You Betcha!

I am sitting in an aircraft, bound for North Dakota.

Note: It is frigid in the cabin. I have graduated from wearing my big hoodie to wearing my big hoodie and my big designated-Fargo coat. In the cabin of the aircraft, yes. I believe that the frigidness is an attempt by the flight crew to acclimate the body to the air temperature at my destination, sadly.

Because flying through Las Vegas is clearly the most efficient route from Oakland to Fargo, obviously, I am sitting in a plane with a bunch of twenty something dudes with wacky accents, exceedingly large white teeth and bloodshot eyes headed home from a wild night in Vegas, oh yah.

Behind me is one of those ladies with the annoying aircraft voice. You know, the one that you can hear above the drone of the engines and the drone of the hung over dudes with the accents and big teeth and the screams of the kids in back, who seem to be enduring a torture of being torn limb from limb.

I look out the window. The ground 33,000 feet below is white. Snow, yes. I imagine we are flying over South Dakota. Or Wyoming. Or Germany, maybe.

The lady across the aisle is tapping my shoulder and asking for a favor. She is holding stacks of catalogs with ladies bundled in hats and sweaters and boots on the front covers. Catalog Lady is a buyer for a boutique in Minnesota, she explains.

She reaches across the aisle with a handful of catalogs.

Would you mind looking through the catalogs and selecting some items that you think a conservative Minnesotan might like? She is saying.

Huh?

Conservative? Minnesotan? Conservative Minnesotan?

Is she possibly talking to me I am thinking, a blonde Trophy Wife from the Golden State who just happens to be bundled in possibly the most atrocious air travel wear in the history of air travel who just happens to be on her way to (one) of the most remote locations in the northern plains?

I am from California, I am saying. But I can look if you'd like.

Her eyes narrow with suspicion. She pulls the catalogs back into her lap. No thanks, she says.

Access denied.

I only have one thing to say about that.

You betcha!

Is that a Flash or are you just Happy to See Me?

So, I botch sayings as much as anybody. I've never been really good at
remembering if a bird in the hand is better than a bird in the bush or if the rooster crows thrice, or is that the cock? or maybe it's not a cock, but it is the clock striking twelve, or something.

Yeah, I botch sayings. But, I do not botch the sayings while I am on live television.

Note: The lack of botching is simply due to the lack of televised opportunity. I'd botch, yes.

But I wouldn't botch sayings which implicate the private parts. Of a man.

Note: Well, I might do so. But at least I would have the good sense to giggle like a twelve year old.

So, the Sportscaster on our bay area television station is talking about sports and about basketball and about the great phenom Jeremy Lin, whose phenomenal greatness has spawned clever phrases like 'Lin-Sanity' and 'Will you be my Val-Lin-tine? and the whatnot.

Well, apparently in the sporting circles, there has been talk that his phenomenal greatness will be short-lived and that he is not as Lin-credible as he seems.

But after tonight's performance, Sportscaster is saying on LIVE television, Lin has proved that he is no flash in the pants.

Flash in the pants?

Now, flash in the pan--a saying originating with muskets and gunpowder and the 'flash' of light in the pan when the powder is gone, producing a useless flash--makes sense, especially to a Harvard-educated Mr. Lin. And me, yes.

But flash in the pants? Oh dear.

I do not know what to do with this shocking information. About what is in Mr. Lin's pants.
Flashy, or otherwise.

Holy Smokes!



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Location:Fargo,United States