IABC Conference Day 1: Bloggers Take Flight


by Mike Sorohan

Saturday, June 23, 2007
On board US Airways Flight 925 to New Orleans

8:45 a.m. ET/7:45 a.m. CT

We are finally on our way to New Orleans. Ned is sitting two rows behind me, engaged in an animated conversation with his seatmates. I’m glad to see Ned coming out of his shell. It seems to me that when faced with social situations such as IABC conferences, Ned tends to clam up, so seeing him loosen up with complete strangers is refreshing. Perhaps when we get to New Orleans he’ll be less of the wallflower he usually is.

8:15 a.m. CT

I’m so excited about the IABC Conference I can barely sit still.

8:16 a.m.

I’m going to take a nap.

8:45 a.m.
I am contemplating the Official US Airways Barf Bag, thinking about the advertising possibilities for JOTW. “Advertise with US” the bag reads, “Reach over 4.2 million travelers a month by advertising with US Airways through…airsickness bag[s].” Excellent! With a little turbulence, this advertising campaign could pay for itself. Maybe we should start charging for the “One Paragraph (okay, Five-or-Six Paragraph) Pitch”…
8:58 a.m.

Looking out the window, I can see the Great Wall of China snaking its way through the countryside. Truly magnificent, a feat of engineering unlike anything on Earth.

8:59 a.m.

The flight attendant informs me that what I am looking at is not the Great Wall of China, but in fact Interstate 40. Truly magnificent; a feat of engineering unlike anything on Earth.

9:05 a.m.

Ned and his two seatmates are still engaged in boisterous conversation. The passengers around them are doing their best to ignore them. I can’t hear what it is they’re discussing, but it no doubt has something to do with either 1) the best place to buy cheap beer in Honolulu; 2) quantum mechanics; or 3) The Boston Red Sox. Ned has already informed me that the Red Sox won last night, which, as I am a lifelong Cleveland Indians fan, has absolutely no bearing on my life.

9:06 a.m.

By the way, the Indians lost last night. Carry on.

9:31 a.m.

Ned and his seatmates have lost steam; the conversation has given way to quiet contemplation. Ned appears to have slipped into a coma—in nursing lingo, his mouth and tongue have formed the letter “Q.” I pray that I can wake him once we arrive, or else I’m going to have to pay for the cab all by myself.

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