A confession

In the interest of full disclosure, I need to confess something. Well, two things.

First, I'm not a good flyer. For all the complex technology on board, planes, in my mind, are little more than school buses with wings. And that thought passes through my brain approximately 1 million times in the days leading up to a flight. So, needless to say, I get a little nervous about air travel.

Those of you who know me know that I'm a pretty big admirer of birds, particularly raptors, some of which fly impossibly high. My fascination with these birds, it seems, would make flying an enjoyable experience. To be sure, I like looking out the window while the plane is traveling smoothly, admiring the views and landscape below, but as soon as there's a bump in the air, the sweat glands in my palms start working extra hard.

Second, in order to "deal" with flying, Hayduke enjoys his own special blend of medication--specifically, Jack Daniels Old No. 7 Tennessee whiskey and ginger ale. Not enough to get drunk, mind you. Just enough to get from one stuffy airport to another (Because of this, I have no idea how people--Father Hayduke, to name one--endure trans-oceanic flights that are measured in days, not hours. The mere thought of this has drenched my keyboard in sweat).

So, why am I telling you this? Because I had to fly today, and therefore I had to imbibe a drink or two. Thus, if the following posts don't seem up to par, that's one of my lame excuses.

The other lame excuse for subpar performance is that I'm writing this in the shadow of the tallest ivory tower in the nation, Harvard, in what only can be described as the Smartest City in America, Cambridge, MA, and suddenly my extended education in a string of Maryland public schools doesn't seem up to snuff.