Dear Diary,

And so, once again, we take to the skies on our mission to bring the joy and mirth of our radio program to the great unwashed masses of the nation. This trip takes us to Minneapolis, one of the two Twin Cities. St. Paul, apparently is the other. I guess when you've seen one, you've seen them both.

I find myself missing my loyal traveling companion, Larry. Sadly, he will not be joining us on this sojourn, as apparently, he has many more important things to attend to at home. I find myself envious, wishing that I, too, had wallpaper to remove in my basement bathroom.

Still, Bernard is quite an entertaining fellow to fly with. That wacky Bernie! He's such a card! Immediately after realizing that we did not receive bulkhead seats as is his customary preference, he kicks the flight attendant in the spleen. He must be a little on edge. I would have bet anything that he was aiming for her kidneys.

Check in goes relatively smoothly, the only glitches being the Sky Cap's reticence to accept Bernie's Militia membership card as valid identification, (despite the fact that it IS a picture I.D.) and the violent reaction over my innocently flip answers to his inspidly stupid security questions. The following is an accurate transcription of the innocent exchange that resulted in still yet another unwarranted strip search. See if you think I was out of line with any of this:

THE INNOCENT EXCHANGE:

HE: "Did you pack this bag yourself?"

ME: "Yes, but the cab driver offered to repack it for me, as he thought I might not have rolled my socks properly. A lovely Middle Eastern gentleman. Achmed Abmudi."

HE: "Did anyone give you any packages to bring on board?

ME: "Yes, actually, the same man. He wants me to deliver it to his family in Minneapolis. It's really nothing. Just a small box that ticks and smells of gasoline. Is there a problem?"

I don't know why airlines refuse to hire personnel that posess even the remotest sense of humor.

I listen to the pre-flight instructional speech a little more attentively than usual. I don't know whether my rapidly waning zeal for flying has to do with the requisite paranoia of age, or the fact that the when the flight attendant asks the gentleman across the aisle from me what his final destination is, he replies `Heaven, I hope. How abou you?'

1:47 P.M EST TAXIING TO RUNWAY.

I find myself worrying about the sudden loss of cabin pressure. Not because I'm afraid of crashing, but because I don't know if I'll be able to get the oxygen mask over my head without cutting off the circulation in my neck. Julie, our septugenarian flight attendant, doesn't have to worry about any of this. She carries her own oxygen tank. We are instructed that in the highly unlikely event of a water landing, we should use our seat cushion as a floatation device. Hey, if this bird goes down into one of the Great Lakes, there's gonna be something on my seat cushion, I'm not gonna want to use it as a flotation device. Okay?

3:14 P.M. EDST: 37,000 FEET

The pilot has just informed us that we are flying above Green Bay...like if I look out my window, I'll be able to see the Packers training camp. What the hell is he doing pointing out places of interest anyway? He's supposed to be flying the plane, not acting like a freakin' tour guide. Look at what's in front of you, you moron! Concentrate on what's ahead through the windshield rather than craninng your neck to get a glimpse at Niagara Falls.

5:20 P.M. DST

Bernard and I check into the Minneapolis Marriott Southwest, where Bob Doran, the manager, mistakes us for Charles and Imus. Good thing I brought the cowboy hat. After 45 minutes of groveling, the real I-Man shows up with Chuck and blows the charade. I guess I'll have to give back the Cartier.

It's a beautiful hotel, not one where you have hookers hanging around the lobby. The concierge brings them right up to the room. There are beers on ice and a fruit plate. I call Room Service and arrange to trade the fruit plate for a bowl of sausage gravy and a few more beers. I love this town.

6:45 P.M. DST Stacy's Seafood Grille

We meet the pantloads from the Station for a special dinner in Imus' honor in the dining room of the hotel. They've prepared a special menu just for him. Bernie and I skip the Tofu Steaks and manage to score a few smoked duck and roasted corn tamales and a half dozen Pork Tenderloins. Imus leaves after 12 minutes. A record. Bernie and I stick around for another hour or so regaling our hosts, the management of the Timberwolves, with Apocryphal stories of the I-Man's adventures They especially enjoy the one where he discovers the Salk vaccine in an old bowl of Kelp Salad.

Back to the room for sleep and a little Spectravision. Many movies to choose from: Casino, Heat, Broken Arrow, Sense and Sensibilty. I settle on a double feature of "Jane Bond Agent 69: The Girl from L.U.S.T." and 'Beaverly Hills Cop 2' as I've already seen the Melissa Mounds retrospective. Sleep comes quickly.

2:30 A.M. DST Room 1720

Wakeup call. The guy at the front desk thinks I must be a drug dealer to be getting up so early. When I inform him I'm here in town to do a live broadcast for the radio, he comments in traditional Minnesota fashion "Ooh Fa!" Which, apparently is Swedish for, "You're a moron!"

3:45 A.M. DST

I realize I've woken far too early for the limo pickup, and spend the extra time banging on the doors on my floor and yelling 'Fire!' Many of the businessmen are not amused. Nor are the ladies from the various escort services accompanying them. Fortunately for me, the businessmen are all on expense accounts, and just call for new companionship when the girls don't return after the fire drill.

4:19 A.M. DST

We arrive at the Target Center after a particularly restful ride from the hotel, wherein Imus threatens to knife Charles, Bernie, myself, the limo driver, and two homeless people outside at a traffic light. There are approximately 400 people in the arena already, which is considerably more than the Timberwolves had in their last few home games. They demonstrate something they call "The Timberwolf Twist", which is something they apparently perform during really close games, so it's safe to assume they didn't do it all that much this past season. It's sort of like the Tomahawk Chop, except instead of making a hand motion and moaning like Cherokees, they all bend over and lick themselves.

9: 13 A.M. DST

We attend a reception upstairs in one of the meeting rooms at the Target Center, where there is an enormous buffet of fresh fruit, bagels, muffins, juice and coffee. I trade a few pieces of melon for a dozen of those Pizzas-On-A-Stick. The show has gone well, despite an unpleasant off-air exchange between Imus and Mike Wallace, where Mr. Wallace questioned Imus' parents' marital status when he was born. He's pretty feisty for an 86 year old guy. We all think Imus is right about his holding William Colby hostage in Art Buchwald's basement until Sweeps Week is over.

12:15 PM DST

The Limo arrives to take Bernie and me back to the airport. Imus, Chuck and Mark Chernoff have gone ahead as they're flying into Newark, it's leaving about 15 minutes prior to our flight into LGA, and Imus needs some extra time to check all the extra baggage. You wouldn't think a man of his stature would need to steal EVERY towel from a two bedroom suite.

1:00 P.M. DST

Boarding time. It goes pretty much the way it went in New York. No bulkhead, flight attendant removed from the plane on a stretcher. I begin to think Bernard drinks a little too much coffee.

4:00 P.M. EDST