This week’s column deals with something that occurred recently at the Nashville Airport. It seems that Senator Rand Paul (R-KY) was going through security to go somewhere to give a speech to probably the largest audience he’ll have all year. For some reason the scanner he was using set off a noise. It was a complete shock to the Senator because as far as he knew he left his baseball card and hand grenade collection at his house. So, just like the officious “federal agents” some of them fancy themselves to be, a TSA Wehrmacht officer informed the Senator that because the machine got all verklempt, their rules call for a pat down. When the Senator asked what could have caused the machine to go nuts he was told it was probably just an anomaly. So he asked they he just be allowed to walk through the machine again and test the theory. At this point, the Field Marshall overseeing this Siege of Stalingrad basically told a United States Senator that “You vill do ass you are tolt.” Senator Paul was having nothing to do with that and demanded his rights as a United States citizen to avoid being treated like a new arrival at a concentration camp.

He was put in the “penalty box” to await his fate and took out his cell phone to try to call the people who were waiting for him to tell them he probably wasn’t going to make his flight. But NOOOOO. The Herr Major said, “Usink cell phones isss not allowed. You haf violated za rules again!” Long story longer (because I still have a couple of hundred words to fill this column) he was held for about two hours and then wonder of wonders…they let him walk through the scanner again. Golly Bob Howdy…nothing happened. It didn’t buzz, it didn’t poo, it didn’t even swear at him. It just allowed him to pass through like the good little boy he was two hours ago when this fiasco started.

I’ve often said that there are a lot of TSA people who seem really nice. Although I know they’re out there I’ve only met very few I would gauge on a “peter meter.” But like any other government entity sometimes a particular organization has people who have a difficult time finding a hat that fits their swelled head. I suspect in some ways it’s the same at the U.S. Postal Service, a fine organization I worked at for three years (1963-1966). I referred to myself as a “Federal Agent” who served as a liaison between 46 blocks of La Grange Park, Illinois, and the rest of the universe. I, too, could have developed a swelled head and the fact I was 20 years old and had a lot of beautiful women on my mail route, I probably did…but my conduct was exemplary. What most federal employees have in common is that their jobs are almost guaranteed lifelong employment. It’s next-to-impossible to eliminate a federal job thus reduce head count…not to mention redundancy. So the old adage of “Give him a fur coat and a little authority and he thinks he owns the place” is more truth than fiction and some take advantage of the situation to the detriment of not only the department and government, but fellow employees as well. And don’t forget that a groundswell of demands to become part of a union are now starting to emanate from this bunch.

Ironically, Senator Paul’s father, Congressman Ron Paul, has been trying to curtail, if not totally eliminate a lot of quasi-government personnel and their subsequent costs, like the TSA. Examples of what happened to his son (he’s STILL a United State Senator – his status hasn’t changed in the last few paragraphs) are rampant and have happened to other authoritative people My own Congressman was once forced to drop his pants because something either set off some type of alarm or a fashion-minded security guard was just curious what kind of undergarments would go with the fabric on the suit the Congressman wore. Please don’t think I’m advocating giving someone a pass just because of his or her status. I honestly believe there are more assholes among the elites than there are at the world’s largest proctology clinic. Whether someone is the President of the United States, the president of the Porpoise Pointe Homeowners Association or the janitor at a homeless viaduct, common sense should prevail above all else.

The TSA doesn’t need any more black eyes. There’s plenty of potatoes that can take up the slack. So why does it constantly stick its foot up its keesters by high-visibility episodes like the one with Senator Paul? It seems that just when things start to mellow it’s time for the TSA to order some 90-year-old woman to take off her thong for a cavity search. They’re supposed to be there for our protection; fetishism isn’t supposed to be one of their perks.

I’m all for protection but I’m not the least bit for assholinity – especially by people whose salary we’re being dunned to pay. With episodes like the one described there’s going to come the day that a airports full of David Banners (you may know David Banner by his professional name of “The Incredible Hulk”) is going to rise up and once and for all put an end to these penny-ante power plays. To paraphrase the aforementioned Dr. David Banner, as he gives a speech in front of Homeland Security, “You don’t want to see them mad; you don’t ever want to see them mad.”

No one was searched to produce this story. However, it is running two days late — due to a number of complex things that Al had nothing to do with: Mostly, because we were having trouble signing into the site. See who gets short next Monday, right here.

