmth and light?"
When all was said and done, I think finding the Bridge to Terabithia was worth the $5. But I'm all set if I ever decide to visit Atlanta, Sicily, or Thailand, refinish some furniture, or need inspirational quotes for teachers or lawyers. Or if I can't sleep.
Variation on a Theme
"You can't fire me, I quit!"
or
"You can fire me, but when you realize what an asshole you are and offer to 'let' me come back, I will say to you: Thanks but No Thanks! [Asshole!]"
Speaking of themes, it's not unusual for me to be among the most diligent and competent workers at a company and simultaneously be the least paid/appreciated/respected. Honesty, reason, and an unwavering willingness to help out will get you nowhere at a lot of jobs, but I'm sure I'll find one where that's not the case.
The silver lining in this case is that there are a dozen people in the office who completely back me up, and are as sad to see me go as I am to leave. And I find that I am still capable of making difficult decisions based on principle. So it could be worse.
or
"You can fire me, but when you realize what an asshole you are and offer to 'let' me come back, I will say to you: Thanks but No Thanks! [Asshole!]"
Speaking of themes, it's not unusual for me to be among the most diligent and competent workers at a company and simultaneously be the least paid/appreciated/respected. Honesty, reason, and an unwavering willingness to help out will get you nowhere at a lot of jobs, but I'm sure I'll find one where that's not the case.
The silver lining in this case is that there are a dozen people in the office who completely back me up, and are as sad to see me go as I am to leave. And I find that I am still capable of making difficult decisions based on principle. So it could be worse.
September 16, 2008
Yesterday -
Saw a kid stealing mouthwash from the corner store - my new credit score is 804 - returning desire to paint the 4th, white wall of my otherwise green room
September 7, 2008
Who I am
I am a condescending hypocrite with a big brain*, bigger heart, and a slew of abrasive defense mechanisms that, when balled up together, are bigger than 12 of those brains and 9 of those hearts put together. (Laid end to end they circle the earth 47 times, but I never thought that kind of visualization was very useful.)
I was born to have hairy legs, weird thumbs, and freckles - but also to have nice eyes, tall...ness, and, well, freckles.
I often blame my circumstances on...my circumstances, but I'm not afraid to take responsibility for my life.
I sometimes trick people into thinking I can really juggle by juggling for a few seconds, then acting like I don't feel like juggling anymore, when really if I tried to jug- one more -gle, I'd drop everything but I usually explain to those people that I've just tried to trick them into thinking I can juggle.
I write in a blog I know my family and a very few friends read, often revealing my innermost thoughts, but I don't write every day, week, month, or season. So what?**
((*I say to this to mean both that people often think I'm smart (I think they're wrong) and that I have a big head. Serious. Human hats don't fit on it. No lie. Send me a hat, I'll send you a picture of it not fitting on my head.))
Now, you have me at a disadvantage!
Who are you?
**and how was your summer?
I was born to have hairy legs, weird thumbs, and freckles - but also to have nice eyes, tall...ness, and, well, freckles.
I often blame my circumstances on...my circumstances, but I'm not afraid to take responsibility for my life.
I sometimes trick people into thinking I can really juggle by juggling for a few seconds, then acting like I don't feel like juggling anymore, when really if I tried to jug- one more -gle, I'd drop everything but I usually explain to those people that I've just tried to trick them into thinking I can juggle.
I write in a blog I know my family and a very few friends read, often revealing my innermost thoughts, but I don't write every day, week, month, or season. So what?**
((*I say to this to mean both that people often think I'm smart (I think they're wrong) and that I have a big head. Serious. Human hats don't fit on it. No lie. Send me a hat, I'll send you a picture of it not fitting on my head.))
Now, you have me at a disadvantage!
Who are you?
**and how was your summer?
There's this guy Paul,
and I am nearby when he tells this story, showing off a framed print of this comic book page, the intellectual property of Frank Miller:
"So I give it to the Kinko's girl to scan, and she says 'I can't do that sir, it's copyrighted material.' So I go, 'I'm Frank Miller." [Here, storytelling Paul freezes every facial muscle in what is no doubt a flawless recreation of his excellent poker-face deadpan.]
"Then she started to argue with me, so I cut her off - I'm Frank Miller."
It becomes obvious to me that his story is that he cleverly manipulated a Kinko's employee...but wait a minute. Would a Kinko's employee care? Would they go that far and not bother to check his ID? Above all else, why would a successful and published comic book artist need to go to freakin' Kinko's to get a medium-quality print of their own work??
