Of mojitos, MARTA and Baghdad Driver's Licenses. And Dan Blocker played "Hoss."

Okay, I’m in the midst of my first “away game” for a “home game” trip. So far, so good. My recent string of calamitous luck hasn’t reared its ugly head thus far.

I’m sitting on a porch, looking out over a valley and the mountains, enjoying a cup of joe and a “half price” ciggie (well, compared to the prices I pay in my new adopted homeland, the ones purchased back here in Georgia are half price. Discount Tumors! Whee!) We probably won’t start packing up the vehicle with tailgating goodies for another few hours, but the spirit and excitement for the first game of the year is palpable.

The travel yesterday was relatively stress free. I did my first airport parking off site at BWI, and it’s pretty much the same as I was used to in the ATL. Car to curb service, you can get a car wash while you’re gone – fairly easy. And I didn’t get lost! (Thank you, Nuvi!). Airport security did have a new “rule,” though. (Note from yesterday’s post: no, I had no problem bringing the Zippo. Or breast milk). I have a wallet that I’ve used for years now, and it has one of those handy little removable “flaps” with clear faces that allows you to conveniently whip out your license and insurance card and show it to any interested parties (kind of like Fox Mulder flashing a badge). Used it in airports for years now, no problem. However, now the TSA wants you to pull your license OUT of the little flap so they can hold it in their sweaty, grubby hands. Why you ask? Good question. I posed that same query to our nation’s friendly TSA employee, and she said “because you have to take it out.” Okay, thanks for that Com-castic! response. Because the license is a careful forgery, printed not on license card stock, but instead on the crystal clear covering, and by removing it from the flap, they’ll see through my devious, terroristic forgery? Because real, official identification contains tiny Braille-like bumps so small and sensitive they can only be felt by the trained human hand of our nation’s finest security detail? Because a perfectly clear pane somehow obscures the critical information (oh, like say my weight) that this crack detail of counter-terrorism agents needs to see? Because a driver’s license printed in Baghdad utilizes special inks that can only be seen via the top secret decoder contact lenses worn by airport security, and these “made by Q” lenses won’t work through the “filter” of a perfectly clear holder backed by leather? Or, just to slow the lines even further and piss me off? Hmmmmmm.

That nuisance aside, the trip really did go quite well. I had First Class for my flight down, and I took full advantage of that by enjoying Delta’s new cocktail menu. Oh, sure I started off with the usual pre-flight Crowns. But once up in the air, I sampled their new mojitos (good!) and a fizzy, light concoction of mango vodka and Fresca (Judge Smails would be proud). And I indulged my new “take my mind off the fact that I’m in a big metal tube with no business being in the air and it’s probably going to fall out of the sky in fireball of jet fuel carnage” hobby – working moronic crossword puzzles. And by “moronic,” I mean “TV Guide.” Hey, both my parents were top notch crossword fanatics. But I just don’t have the experience to make working a “real” crossword pleasantly diverting. So while I’m no Will Shortz, I do have an encyclopedic knowledge of TV trivia, therefore I got a big ass book of “classic” TV Guide Crossword puzzles. So, between the fizzy drinks, remembering the cast and key plot points of Bonanza and a spacious seat for my ample ass, the flight was rather enjoyable. (Though sadly, I think I now have an Avril Lavigne song burned into my head. No amount of vodka can change that, dammit).

After the landing, I had my first experience with MARTA. (disappointingly, it was NOT this “Marta”). Being a long time Atlanta suburban dweller, I really had no use for public transportation. I enjoy the freedom of my own ride, and didn’t think that MARTA would ever construct a specially designed cabin featuring non-stop smoking, cup holders, 24/7 sports-talk radio and the A/C cranked down to 65. But, now being a guest in my town and looking to make the logistics for my travel benefactors go smoothly, I tried it. And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. Once the pompous douchebag decided that my ass deserved a seat more than his camera bag (hey, Ansel Adams – I don’t think you’re going to capture any award winning shots at the Five Points station), I sat down, chewed a pack of gum and read the latest SI. The timing worked out perfectly, as both Freebird’s car and my train pulled into the station at the exact same moment.

Now, I’ve been up for three hours happily perusing the latest web news and watching a glorious sunrise on gameday. What could be better?

Back later this weekend, with reports from the tailgate, the game and the trip home…