This isn’t some new phenomenon. No sirree Bob. This has been occurring since I first noticed this individual at about the age of 7 – even before I started traveling professionally. I’m of course talking about the “naked fat guy in my mirror.” That’s right, a naked fat guy in my mirror. I generally see him when I’m getting out of the shower. At first he’s hiding behind heavy mist that clouds the glass objects in the bathroom. But as the fog recedes the fat guy’s presence becomes clearer. I’ve often run out of the bathroom to escape this horrendous sight. Sometimes, however, he’s actually followed me into the other room. I don’t know how in Hell he was able to move that quickly.

Often I think of my history with this fat bastard. As mentioned, I first recall seeing him when I was a really young boy growing up in the state of Indiana. I further recall that when I first saw this creature he was about my age. Only once have I had the mental strength to look him in the eye and I was amazed at how much he looked like me. I figured he must have some kind of morphing powers to be able to change his appearance to whomever he was stalking at the time. I have no idea if he still resembles me facially but I will say this: that guy has gotten exceptionally fat throughout the years and as fearful as I am at somebody being harmed by this spirit or whatever the hell he is, truth-be-told I’m a little concerned about his health. I supposed I could have mustered the courage to have talked to him during the last half-century or more but as I said, I was afraid. Syphilitic Stegosauruses and AIDs-ridden T-Rexes never frightened me as much as that fat guy in the mirror did so the prospect of standing in one spot to talk with him instead of standing in one spot soiling my underwear wasn’t in the cards.

And to make matters worse, I think this guy is doing something with my wife. I thought I saw him in the mirror in our master bathroom awhile back and the thought of this animal fooling around with my woman has made me become so sick that I’m losing weight at such a rapid rate that my skin is starting to noticeably sag. Guess what…SO IS HIS!

I’m now doing the only thing I can do although I must honestly say I’m not proud of what I have to do to go on. Whenever I enter a new hotel room the first thing I do is determine where the mirrors are and I walk over to them, shut my eyes tightly and turn them around so they’re facing the walls. If the bathroom has a fixed mirror I enter with my eyes shut, grab a few of the bath towels and hang them over the mirror so that I can’t see anything (and by the same token, anything cannot see me, either).

And it doesn’t stop there, people. Last week I had a tooth pulled and as the oral surgeon was lining up his Novocain syringe like a put on the fourth green at Pinehurst I happened to catch a reflection of something and then it dawned on me; the fat guy looked like he was sitting in the chair with me. I screamed like a Banshee but fortunately for my dignity Dr. Fleming figured I was just frightened by the 5” needle he was about to insert into my lower left gum area.  If he really knew he might have arranged a field trip for me to the Giggle Bin.

I now know how these Hollywood celebrities feel when they’re being stalked. It’s a truly scary scenario and one I don’t know how to break. I’ve thought about going to the police but in putting myself in their boots I can only imagine how that would sound – a fat guy is stalking a fat guy. If I weren’t so afraid of winding up in prison and sharing a cell with a drooling chubby chaser I’d buy a gun and shoot that fat son-of-a-bitch the next time I exited the shower and saw him. (I just have to remember to keep my powder dry.) In the meantime I guess I’ll have to toughen up and realize that maybe for the rest of my life I’ll be encountering the fat guy in my mirror. It appears the only hope I have is that he’ll gain so much weight that his health will be endangered to the point that he dies…and then I’ll be free of him for eternity. One can only hope.

The airline has over 300 737s and operates 1,100 flights throughout Europe and Morocco from its 46 bases each day. Ryanair is headquartered in Dublin, Ireland. So with an operation so vast why would my first thought be the body-less brain must belong to Mr. O’Leary? Because if I were to believe half of his ideas then I’d have to be 100% certain that Mr. O’Leary was standing in the line that passed out brains, but he thought they were giving away pains and said, “I don’t want any.”

Ryanair was started in 1985 and O’Leary took over the top spot in 1991. When O’Leary seemed to be operating on eight-cylinders he came to America and studied Southwest Airlines as his benchmark for a “different kind” of airline. Under his leadership the airline has prospered – as have the silliness of his ideas. For instance, among things he has proposed as gospel or throw-away lines is to charge customers for using lavatories; “stand up” seats so more passengers can be crowded aboard; cutting down the cockpit staff from two pilots to one and train flight attendants to fill in for emergencies; and now he’s proposed something that even I would have never thought of during the days when I imbibed rum by the gallon in college – allowing pornography to be viewed on laptops and tablet computers in-flight.

