October 17th, 1:37 A.M: In The Dark Of My Bed

Can't sleep. I'm physically exhausted...and I'm not feeling well...my back hurts. (Wait a minute, that's not me, that's somebody else) Actually, I think I'm too excited. Yes, that's it. I'm positively trembling with anxious anticipation, convulsed with paroxysms of unrestrained joy at the thought that in a mere 15 hours I will be boarding a plane that will take me to a most magical, sacred and holy place, the Dairy Wonderland known as Wisconsin.

It's almost too much to think about: The Beer and Cheese Capitol of America. A veritable Fat Man's Disney World. I have made a solemn vow that, by sunset tonight, my cholesterol and blood alcohol levels will match the radio station's zip code. The first three of the five digits are 532 I think, so I have my work cut out for me.

We're to travel on Midway Airlines, a name which either refers to the section of the United States they serve, or the place where the flight crew was previously employed. I seem to remember reading something about Midway's market research indicating that Siamese Twin flight attendants are twice as efficient. Perhaps it's due to my happy childhood in a Circus Sideshow myself that makes me think hearing "Ladies and Gentlemen, on your flight deck this afternoon, Captain `Jo Jo The Dog Faced Boy' and Co-Pilot `The Human Lobster'", a charming possibility.

Imus will not be traveling with us, a serendipity that has stemmed from the fact that Midway does not feature a first class section. He and Charles will instead fly into Chicago, and then be whisked by limo to Milwaukee, a two hour drive. I make a mental note to say a Novena for Chuck before I leave for the airport. Two hours trapped in a plane, then another two in the back of a car with Buckaroo Beelzebub, that's a voyage even the most rugged of travelers would forego in favor of jamming shards of glass into their eyes. Forget Mother Theresa, after a trip like the one he's about to take, Mr. McCord would be a shoe in for canonization whether he took those Bible classes or not.

Larry, Bernie and I are to fly alone on a DC-9, and as the plane seating is configured four across, (2 by 2, just like in First Class) we'll be drawing straws as to which of us will get stuck sitting next to some Fat Salesman from Eau Clare who just finished a week in `The Big City' attending the Prosthetic Limb Convention. I remind myself to check Larry's sleeves before we do. He's such a shameless cheat.

I try to lull myself into blissful slumber conjuring dreamy visions of the finest domestic Edams, Muensters, Neufchatels, and Liederkranz. I say a silent prayer, thanking God for the bounteous teats of the blessed bovines from which these lactose laden delights have sprung.

I think my therapist may be right. I probably do need to get out more often.

October 17th, 3P.M.: Fiorello LaGuardia International Airport

But I need the caffeine, as I got NO rest last night, a combination of my excited anticipation of this trip and the fact that the baby is teething. As far as I'm concerned, the little punk doesn't need them. Baby food is obviously not designed for optimum `Mouth Feel' because texture is not a concept which concerns the average 8 Month old. Besides, if your diet consists of `Beef, Rice & Broccoli' entreés that can be sucked through a straw, what the hell do you need teeth for? It's a moot point, because by the time he finally gets them, all my pent up anger and frustration could result in him losing them prematurely anyway.

I'm restless. Something is bothering me. I think it may have something to do with the stepped up security measures at the airport since the last time I traveled anywhere, a safety net that basically consists of the guy who checks your luggage asking you if you packed your own bags. Quite a few terrorists are going to be tripped up by this particular strategy, I can tell you. As I check in, the passenger on line in front of me answers the question: `No, the Cab Driver did it for me...a lovely Middle Eastern Gentleman by the name of Abu.' When asked if he had accepted any packages from strangers, the man replies `Yes, from the same man, actually. It's a little plain brown paper wrapped package that is ticking and smells of gasoline, is that bad?' Two Airport Security Guards smack him in the spleen with their nightsticks, wrestle him to the ground, and drag him off for further questioning.

An upsetting sight, although not quite as disturbing as the sign I see that leaves me so completely heartsick, I have to eat a few cheeseburgers to calm down. It's a sad commentary on our modern society, and how dehumanized we've all become. It refers to the Airport using `Drug Sniffing Dogs'. I'm outraged. The exploitation of animals is one thing, but to take advantage of those in the throes of addiction is an abomination. I give a five dollar bill to the fat woman by the metal detector and ask that she put it towards the poor little doggies' Rehab Fund. They're calling my flight. I must put the image of junkie puppies out of my mind and focus on the journey. America's Dairyland awaits me. Strangely, I feel as if I'm going home.