So I call bullshit!
"Bullshit Paul! You did not tell the Kinko's girl you were Frank Miller."
"Yeah I did, buddy."
"You are such a liar."
Paul is already walking away, but turns to deliver this gem before shutting himself in his office:
"I don't lie Joe. It's not worth it."
(For those who are slow like me, I would point out that Paul is not Frank Miller)
"So I give it to the Kinko's girl to scan, and she says 'I can't do that sir, it's copyrighted material.' So I go, 'I'm Frank Miller." [Here, storytelling Paul freezes every facial muscle in what is no doubt a flawless recreation of his excellent poker-face deadpan.]
"Then she started to argue with me, so I cut her off - I'm Frank Miller."
It becomes obvious to me that his story is that he cleverly manipulated a Kinko's employee...but wait a minute. Would a Kinko's employee care? Would they go that far and not bother to check his ID? Above all else, why would a successful and published comic book artist need to go to freakin' Kinko's to get a medium-quality print of their own work??
So I call bullshit!
"Bullshit Paul! You did not tell the Kinko's girl you were Frank Miller."
"Yeah I did, buddy."
"You are such a liar."
Paul is already walking away, but turns to deliver this gem before shutting himself in his office:
"I don't lie Joe. It's not worth it."
(For those who are slow like me, I would point out that Paul is not Frank Miller)
June 10, 2008
Perfect timing
After tending bar, I return to the day job office to drop off my monkey suit and pick up my bike - it's about 9pm when I pull on my helmet and look out the window at distant flashes of what a coworker is calling "heat lightning." As my buddy and I pull into the street on our bikes, a wind starts to pick up.
After three blocks the wind has increased exponentially, and the intersection ahead of me is empty except for a giant dust storm that looks so angry I briefly consider stopping and looking for shelter for the night. But instead I close my right eye, turn my head, and push through it, feeling a sandblast of NY grime.
As we continue through Manhattan to the bridge, the persistent whirling dirt that dusts my eyes with grit mingles with a light, cold drizzle.
Finally, past all the belligerent truck drivers and sharp-turning cabs, we reach the bridge and its sheltered lanes of relative calm. There's hardly anyone else there, so I get to look over my shoulder at the near-constant white flashes above Manhattan.
Halfway across the bridge, the flashes have caught up; I can see them to the side and reflecting off tall buildings ahead.
Not one block into Queens, lightning flashes nearby and the intermittent thwack of fat raindrops on my helmet begins. A dozen long city blocks to go - I'm not going to beat this storm home but I couldn't be more thrilled! The rain increases in surges, retreating a little, then returning even thicker. Finally it drops all pretense - the thunder follows the lightning more and more closely until I can hear the individual branches of a bolt as it crackles above me. My tires are spitting water in a crazy arc and my eyes, squinted since the dust of Manhattan, narrow to allow just the glow of traffic signals and taillights. Going as fast as I can through drenching curtains of water while making sure I have enough time to react on the newly-wet road with just coaster brakes, I fishtail (mildly) only once.
I arrive at my doorstep dripping, beaming, taking a last look at the sky and the rain as someone high up in the apartment building across the way closes their window.
That was really, really fun.
*The red line represents the temperature this evening, dropping from 90 at the beginning of the ride to 70 toward the end. The wind speed went from below 8mph to 20mph in the same time period.
After three blocks the wind has increased exponentially, and the intersection ahead of me is empty except for a giant dust storm that looks so angry I briefly consider stopping and looking for shelter for the night. But instead I close my right eye, turn my head, and push through it, feeling a sandblast of NY grime.
As we continue through Manhattan to the bridge, the persistent whirling dirt that dusts my eyes with grit mingles with a light, cold drizzle.
Finally, past all the belligerent truck drivers and sharp-turning cabs, we reach the bridge and its sheltered lanes of relative calm. There's hardly anyone else there, so I get to look over my shoulder at the near-constant white flashes above Manhattan.
Halfway across the bridge, the flashes have caught up; I can see them to the side and reflecting off tall buildings ahead.