If I were sitting next to someone on an airplane looking at porn I would be a happy guy. If my 10-year-old twin-grandsons were sitting next to somebody on an airplane looking at porn I would probably find Lorena Bobbit and give her a best “two out of three” opportunity. One demographic of extremely-low-fare carriers are families and Ryanair is no substitute for SexEd (other than the fact I sometimes think Michael O’Leary has a “screw” loose).

I have been giving an inordinate amount of thought to what would possess a relatively successful CEO of a major airline to consider such a folly. The answer came to me as I was proofing this piece (pardon the pun); it’s found in Paragraph #2…his desire to charge for visits to the lavatory. It has to be the answer. Exposure to pornography in healthy males (and even some females) can lead to sexual arousal that in turn would lead to a need to achieve release (or so I’m told…I wouldn’t know because I listen to talk radio and read Clive Cussler novels). The average person is probably not going to “rub one out” while sitting in Seat 16B. No…he (or she) will probably head for the lavatory.

WHOA!!!!!! It doesn’t matter how near the finish line a person is…if Ryanair is charging for visits to the lavatory…this person is going to have to adhere to the new rules of Ryanair…”Pay before you spray.” Bad enough, right? Wait until you hear this new possible scenario! It’s already an established fact that as nuts as he appears to be, Michael O’Leary is first and foremost an incredible businessman. Look at what he’s been able to accomplish in his potato-deficient lifetime. So it stands to reason that sometime before the porno program goes into effect, Ryanair, or O’Leary as a sole entity (remember…you can’t spell “entity” without “tit”) will probably invest in a towel company.

Think about it. The airline will be charging a pound or schilling or Euro or one of those funny-named dollar amounts for you to enter the private confines of an airliner lavatory…and upon completion of your business they’ll charge another fee if you use a necessary towel. (I’m strangely recalling the old Betty Wright song, The Clean-Up Woman for some reason. But…I digress.) These could be disposable towels, which would probably work better than cloth towels that have to be washed (or at least rinsed on the tarmac during a heavy downpour, thus saving even more money for the airline).

This setup would provide so many opportunities for increased revenue that business schools throughout the world would do white papers (pardon the pun) on it and who knows how many Nobels would come (pardon the pun) of it. Scotland Yard could develop a huge DNA database just by having its personnel “harvest” the residue after each flight. Ryanair could even rip out a few rows of seats and more than make up for the lost revenue by opening up a clothing store – specializing in underwear. Good Lord! I have a headache just thinking of the possibilities. And to think that all of this started with a simple suggestion that porn be made available as in-flight entertainment.

As I’ve alluded, Michael O’Leary may be nuts (pardon the pun) but when it comes (pardon the pun) to ways of making money his head sure is in the right place (pardon the pun). Investors will be lining up throughout the Continent to kiss his fiscal Blarney Stones (pun intended).

Al has never been caught downloading porn on an airline. Caught. See what he downloads next week right here on Mondays.

Surcharges? We don't need no stinking surcharges.

have taken it, however. Case in point is Ron “The Hedgehog” Jeremy, legendary male pornographic star. He and his siblings actually started out with master’s degrees in special education and Ron taught for a while in the Brooklyn school system.

But apparently he decided there was more work for his special Ed elsewhere. But…as usual…I digress. The reason I’ve brought Ron Jeremy’s name up is because he’s famous for screwing people. However, his reign as “King of the Doers” is being challenged by someone with “bigger engines” than Ron could ever dream of. I’m of course referring to the “humanitarian” enterprise commonly known as Spirit Airlines.

And what has Spirit done to get in my craw this time? After all they’ve burned up at least a half-dozen Super Computers coming up with new sources of revenue like charging for carry-on luggage and other equally draconian measures. Do you recall that commercial for Campbell’s Soup that has the tag line, “How did they get eight, great tomatoes in that little, bitty can?” Well the same can be said about Spirit but it will be said, “How did they get 174 seats in that little, bitty A320?” (I’ll tell you how; through a clever technique that’s referred to in the airline industry as “Piss on the passengers…they don’t need room.”

This new one, however, is a new low, even for Spirit. (But honestly…is there ever anything too low to have Spirit’s name attached to it?) After all their urging to have customers (read “saps”) ticket themselves via the website so the airline doesn’t need reservationists, they have just announced they’re doubling the cost of doing so to the point that it will cost $16.99 more…each way…for making a reservation online. Put another way, that’s $34 added to the cost of a ticket. Couple that with extra charges for luggage – both checked and carry-on – and buying MREs on board and renting a ratty-assed blanket and pillow and for what you’re paying to fly from Detroit to Myrtle Beach you might as well go to Singapore and at least rack up the miles.

