randnix.com

Once again, my Elite status with American Airlines has failed to get me into First Class.  It has, however, gotten me into a reclining exit row seat, which, as all seasoned economy class jet setters know, is the next best thing.

I’m sitting next to the trophy wife of a family of 5 who’ve secured the rest of the row.  She’s advising the middle daughter (there may be 10 years difference between them) across the aisle as to the wisdom of pulling out what she thinks she might need for the first 20 minutes of the flight out of her carry on and then storing it in the ‘overhead bin’ until ‘the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign.’   Solid advice, I think, if not somewhat obvious.

"Mom" has heeded her own advice too.  She’s packed a folder.  As we’re taxiing, she begins to peruse the contents.   LAX is NOT their final destination.   I know this because inside the folder is a 232 page dossier containing every possible detail about what must be the mother of all vacations.  I see "Fiji" on one sheet; "Sydney" on another.   She flips through page after page of itinerary details.   Every child has a separate one, evidently, and she’s made copies of each which she folds and places into 3 envelopes and distributes to the pack across the aisle.   She continues flipping and I’m amazed to see one page of just names and social security numbers (5 of them).   There are photocopies of drivers licenses, passports, credit cards, pages detailing airline gates, times, even side notes containing the type of jet for each leg of the journey.  Brochures stapled to pages of notes, print outs of hotel web pages, one page listing every US embassy in the world; it’s all rather amazing, I think.

"Well, you obviously didn’t plan this out very well," I say, as she’s packing it all back up into seatback pocket in front of her.   She starts to turn to look at me and I realize this could very well turn into something that might cause a really long conversation so I fold my arms across my chest and close my eyes.

Predictably, she doesn’t attempt a reply and I settle in for the flight wondering exactly at what point do excessive organizational skills cross the line into OCD, quite sure I will never be at risk of becoming a victim of either.

So, you ask.   What the hell did Rand Damn Nix DO in 2007?  It certainly wasn’t blogging, now was it?

No, it was not.

2007 definitely had some challenges, but I’d have to say, looking back on it, it’s got to have been the best Rand Year in recent history.

NOTABLES:

AA Miles:  77,000

Countries:   7

Passports:  2

Lines of Code:   Give me a break…

Broken Bones:   1 or 5, but all in the hand.

Number of Hotels kicked out of:  1

Number of Hotels that should have kicked me out:   2

Number of lunches that consisted of rice, beans and mystery meat:  7,234

Number of weeks spent out of the country:   Far more than in.

So that’s pretty much what’s kept me busy and not blogging.   I really do intend to do better this year, but last year, seriously, I wound up on the back foot trying to make good on a million dollar promise I made counting on some support I didn’t get.   The fact that I did make good on the promise despite being behind from the start and without the support I was counting on made me realize how important it is to not go around making promises.   ;-)  

What I can tell you is that, and this is important, from the deserted backwaters of the Amazon, to trendy restaurants in England and all the way to the smoke filled Cafe’s in Paris…   and you may not believe me. . . . but I’ve got plenty of photos to prove it. . .

. . .  the buttcrack is back.   Seriously, if you’re not showing some crack, you just lost your relevance in the new world.  Once the only identifying characteristic of the average plumber –  today, however, in the 21’st century, we still don’t have our flying cars, granted… but we’ve got buttcrack.   Miles of it.

So, for 2007, we can sum it up with that:  The Crack is Back, Jack.  

No joke. At all.

Brasil.

Paraguay.

USA (they tell me I live there)

England.

France.

Argentina.

and counting. . . .