This past December we were ready for our Christmas trip to New York City. On December 14th the crew was on its way to fly out the next morning to the Big Apple out of Louisville. I don't know why Lexington cannot be competitive, but we have to drive 100 miles to SDF to save several hundred dollars on flights. Somehow this trip was destined to never be as we were sitting on I-64 waiting to enter the Watterson Expressway when Crash!!. This over- intoxicated bimbo runs into the back of our car! She sits in the drivers seat of her Explorer for perhaps 10 minutes before she decides to join Dave and me outside in the crisp Jefferson County evening air. It takes this woman this long to get out and what does she say? Not "Are You Hurt", or "Is Everyone Okay?" No, she asks,"What are you going to do?"Her exact words. When I tell her I had called 911 she just said"Oh". Well to make a simple story end , she subsequently blew a.135 on the breathlizer(sp?). Well the Impala was drivable, so we went on to the motel in hopes of flying out the next morning; while the silent maiden accompanied the Metro policeman to her own Gray-bar hotel for the night. Somehow I feel that well dressed 48 year old women should have better things to do than be drunk at 6:30 pm on a Friday Evening. Maybe it's a husband issue.The next morning we thankfully boarded our Delta sponsored commuter Chatauqua jet for Cincinnati, or so we thought. Our young Skyking Pilot had us pushed off from the gate and said due to icy weather we were number 2 to be de-iced for take-off. Wrong . Four hours later we had watched every big Delta jet in Louisville roll up and be de-iced and depart on schedule. Our little Chatauqua just sat there like a ship of the damned. He finally rolled up to the gate , and one half of the plane jumped off. We had endured no food, lies, and extreme heat to no avail. Delta reluctantly refunded our tickets but gave no apologies. The Delta manager in charge was a perfect jerk, even saying Delta had no guarantee over the Chatauqua commuter. I wonder who he thought sold us the tickets. I do know that seven in our party will never fly Delta again, or Chatauqua, not that it matters to either. I wrote to both airlines and Chatauqua didn't even bother to respond. Delta came back with a syrupy, whiny-assed reply telling of conditions beyond their control. All I can say is Delta's entire crew at SDF was at wit's end on how to help us, and incapable of the simplest social graces. Did they not have mamas's who taught them how to say"We're Sorry"? And as for the manager at the ticket counter named Don, I hope you feel like you did your job. Maybe you should try a vocvation where you don't have to have contact with people. I realize you probably don't have much education, do you? We drove home in a cold rain while others visited Rockefeller Center or sat next to our non-refundable empty seats for Spamalot. Thanks to the drunken wench I have met a slew of new people in the form of insurance agents and insurance adjusters. It's amazing how little your car is worth when a drunken person plows into the back. Plus we all got subpoened to traffic court from the offices of Mr. Irv Mize in Jefferson County. A nice lady called the Victim's Advocate called for my account and excused us from court unless the lady pleads innocent. In that case we have to drive 100 miles to Louisville and testify she hit my car. I hope if we have to go that the Delta crews , the insurance adjuster, the pilot, and all of the people involved have to testify., but that's not going to happen , is it?As I traveled to the site of one of my jobs this week I thought of this mixed up adventure. The Impala still travels along at 80 MPH with its broken taillight and dented rear but its growing on me, kinda like the Rat Rods , you know. Scars add interest to western heroes' faces, so maybe the dented ass-end adds class to the Impala.I stopped to use the restroom at Pall Mall, Tennessee and checked out the old mill at Sgt. York's park. A long way from Louisville Airport and Delta, but one of life's simpler pleasures. I'm listening to Fergie and Natasha Bedingfield on the cd player and it seems right going through Fentress County, Tennessee. Tomorrow its I-75 and Knoxville. 85 MPH and the Foo Fighters. I'm saving Fergie for the trip down Jellico Mountain.
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