Not one block into Queens, lightning flashes nearby and the intermittent thwack of fat raindrops on my helmet begins. A dozen long city blocks to go - I'm not going to beat this storm home but I couldn't be more thrilled! The rain increases in surges, retreating a little, then returning even thicker. Finally it drops all pretense - the thunder follows the lightning more and more closely until I can hear the individual branches of a bolt as it crackles above me. My tires are spitting water in a crazy arc and my eyes, squinted since the dust of Manhattan, narrow to allow just the glow of traffic signals and taillights. Going as fast as I can through drenching curtains of water while making sure I have enough time to react on the newly-wet road with just coaster brakes, I fishtail (mildly) only once.
I arrive at my doorstep dripping, beaming, taking a last look at the sky and the rain as someone high up in the apartment building across the way closes their window.
That was really, really fun.
*The red line represents the temperature this evening, dropping from 90 at the beginning of the ride to 70 toward the end. The wind speed went from below 8mph to 20mph in the same time period.
May 28, 2008
Title Andronicus
I started riding a bike to work (and back). I think there should be a new word for riding, since when you ride roller coasters and buses and trains, you get to just sit there. This particular 4-mile journey breaks down into three distinct sections, the way I see it.
I start in Queens, which is a pretty good warm-up: not too many cars or pedestrians, wide roads, casual pace, etc. Next is the bridge, which is the purely physical part of the journey: there is a clearly marked, uninterrupted, relatively straight, uphill path that just requires the unthinking use of muscle. Finally, Manhattan - a gauntlet of terror and lessons in calculated risk. This is the brain-intensive portion, where reflexes, decision making, prediction, and again, sheer terror all come into play. I think I sweat more from nerves here than I do going across the bridge.
My first ride into work was my second time on a bike in over a decade, so pretty much every ride since then has seemed like a cake-walk, however close the calls I get myself into may be. I once misjudged a light and rode right out in front of oncoming traffic, haha.
Anyway, lest anyone get the wrong impression that I now lead a healthy lifestyle, my breakfast the other day was a dented can of Budweiser and some peanut butter cookies (thanks Bonnie!).
Also, I predict that as humidity increases, my likelihood of riding will decrease.
I start in Queens, which is a pretty good warm-up: not too many cars or pedestrians, wide roads, casual pace, etc. Next is the bridge, which is the purely physical part of the journey: there is a clearly marked, uninterrupted, relatively straight, uphill path that just requires the unthinking use of muscle. Finally, Manhattan - a gauntlet of terror and lessons in calculated risk. This is the brain-intensive portion, where reflexes, decision making, prediction, and again, sheer terror all come into play. I think I sweat more from nerves here than I do going across the bridge.
My first ride into work was my second time on a bike in over a decade, so pretty much every ride since then has seemed like a cake-walk, however close the calls I get myself into may be. I once misjudged a light and rode right out in front of oncoming traffic, haha.
Anyway, lest anyone get the wrong impression that I now lead a healthy lifestyle, my breakfast the other day was a dented can of Budweiser and some peanut butter cookies (thanks Bonnie!).
Also, I predict that as humidity increases, my likelihood of riding will decrease.
May 16, 2008
I on the E...except it's a C
My assumption was that, since I saw a C train leaving as I entered the station, the train that immediately followed it was an E.
Since I'm not familiar with the stops on either train, and it was too crowded to push through with my giant luggage-poorly-disguised-as-a-backpack and look at the map, I didn't discover I was on the wrong train until I heard "last stop."
One hour later, I was back at the station I'd started at, wondering whether I should've given myself more than two and a half hours to get to my flight. (Nah, but I should have checked which train I was boarding.)
In all, it took me four hours and $10 to go from work to the airport and back home again, with a piece of paper that guarantees me standby status (which guarantees me nothing) on the next available flight - 24 hours later.
Actually, I don't consider it much of a loss; I finished the book I was reading and got my daily exercise. Best of all, there's not a single reason for me to get out of bed until at least 2 tomorrow!
Since I'm not familiar with the stops on either train, and it was too crowded to push through with my giant luggage-poorly-disguised-as-a-backpack and look at the map, I didn't discover I was on the wrong train until I heard "last stop."
One hour later, I was back at the station I'd started at, wondering whether I should've given myself more than two and a half hours to get to my flight. (Nah, but I should have checked which train I was boarding.)
In all, it took me four hours and $10 to go from work to the airport and back home again, with a piece of paper that guarantees me standby status (which guarantees me nothing) on the next available flight - 24 hours later.
Actually, I don't consider it much of a loss; I finished the book I was reading and got my daily exercise. Best of all, there's not a single reason for me to get out of bed until at least 2 tomorrow!
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