2005-06-27 - 1:34 p.m. The 7th Level of Hell: Baggage Claim Baggage Claim in airports is the insulting equivalent of having your corpse being spit on after you�ve been executed. Some say that the security checkpoint is the worst process of air travel, but I disagree. It�s baggage claim. First of all, something you need to know about Logan International Airport, is that its no frills, no nonsense, and in no way aesthetically pleasing. O�Hara was much more put together with things like organization, and directions, and signs. Logan people aren�t fools. They know what they are doing. They just don�t give a shit if you know what you are doing. Like the shuttle. You�d think there would be a sign for the shuttle. I don�t get lost, I taken the whirly bird often, but I still can�t find the damn shuttle. Take for another example, there are 5 baggage claims. Each with its own belt. Now lets say 5 flights land at the same time. One would think that all 5 bags would get on separate tracks. Nope. The bags go to the closest track. And the best part�there isn�t a sign telling you which track has your bag. It�s more like �it�s your bag dumbass�find it yourself.� If I were homeless I would go to Logan and just hang around for papa�s new pair of shoes, thought I would likely end up with a woman�s bag, and thus become the prettiest cross dressing homeless man in Boston. Ironically its ideas like that which keep me from becoming homeless. That and money. I�m getting off topic. The Hell that is baggage claim is best summed up like this. You are trapped on a plane. You are trapped on a plane with 100 other saps. You are at the whim of the airline. If they say �the tarmac is too hot, we�re gonna wait here until the ice age.� Guess what� you wait. And in that time you get to learn things. You get to learn to hate the people you are with. Not all of them mind you. The woman in 20A who passed out and drool is piling on her blouse. I have no problem with her. She�s doing her job. Her job is not doing anything. Also the old guy who is reading his book. Leave him out of this. He�s just along for the tormented ride. Eddy Electronic Equipment, however, has got to go. This is the guy who has a blackberry, phone, laptop, fax machine, scanner, an mechanical squirrel, and an ipod, and refuses to follow any rule. Could the passangers please turn off electronic equipment! �Hell no,� he�ll argue, �if that old man can keep his pacemaker on, I�ve gotta fax Dallas some file about something worthless and evil.� How about Donna, �should have stopped at two� who has decided that her and her four kids really need to take a trip, despite the fact that only one of the kids can poop on their own. I feel the cost of flying with four kids and one mom, is the sacrifice of the least favorite kid. Trust me, it wouldn�t take parents long to figure out which one of you that is. Then there is �snotty student� who is the kid who is on his phone till take off talking about how his paper WILL be well received because he�s so brilliant. Maybe in other cities this isn�t as common, but in Boston, it�s the norm. This is the sorta kid you want to grab by the hair and punch in the nose and ask if your fist was well received. Then there is Ms. Local. She�s saying annoying catch phrases that are about 5 years out of date. �I�ll holla at you later� �I�m jiggy.� �I�m livin the vida loca.� Die x 3. My personal favorite, and this is always a guy, is Mr. Exact Opposite of the rules guy. He is the reason the pilots make those redundant announcements. He�s the guy who has his tray table up, until decent. He�s the guy who needs to use the bathroom right when the buckle seatbelts lights come on. And he�s the guy who brought on the huge carryon, and whips it into people�s heads as he crazily grabs for it as soon as he can possibly stand up. The thing about flights is once you land, you�ve gotta wait for everyone in front of you to get off. These people around you, these sickening vermin that you have only gained contempt for over your hours of flight time, just stand up waiting like horses at the starting gates to rush off the plane. But you wait, and wait, as each and everyone grabs their bags and slowly files away. And then you get off and for a minute or two, you are rid of these plagues. Enter baggage claim. It�s like a High School Reunion for your plane, except instead of five years its like five minutes. Everyone you hate is there. All the good people left. You�re more worried about where your bag is that the people around you, but you can�t help but get jealous as that asshole pushes and shoves his way to the front waiting for his bag. �Why does he get to be in front?� �I hope that his bag got lost� �I hope toothpaste exploded in his dress shoes� But it always happens, they get their bag first. Those bastards waggle out the door leaving you wide eye and panicked that you have missed your luggage, or worse!; that its somewhere between Phoenix and New Orleans being worn by some strangely European-looking bum that would now look good in either at little league game or a dive bar. As you think these deep dark thoughts, you look over at Johnny Asshole strutting out the door, wheeling his precious cargo behind him, like a cat with its prey in its mouth, and you get the urge, just for a second, to take a bite out of his neck.* But then you�d have blood on your shirt�so you hesitate, because you aren�t sure if you�ll have any clean luggage. *I�ve never bit someone on the neck to draw blood. I assure you all biting done in my day is of a purely sexual nature** **Unless you count that one time. Gump is back from his vacation: The Entitlement Generation Women and Physical Violence | |||||||||||