October 17th, 3: 55 P.M. LaGuardia Airport Gate C9

After a few anxious moments on board a Midway flight bound for Kansas City, I realize the reason I have not seen Bernie or Larry is because I'm not only on the wrong plane, I'm on the wrong airline. We're supposed to be flying Midwest Express, and after a few hurried apologies to the flight attendants and a harsh word or two exchanged between myself and a slightly impatient and very pregnant passenger, I make my way off the aircraft and back into the terminal, where, naturally, my plane is three concourses and 29 Gates away, a distance of approximately four miles. Hoping my flight is being delayed the customary 11 minutes bestowed every departure out of LaGuardia, I make the mad dash, all uphill, to the elusive C9. I discover the reason the airport is named for the diminuitive mayor must have something to do with the demeanor of all the employees who work there. If memory serves, he was affectionately referred to as `The Little Bastard'. The Security Guards don't find my sense of outrage at the elderly gentleman going through security ahead of me at all in the spirit of `Happy Traveling'. Apparently, his advanced case of Alzheimer's has made him forget that his pacemaker is setting off the metal detector. Where's a microwave oven when you need one?

I hear the final boarding call as I realize I'm still about two city blocks away from the gate. I spot one of those golf carts that will most certainly expedite my attempt to make the flight, but notice that of all things, a dog is taking up what should, rightfully, by virtue of my postion on the food chain, be MY seat. I toss the mangy cur from his spot just as it departs. Unfortunately, the gentleman holding his leash also follows suit. He falls rather inelegantly onto the floor. Thankfully, his screams of protest go unnoticed by the driver of the cart, who is wearing a pair of those Jet Blast/Ear Damage Preventive Headphone deals. As far as I'm concerned, the selfish animal lover got what he deserved. Is there anything more pretentious than someone who wears sunglasses, indoors, during the day?

Make the flight with exactly three seconds to spare, and the only seat available is next to the aforementioned salesman, who, in addition to being roughly the size of that Michael Hebranco guy who came up with more than `Full House' on the Richard Simmons `Deal a Meal' card game, is wearing a black T-Shirt and is sporting two salt rings under each armpit the size of dinner plates.

I pretend I'm sleeping to avoid engaging in conversation with the enormous, yet narrow-minded behemoth I'm unfortunately forced to sit with on the sold out flight. He doesn't seem to get the hint. After a rather graphic anecdote about his recent gall bladder operation, I finally give up. He seems to enjoy describing, in painful detail, his pre-op body shaving. The fact that this Human Ampitheatre appears to have enough body hair to easily mistake him for wearing an argyle sweater, is almost enough to make me lose my appetite. Which would be a shame, as the In-Flight lunch, a lovely presentation of Chicken Caesar Salad, is being served in a bread bowl.

I must be tired, as I think I'm hallucinating. The parmesan cheese shavings appear to be moving. After about thirty or so forkfulls of the very attractive, albeit animated, entreé, I perceive the chicken to have a slight gamey tang. Perhaps it's one of those `Free Range' jobs.

Jabba the Homophobe folds his salad in half and eats it as a sandwich, polishing it off in two bites. He inquires as to whether or not I'm going to eat my bowl. I offer it to him with my compliments. I also tell him he's welcome to my salt and pepper packets and Wet Nap as well. He saves those for dessert.

I'm starting to think traveling with Imus wouldn't have been all that bad after all.

Oct. 17th 5:15 EDST Flight 6 35,000 Feet

I pretend I'm sleeping to avoid engaging in conversation with the enormous, yet narrow-minded behemoth I'm unfortunately forced to sit with on the sold out flight. He doesn't seem to get the hint. After a rather graphic anecdote about his recent gall bladder operation, I finally give up. He seems to enjoy describing, in painful detail, his pre-op body shaving. The fact that this Human Ampitheatre appears to have enough body hair to easily mistake him for wearing an argyle sweater, is almost enough to make me lose my appetite. Which would be a shame, as the In-Flight lunch, a lovely presentation of Chicken Caesar Salad, is being served in a bread bowl.