Go to any Spirit ticket counter and if anybody looks happy it would probably be a good time to call in the sniffer dogs and a battalion of DEA agents because otherwise this emotion wouldn’t be forthcoming at that place. I’ve seen more smiles at Kimpo Airport in Seoul during my freight-flying days than I’ve ever seen at a Spirit counter…and Kimpo was only 38 miles south of the North Korean border!

By the way, there is an answer to my previous question about getting 174 seats in an Airbus. It’s no secret; seat pitch is 28”. That’s barely over two feet from the back of your seat to the back of the seat in front of you. By way of comparison, Delta Air Lines also flies A320s and they put in 148 seats…and that includes 16 in first-class with 36” seat pitch. Delta’s coach seats are 31”-32.” And keep in mind I haven’t even mentioned the distinct possibility of the insensitive prick in front of you leaning his seatback in your face.

I read something yesterday that has me worried sick that someone at Spirit will have also read it and think it was the greatest idea they’d ever heard of. Seems that an Austrian-based Comtel Air Boeing 757 was running low on fuel on a flight from India to the U.K. and had to make a forced landing. Once on the ground the captain began hitting up the passengers to pay for the fuel. Many took turns

going in to this town to find an ATM to help the cause. I don’t know if they managed to get all the money together or not. I hope so because it’s standard operating procedure in these third-world countries for stranded passengers to be eaten by the locals in some sadistic ritual.

That aside, I can guaranDamnTee you that somebody at Spirit has already begun a computer run of a similar opportunity to have the passengers pay for the fuel instead of the airline itself. Do you see how one’s mind works when put into the shoes of Spirit executives?

Getting back to my original premise I think that Ron Jeremy, especially when compared to the management of Spirit, is a perfect gentleman when exercising his craft; at least he kisses people he’s sticking it to.

Al is not Ron Jeremey, but he has been screwed by an airline or two. Normally, his column appears here ever Monday but due to an unforeseen surgery to Al’s editor, his column was delayed. See if Al bends over next week right here.

My traveling doesn’t let up much anymore around Christmas but no matter where I am I’ll make it a point to watch Holiday-related movies and specials (except for that asshole Charlie Brown; I hate that son-of-a-bitch). I can still tear up watching the 1938, and 1951 versions of The Christmas Carol. I love that story and the sight of Tiny Tim depresses the hell out of me. Even though Scrooge promised to take care of him and get him the best medical care I still intellectually know that poor little boy is probably dead today. But the focus of this piece isn’t the Cratchit family. They had their own problems, what with Bob basically being a pussy and all. No, I’m talking about that other Holiday tradition The Nutcracker.

My wife and I were watching a beautiful interpretation of this movie presented by the Royal Operatic Company (or something like that) in London. The music by the London Philharmonic Orchestra (or something like that) was beautiful. I don’t know what brand of weed that Tchaikovsky smoked but it must have been a great one to come up with a production like he did. I’ve probably seen variations of this movie at least 100 times or more but it wasn’t until the other day that it suddenly hit me; I hate that little thieving prick red-headed asswipe that swiped the Nutcracker Prince from the poor little girl because he wanted it for himself and then wound up breaking it! I become so incensed everytime that scene is played that I could saw the head off the Tin Man with my bare hands and piss down his funnel tube.

I started to analyze (and remember…you can’t spell analyze without “anal”) and it dawned on me that people were even politically correct in the 19th century (or whenever this was supposed to have taken place). Instead of taking that little sperm-gone-awry into the other room and beating him within an inch of his pathetic life they keep taking away the Nutcracker and shoeing him away. Shoeing him away my ass! They ought to put some honey on his little Johnson while tying his hands and legs to a tree and wait for the fire ants to do their bidding. He’ll find out the true definition of a nutcracker.

I don’t recall every interpretation of the play topping the head of this little bastard with red hair but it sure seemed appropriate. Truth-be-told I have lots of friends with red hair and I take personal comfort in assuming that somewhere in their past their great-, great-, great to the Nth degree Grandmother was brutally assaulted by a boatload of Vikings who were out pillaging. In high school we were the Valparaiso (IN) Vikings so I feel a kinship to people with Viking affiliation. As far as I know there wasn’t any kind of Viking debauchery in my family…just a bunch of Cossacks and junkyard dogs. But back to the red head.

