First of all, a ride from a friend or girlfriend is the only way to “getting out to the airport.” An impatient cabbie doesn’t help those “pre-flight” jitters the way a handshake from Goo can. (Thanks to Goo for the ride, today, and so many other times.)

And while Goo’s in our sites, let me bring his latest development to yer attention: He married up with Fran way down in Mexico somewhere amongst their families this last week. Mucho congrats to the newlyweds.

So I get to the airport, and remember of my new Northwest Worldperks Frequent Flyer status of “Silver Elite.” Last year all that flying all over hell, combined with a good decade of Northwest flights elevated me to a new level of NWA customer status. So what this means is, I get to check with the First Class fucks, board the flight before everyone else, look like I hate being line with everyone else, am gu-aaron-teed an aisle seat with coach fare, and, if there’s an opening in the First Class section, well, they’ll bump me into it free of charge.

And that’s what happened today.

“You’ll be flying first class this flight, Mr. Draplin,” said the perky check-in clerk.

“You gotta be shittin’ me?” I bellowed, choking back the tears. (Nah, an embellishment.)

Wow. First Class. Upper crust. Hanging with a bunch of suit-and-tie-get-me-to-the-weekend-so-I-can-golf turds. I have to admit: Sitting up here is a bit on the weird side. I actually felt a bit guilty as the coach seats boarded, passing us up. I mean, I have felt a certain amount of pride of going ‘econo’ (…not that I had a choice) or, that I was sitting with the, uh, regular folks way in the back.

So this is how the other half, or, the “lucky eighth” flies, eh? For a “man of girth” as myself, the extra room is absolutely welcomed. Kicking back, you bet. The food is actually kind of good, and shit, if you can keep up, they’ll fill yer drink as many times as you want. Keep ‘em coming.

My seat is “A1,” way up in the front. The guy next to me got to chatting and asked, “What line of work are you in?”

“Well Steve (or Doug or Walter or whatever), I’m in the graphic arts, myself. I work out of my basement, in a pair of boxer shorts, for people I actually like. And quite frankly, I’ll never be you. And thank god for that, you schlup.”

(Nah, more embellishing. Just doing a little tough dreaming.)

Up here in First Class. Silver Elite, man. I’ll be damned.

Wait until I take my shoes off, so my colleagues up here can enjoy the high life with me.

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Great Midwestern name for a dude: Dale.

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Special thanks to Whitney for the stack of Samoas I found on my desk this morning. I love those Girl Scout Samoas. My favorites. The purple box throws me off a bit, but I’ll make do.

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I’m back in Michigan with the family. Surprise mission. Flew out of Portland to Detroit, then caught a quickie up to Traverse City late last night. Little Leah picked me up at 1 in the AM. Good to see her. We drove out to Lake Ann, woke the parents up and caught up until 3am. So good to see everyone.