I must be tired, as I think I'm hallucinating. The parmesan cheese shavings appear to be moving. After about thirty or so forkfulls of the very attractive, albeit animated, entreé, I perceive the chicken to have a slight gamey tang. Perhaps it's one of those `Free Range' jobs.

Jabba the Homophobe folds his salad in half and eats it as a sandwich, polishing it off in two bites. He inquires as to whether or not I'm going to eat my bowl. I offer it to him with my compliments. I also tell him he's welcome to my salt and pepper packets and Wet Nap as well. He saves those for dessert.

I'm starting to think traveling with Imus wouldn't have been all that bad after all.

OCT. 17TH 5:30 P.M. CDST Milwaukee Airport

After striking myself in the head a few times, I manage to render myself unconscious for the rest of the flight, but as I wake, I feel really sick. I suspect the moving Parmesan Cheese shavings were actually another source of simple protein, although not one I think you'd find in Julia Child's pantry, unless she's started to cater Prisoner of War Camps. I think I have food poisoning. My traveling companion suggests we share a cab into town and keep the `extra money' from our expense accounts. I've had enough. I mention casually, that I think he has nice eyes.

I've never before seen anything that big move quite that fast.

Finally rid of my obnoxious human appendage, I still have ahead of me a 15 minute car ride to the Pfister, one in which the driver manages to negotiate hitting every existing bump between the airport and downtown Milwaukee. I'd hurl if I didn't think it would put a serious damper on my friendships with Larry and Bernie.

The Pfister is a glorious hotel, the lobby resplendent in high ceilings, and huge, ornate, gilded columns. There are oil paintings of cherubs on every side and above, giving the place a Sistine Chapel-esque look. I notice on the far wall the word `Salve' is painted. After a few uncertain moments of thinking that it refers to a medicated ointment, and that it's not called The `Pfister' for nothing, I realize it's actually just a Latin greeting. I barely make it to my room before I return my lunch back to the earth by way of the porcelain conduit. I climb into my bed and pull the covers over my head, praying that God will take me soon.

OCTOBER 18TH, 4:00 A.M. CDST. PFISTER HOTEL LOBBY

Chuck, Bernie and I meet and await the presence of the great man for the two block limo ride to the Grain Exchange, a cavernous room that dates back to the late 19th Century. It's opulent splendor is surpassed only by the Pfister, although the overly Roccoco flourishes do call to mind a catering hall in Bensonhurst. The rows upon rows of white, hardbacked wooden chairs complete the scenario, making all of us seated at the dais on stage feel as though we're guests of honor at a Bonano Crime Family Wedding.

I'm feeling a little better, having had some sleep and voided myself of the offending foodstuffs from the afternoon before, but sadly realize that due to my illness of last evening, it's doubtful that I will sample the bounties of Milwaukee. Imagine coming all this way and leaving without immersing myself in the many pleasures of lactose nirvana and hops heaven. My mood brightens, however, when I see the myriad of people streaming in at this ungodly hour to view the proceedings. I take comfort in the fact that there are still people in this world more tragic than myself. These poor, life-less lemmings, hauling their collective cookies into town to see the Great Man. I suppose there's some truth in Imus' statement that `They were probably up this early to milk the cows, anyway.'

October 18th, Grain Exhange, 5:00:45 A.M. CDST

Larry arrives 45 seconds late, much to the I-Man's irritation, and doesn't think that his excuse, stopping by a hideous accident on the way over to save an overturned busload of Senior Citizens on their way to the Potowatomie Bingo Hall is good enough. As far as Imus is concerned, if Larry wants to administer CPR to a bunch of old farts, he should do it on his own time.

The show pretty much goes off without a hitch, the lion's share of the credit for that going to the people from WISN, the affiliate here in town, who have amazingly, been able to stem the I-Ire by not dropping the ball technically. No mean feat, considering the aural nightmare presented by the 30 foot ceilings. Imus can't even bring himself to his usual state of rage over much of anything, although there are two casualties that stem from a briefl yet still quite unpleasant episode backstage where the coffee was not perceived to be hot enough. Just to show how much he appreciates the effort of the stations underlings, however, he offers to pick up 20% of the I.C.U. care the two women from the catering company will most surely require.