Some of my best friends are red heads (or Jews, Blacks, Hillbillies, etc.). But I can understand them painting this little sack of shit with the proverbial red-headed step-child moniker. The more I think about it the ant hill scenario I painted a few paragraphs ago might be too tame. I think in keeping with the intent of the play that Herr Drosselmeyer should cut off this kid’s head, pull out his insides, stuff them up his dead ass and then dress him in a nutcracker uniform…and throw the asshole into the fireplace. THEN the gathering should dance around the fire, kumbyyahing past midnight when those damned rats make their entrance. (Some housekeeper the family must have, eh?)

I suppose a modern interpretation would have this family gathered around the gas fireplace and when the little girl opened the box with the nutcracker prince in it the thing explodes and wipes out the entire guest list of at least 35 people. Should this happen that would give viewers the extra time to head down and see the latest Alvin and the Chipmunks movie, which would contain just as much culture…and not one of those damned rodents has red hair.

On that note I want to take this opportunity to wish my readers a Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy New Year, Happy Ramadan or happy/merry whatever the hell it is you celebrate. As for me I hope to make 2012 the sickest literary year yet. What you’ve read these past few years is only practice.

Al started receiving coal in his stocking 60-something years ago — and he burns it gleefully every January. See what he burns up next week, right here.

She was two years behind me in high school (in a different town) and together we had figured out that we’d be able to buy a brand-new trailer, a new car and live happily on the $1.75 per hour I was earning at the supermarket. But, it was not to be. My parents moved to Miami in April of my senior year. I stayed with my great-grandparents and my father flew up for my graduation and four hours after receiving my diploma he and I were on the road south.

To say I was miserable is an understatement. However, I had to get a job so I checked the Miami Herald and circled some possibilities. I found one at an automotive operation that rebuilt starters, generators, starter drives, etc. I went in for an interview, identified a number of housings the owner showed me that I’d recognized since I was barely out of diapers (not now…then) because my family owned automotive junkyards until I was 16. I knew I was going to have to amass some coins because I was going to enroll for college in the fall and at $1.00 per hour I had to put in the time. I would make local deliveries to the Miami/Miami Beach-area parts stores and occasionally I would go to other nearby cities like Ft. Lauderdale, Palm Beach and Boca Raton.

My main job, however, was working in the shop, doing a number of odd jobs like tearing down starter drives, removing wiring from defective generators so they could be rebuilt and on Saturday, I’d load the trucks for the drivers who would be on the road during the week for their various routes throughout the state.  Almost all of the shop workers were Cuban refugees – mostly male. Every one of them told me they owned a factory until Castro had taken over. As a matter-of-fact, I quickly deduced that there were only two kinds of people who emigrated from Cuba – those who owned factories…and those who were doctors. Yet they all worked menial jobs. Furthermore, most didn’t speak any English. The foreman was a man who went by the nickname “Red” because his name was so unpronounceable you had to be a fifth-generation Havanan to come close. I was a skinny, 18-year-old kid and quickly became a favorite of the workers. Whenever a new laborer was hired Red would tell me whether they spoke English or not and if they didn’t, they were fair game for me.

One day a new employee came in and for some reason I wasn’t really listening when Red introduced him to me so consequently I didn’t know if he spoke my language. I assumed he didn’t since most of them didn’t know a word of “gringo” so when we were shaking hands I had a big smile on my face and said, “How you doing, F#$@head.” This guy gets this pained look on his face and said, “Why you call me F#$@head?” I said, “What?” Then he said, “You call me F#$@head.” I said, “I called you F#$@head?” and he said, “Si.” I said to him, “Why would I call you F#$@head?” (Meantime, Red was standing behind him, laughing his ass off and trying to not let the guy hear him doing so.) Then the guy said, “It sound like you call me F#$@head.” I said, “I’m sure I didn’t say that since I just met you,” to which he replied, “Then what did you say?” All I could come up with was some lame excuse that I didn’t know what I called him but it certainly wouldn’t be a name like that. My quick thinking probably saved me from having my little member lobbed off by a machete from a Cuban sugar cane field.

I know what you’re thinking…”Al, what in hell does this have to do with the price of eggs in China?” It’s just this. One should always learn everyday simple words in another’s language. You don’t have to have a Hardy Boys mystery novel written in Farsi but learning how to say things like “Hello,” “Good-bye,” or even rudimentary phrases like “Where’s the can?” or even the universal question, “How’s it hanging?” You’re not going to compromise your right to bear arms or wave the American flag because you’ve learned some words in another person’s language.

