DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

Of all the places in the world where people are often confused and/or lost, airports contain the highest concentration of people who are looking somewhere other than where they’re walking.

Visitor confusion is easily explained: tight schedules, crowds, a lack of legible signage, etc. But people are confused in lots of places, and this doesn’t always result in effectively blinded automatons who’d as soon run you down as step around you. The difference, I’ve decided, is momentum.

Because in addition to the melange of obvious distractions, airports suffer from a population burdened with heavy luggage: suitcases, duffle bags, briefcases, trunks, backpacks, sample cases, diaper bags, coats, purses, cameras, pet carriers, and so on. When saddled with gear, many people apparently believe that walking in any direction is preferable to stepping out of traffic, determining where to go, and only then continuing.

The only explanation I can think of for this behavior is that too much energy would be required to stop and restart forward motion: in an attempt to prevent a dramatic loss of energy (which might be needed later when elbowing through a crowded aisle to lift 300 lbs of carry-on crap into the overhead compartment), many travelers opt to continue in their original direction until faced with a compelling need to turn — e.g. a solid wall, a fellow traveler, or a sign elsewhere indicating once and for all that one’s ultimate destination lies over there.

There’s a related, and equally regrettable behavior type that is evident at airports: folks that stop in the middle of the corridor and slowly turn 360 degrees to figure out where to go next. This is an energy-saving play, too, although it’s interpreted differently: walking in the wrong direction is a waste, whereas stopping and starting is just a necessary evil. The problem, of course, is that everyone walking behind these folks has to stop short or hop around, or traffic backs up. (In ideal cases, everybody stops short in a straight line, until someone at the back end isn’t quick enough and knocks the whole line down like dominos.)

So anyway, I stepped off an escalator at SFO last Saturday and was nearly toppled by a man with two heavy suitcases. He was walking straight at me, but his head was turned 90 degrees to the right. “Am I supposed to be over there?” he was thinking. “I’d better keep walking this way until I’m sure.” I was able to step around him, but unfortunately caught his eye, and his attention, just before he marched up the down-escalator, which I’d have liked to see.

I stood still, watching for a few seconds, marveling at this guy’s thoughtlessness — he just assumes everyone else is looking out, making room for him — when some other jerk shoulders around me, muttering “Don’t stop in the middle of the corridor!”

Imagine the nerve!

I just received an invitation to my 20-year grade school reunion. I think I’d be happier to be listed in the “missing in action” group than the “invited classmates” group — some 33 people who I haven’t thought of or heard from in the ten years since the last reunion, which I attended after a fit of ill-advised nostalgia.

It’s not that I had a bad time at the last reunion, so much as the fact that I haven’t been in contact with any of those people since then. I’m sure if I went to this gathering, I’d soon glow with the same warm and fuzzy feelings I had ten years ago, although in that case, I think I had one too many cheap canned beers first. (There’s something about drinking lukewarm Budweiser in one’s grade-school cafeteria that lends a surreal quality to any social gathering. Perhaps they should hire out for dramatic presentations, wedding receptions, and the like.)

I have to admit, my first thought upon opening the invitation was to send back the reply envelope empty. Heh.

I’ve just finished a reading binge. If you’re looking for recommendations for some great fiction, take a look at my late summer reading list.

The best of the best: The Man Who Wrote The Book, Harmful Intent, Survivor, Holes, Sick Puppy, microserfs.

Disclosure: purchases made through the provided links to Amazon will result in small payments to me. Please don’t be offended — I promise not to get rich at your expense. If everyone who reads this site regularly bought two books, I’d make enough money to buy … about two books. As ugly as such blatant capitalism can be, it might one day help offset the cost of hosting this website.

The Debris.com Personality Inventory

Regular or decaf? Sparkling or still? Red or white? Shaken or stirred? Rocks or straight? Coke or Pepsi?

Paper or plastic? Automatic or manual? Briefs or boxers? Fold or crumple? Shoei or Arai? Metric or standard? Digital or analog? Window or aisle? Nylon tip or wood? IDE or SCSI? Own or rent? Gay or straight? Smoking or non? Real or silicon? vi or emacs?

Bad habit: reading the Sunday supplements. I admit it; I spend 20 minutes each week skimming through USA Weekend and Examiner Magazine and whatever the other one is, I don’t even remember.

There’s always a health or fitness column of some sort. It’s probably in USA Weekend because it’s so USA-Today-like — they boil a complex issue down into 4 bullet-items with a little cartoon illustration, thereby saving the population the need for higher education. They make it simple, so the reader never has to think.

These articles are oddly compelling. Like I said, I read them every weekend, mentally checking off each bullet-point as if the tally would predict something meaningful about my health. In the recent article about hemorrhoids, the bullet points under “prevention” included:

• drink lots of fluids
• avoid meat and dairy
• exercise regularly
• eat high-fiber foods

I read through them all, feeling better with each item — “I already do all that!” I exclaimed aloud. Clearly, I’ll never get hemorrhoids.

So I got that goin’ for me, which is nice.