Even though we’re the greatest nation on earth – far above the likes of any other country on the globe – it doesn’t cost us anything to at least make it look like we give a damn about those who come from some third-world shithole. We shouldn’t go to the jungles of Burma (or Myanmar or whatever the hell name is now goes by) and expect the various tribes to speak like Americans…even hillbillies. Conversely we shouldn’t get irked at them when they come over here and try to ask us a simple question like, “I have to piss like a racehorse…where does one do this?” Even simple sign language will help. For instance, this person could whip out his little alien and then point to a pile of dirt and shrug his shoulders. I doubt anyone would expect to slap down a dollar, whip out his own, realize it was bigger than the visitor’s and then take his money, too.

Show some compassion for visitors to our shores. Making them feel welcome might help you some day when they take over our cities like they did Miami. This is a big world filled with interesting people speaking different languages. Show some compassion for those F#$@heads.

Muchos de los amigos de Al hablar en español, aunque no podemos imprimir todos acá. Vea lo que dicen de él la próxima semana, aquí mismo.

It was flown by All Nippon Airlines (ANA), from Tokyo to Hong Kong. It was comprised mostly of aviation journalists and a select group of paying passengers. (Being a journalist myself I think I’m pretty safe in guessing none of the journalists would be listed as “revenue passengers.”) It’s interesting that such ballyhoo was created for an event that should have occurred three years ago. The delay was a combination of mechanical, redesigning and a host of other valid and questionable excuses. The good news for Boeing is that it still has a backlog estimated at about 800 aircraft. Also, Airbus hasn’t seemed to use the time to speed up its A350WB development, an aircraft it wanted to produce to compete in the same segment as the 787.

The bad news would be the delay penalties that are always built in to aircraft purchase contracts. I have no idea what they are but just picking numbers out of my nose they have to be substantial. A delay of several months is quite bad; a delay of several years could be catastrophic. Luckily for the airlines there was a worldwide recession taking place so that diminished the urgency of adding an entirely new aircraft to their fleets when income levels have been non-existent.

Quite a few U.S. flag carriers have ordered the 787 but don’t rush to the airport to try to get a glimpse of one; the first domestic airline that will receive theirs is United and it won’t be delivered for at least a year. (I’ll bet if my beloved Pan Am were still in existence, as was their custom they would probably have received the first 787 and had a hoopla of a flight from New York to London or Paris, proudly displaying its big, blue ball on the tail.)

I had read somewhere that one of my favorite websites (after hipstertravelguide.com), seatguru.com, already had the seating configuration for ANA’s 787 shown on its breakdown. I went to the site and sure enough, there it was. I had been hearing about how spacious the new “Dreamliner (Boeing’s name for this twin-engine aircraft) is and when I went to the site I expected to see seat configuration damn near into three digits. I was shocked to see that ANA’s aircraft only has 12 Business Class seats and 252 economy seats. Furthermore, while the Business Class seats are 31” wide and have a 62”-63” pitch that allows for a 170-degree lay flat seat, economy seating seats only have a 31” seat pitch (the distance between the back of your seat and the back of the one ahead of you) and 16.5” in width. Good luck trying to squeeze the average American ass into that small a space – and think how wonderful it would be to be confined in this area for at least an 8-hour trip? Talk about a NightmareLiner! One can only hope that America’s domestic carriers will have more room in theirs. What’s that you say, “Bullshit?” The knowledgeable jury has spoken.

Find me an American carrier – or any others for that matter – that will have a better coach configuration than the 2-4-2 setup ANA has. Don’t forget that the seating of the original 747 was 2-4-3, which eventually led to 3-4-3. Same for the DC-10…its original seating was 2-4-2, which quickly became 2-5-2. So thinking any airline is going to gin up its passenger compartment with comfort in mind is just a dream (there’s that word again; maybe that’s why they called it a “Dreamliner”).

I’ll tell you for whom this aircraft will live up to its name…the management and shareholders of the airlines that will be flying them. The 787 is built primarily of composites – which means there’s a whole lot less weight on the airframe. Even somebody like me who spent his formative years in Indiana can figure out that less weight equates to less fuel burn – and the 787 is expected to burn about 25% less of it – not a small sum. So if the ground personnel can somehow arrange not to have equipment that needs to be moved sitting in the gate area, causing the arriving aircraft to have to loiter there and burn who knows how many gallons of Jet A waiting for the ramp rats to finish their coffee or wash their hands after they’ve gone pee pee or whathaveyou, advertised fuel economy should live up to its guarantee. I never cease to be amazed at the utter shock of our aircraft arriving earlier than expected and no one knows about it. You can’t exactly hide a 747 behind a runway light.

With the increased revenue the new 787 is expected to bring in there will be more discretionary spending on things like executive bonuses and executive compensation and executive incentive programs. (Are you really expecting me to mention things like the possibility of increased pay for flight attendants? Who needs them…they’re not executives, after all.) Furthermore, the airline can invest in faster and more powerful computers that will assist the airline in discovering new revenue sources and ways to eliminate all passenger space and comfort for good!

Bottom line is that I honestly do wish the Boeing 787 a lot of luck and success as it beings its lifetime of plying the skies – both friendly and hostile. Any time a new aircraft type enters the world it’s a good thing. But other than the expected joy of seeing it in person for the first time – and also flying in it for the first time the aircraft will become just another passenger-laden tube (albeit a composite one) shooting through the skies. An aircraft designed for creature comfort? Dream on!

Al has not flown in the Dreamliner and it’s unlikely he’ll be invited to do so. Find out what he gets banned from next week, right here.

But airline officials say flights will be returning to normal in New York today and then playing catch up from there.

The delays and cancellations, however, can be felt all around the nation, even where the weather is fair and mild. LAX officials reported that there would still be delays on Sunday. Anyone flying through the Northeast U.S. today should be sure to check with their airline before heading to the airport.

And if you’re not sure where to check, use a website like flightaware.com.

But what I’m truly sick of is the incessant stream of lies that come from the travel industry. We’ve all heard them. One example is “please turn off all electronic devices because they could cause interference with the aircraft’s navigation system.” Really? As many people who leave their cell phones on and still have their computers booted up – and have had them in this position for hours – why isn’t the plane landing in Subic Bay, Philippines, instead of Rhinelander, Wisconsin? Is there some magic wand at 10,000’ that protects the plane’s GPS from the Acer laptop in Seat 37B?

Another classic lie is the jovial sound of the captain telling you that your flight from Detroit to Chicago will be arriving 25 minutes early. The resultant internal shouts of “Praise the Lord” would make the Mormon Tabernacle Choir mute in comparison. Truth-be-told, you dumb bastards, even if you’re 25 minutes early…you’re still that same amount of time late! Chicago is about 234 air miles from Detroit. The actual flight time is between 30-35 minutes. However, scheduled flight time between DTW and ORD is about an hour and a half. That’s 90 minutes, Euclid! Run the numbers. Granted, an aircraft doesn’t push back from the gate and ascend to 35,000’ in a matter of seconds. However, there’s a lot of fudge time built in.

Another “fib” is the airlines touting their on-time departure/arrival record. The aircraft is not considered late until departing or arriving 15 minutes from its schedule. In other words if you are scheduled to leave at 1:00 and you don’t push back until 1:14…you’re still on time. If you’re due to arrive at 2:00 and you block in at 2:14…you’re still on time.

The truth: We have no idea where your luggage may be.

There are a host of embellishments as well – things like “We’re glad to have you aboard,” or “Thank you for selecting XYZ Airlines” or even “We’ll do everything we can do ensure you have a good experience.” In reality they’re going to do everything they can to shoo your ass out of that airplane so they can take on a whole new load of victims. Remember the credo of any airline: “Asses in seats mean money in the bank.”

So with all the lying we’re subjected to on a consistent basis you can imagine how refreshing it was to hear an airline employee utter a comment that even Pope Benedict and his boss would know is the truth. I’ll explain (which is just what you’d expect me to do, isn’t it?).

I recently came back from Austin, Texas, to Detroit. It was on a CRJ 900 – the good CRJ. However, unlike the great regional jet – an Embraer 175 – there’s not enough room in the overhead to put a standard-sized roller bag. No big problem – they give you a pink claim ticket and you check it planeside. When reaching your destination you wait by a door until they off-load the luggage that was checked that way upon departure. Sometimes it’s through a door; other times it’s behind a pull-down door that has to be opened. When it is, all the luggage that was checked is sitting in a baggage cart.

There were quite a few people who checked their luggage the way I’ve described, causing quite a crowd mulling around the closed baggage door. After about 10 minutes (which is about 5 minutes longer than it usually takes to retrieve your luggage and go) the captain walked by and was surprised we hadn’t retrieved our bags yet. He asked me if the door had been opened and informed him it hadn’t. He said there is supposed to be a gate agent whose job it is to ensure that process is completed.

Well Golly, Bob Howdy if the gate agent didn’t come running down the Jetway and announce that he was

Turn it off or we'll all die: Maybe. Maybe not.

going to open the door. When the captain asked him why he was late his replay was, “I wasn’t paying attention.” The last time I heard honesty like that came from me when I was asked by my ex-wife if I would be upset if I ever found out she had a boyfriend.

I was mesmerized by the sheer innocence such a reply gave. Nobody among that gaggle of passengers – at least those within earshot of the agent – was upset in the least after his confession. Even the captain laughed.

After opening the door he went back to the podium he was working and as I was walking out of the Jetway into the terminal I stopped and told this young man how proud of him I was for his truthful reply and how absolutely impressed we all were with his straightforwardness. Then I gave him some advice I’ve learned from my 67 years of life: “The day you start telling the truth is the day you’re out of business.”

Contrary to Grace Slick and her buddies who believe this city was built on rock and roll, it’s beer that made Milwaukee famous and it’s lies that have held this country together since its founding almost 250 years ago.

I was reminded of Diogenes who walked the earth looking for an honest man. Had he made a pit stop on the “Jetway of Truth” his life’s work would have been rewarded. Maybe he would have been there had he turned off his computer when prompted so the navigation system in his chariot wouldn’t have been affected and he wound up in Athens instead of Detroit.

While many travelers may not find Al’s honesty refreshing, our readers do. See what he tells the truth about next week right here.

For many years those of us who travel heavily for a living nicely folded our belongings in a handled suit bag if we wished to avoid checking luggage. Only rookies and those leaving home would pack anything more than carry-on luggage. I don’t care how long you’re going to be gone or how far you’re going, carry it on! Then one day, like the invention of the wheel, somebody, no doubt with the last name of “Samsonite” or “Tourister” invented a carry-on sized suitcase (as they were called back then) that had wheels and a handle to pull it behind you. No more Mr. Sore Shoulders. Other than rolling over gravel or other rough surfaces this was a gift from Zeus and his buddies.

Some of the earlier roller bags were rather lengthy and in order to get them to fit in an overhead storage bin on an airliner it required turning them sideways, which would tend to piss people off because there was that much less space for everyone to try to make the cut without having to gate-check their carry-ons.

I don’t know if the following is just urban legend or is true (if you sit around an airport bar long enough waiting out a delayed flight…everything becomes true) but I’ve heard about people who have had to check their carry-on luggage that became so angry that they took down names from luggage tags for all those bags in the storage bins that were turned sideways and within weeks of the flight brutally murdered all those miscreants. Personally, I think this is a true story but I assume TSA and Homeland Security are refusing to discuss this. (Furthermore, repeated calls to the White House have not been returned.) But…I digress.

Finally manufacturers started shortening the bags to the point that they would fit in length-wise – especially if the wheels faced out because the curvature of the doors would accommodate the several inches more that the wheel-side entailed. However…for years I resisted using anything except my carry-on suit bag. It held a lot of stuff (yes, including a suit, which I last brought with me about 15 years ago) and besides…it was a gift from my wife. During that same “for years” period I would occasionally receive some fertilizer over the fact I was the only one left in America – or at least in our traveling retinue who didn’t have luggage with wheels. Usually I would fluff it off by suggesting the person go make love to his palm. But after years (and years) of this I finally started to realize the possible value of rolling a bag behind me rather than lug a fairly-hefty computer bag in one hand and a fully-loaded suit bag in the other. By the time I reached the gate and got on the plane I was ready for a nap and/or a rubdown.

So…in a fit of pique…my wife and I went to Macy’s and bought a really nice, blue roller bag. My first reaction was a surprise by how much you could load in it. I waited until I was alone in the house and took out my old, gray lady and had a long talk with her as to why she wouldn’t be going on trips with me anymore. She was becoming the Samsonite version of “high-maintenance.” I was getting too old to do her right. She must have really been emotional because I heard no reply at all. I’m not heartless enough to toss this scarred beauty in the garbage. You just don’t treat something that’s been loyal to you for the past 25 years like some object to discard when you’re through using it. (After all…doesn’t that describe a condom?) No, sirree Bob. I’m going to let my wife throw this old bag out (pardon the pun).

Meantime, life with the roller bag has become awfully sweet. My arms, shoulders and legs don’t ache as much, I can put more items in the case, other than regional jets there’s nothing it won’t fit in and best of all my colleagues have praised me for entering the 19th century. Truth be told I was considering buying a bright-pink case – one that would not only stand out in a crowd but make a statement. However, I travel with basically a pretty rough crowd and I think if I were to buy some effeminate color like pink, or even yellow, the only statement that I would be making is, “Call 9-1-1.”

Al now uses roller bags for his computer, his luggage and even his TV tray has wheels on it. It’s just the way he rolls.