Integrity is the Best Defense

A recent experience reminded me of one I had in high school. In 1986, I graduated with honors, meaning I was in the top 10 percent of my class. Being active in youth leadership as a student senator and an elected state officer for the national chapter of HERO (home economics related occupations), and public speaking were among the things for which I was known. One of the scholarships I received was from the Rotary Club of Dallas, having spoken at their monthly meetings at the Texas State Fairgrounds numerous times. It was an honor, educational, and much fun.

In my senior year, my girlfriend wanted in one of my classes for the second semester, but it was full. I guess this upset her because unbeknownst to me, her father called the school in hopes of advocating that she be placed in my class. So out of the blue one day, I was called into the principal's office. 

 

As a kid I was Batman: full on integrity

As a student senator active as a youth leader on a state and national level representing Skyline High School, which at the time—in the mid 80s—was the 3rd largest high school in the US, I knew the principal well. After all, I was an honor student. I also knew Principal Golden from serving on a committee to help him transition from the very popular Frank Guzick. Guzick was so beloved he had a Dallas area school named after him.

Very quickly I realized that this wasn't the ordinary visit to the offices of Skyline High School. Apparently Melany's father had NOT called Mr. Golden in hopes of pushing her into my class. Unsure who had, they wanted to speak to me. Dr. Tuckey, the disciplinary vice-principal was in the office, as was the department head, and friend of mine, Mrs. Blair. It was Dr. Tuckey's assessment that I had made the call. Wait. What? 

 

That's me in the center of the left page, editor in chief of 

"For Senior's Only" school magazine. 

Mr. Golden is just above me, and Mr. Guzick at top 2nd from left.

My fellow student senators at bottom. 

After a few questions I learned that someone posing as Melanie's father called and spoke to Mr. Golden personally. Mr. Golden knew me…quite well. I asked Mr. G if he A: really believed I could get away with sounding like anyone but me, let alone her father, and B: in knowing me, he really thought I could not only do something like that, but think I could get away with it. 

Mr. Golden did NOT think the man posing as Mr. Melaniedad sounded like me, nor did he think I would do something of the sort. Mrs. Blair was in the same court and did not believe in the slightest that I would try something like that. She then brought to our attention that at the time the call was made, I was in class. Dr. Tuckey, not knowing me as well, swore it was me, even though he never spoke to the faux father who made the call. 

 

Jedi Knight

Later, while in class, Mrs. Blair told me a story of her being blamed for something she never did. As far as she knew, she was still thought of as being responsible. It's something she can live with because she knows the truth. She believed me, and understood my disappointment in Dr. Tuckey placing blame at my feet. She assured me that keeping my integrity in tact meant that those who really matter believed Dr. T was off base, Mrs. B. encouraged me to keep my head high and let it slide off my back like water on a duck. Being unfamiliar with waterfowl and certain phrases, I had to look that up. But I would always be guilty in the doctor's mind. 

 

Nearly forty years later I was visiting with a friend I used to work with at a haunted house in Houston. I told him that I felt that I've fallen out of popularity because I no longer worked there. He said something that confused me; something about the letter I wrote to the corporate offices of 13th Floor anonymously. Wait. What? Not only did I not write a letter to corporate, I never wrote any letter to the haunt at all. For what reason? Smoking back stage.

He recanted how the company director read this letter to the actors one night after the show at a pizza place. She attributed it to me because it was sent snail mail, which is apparently old-fashioned, as I'm known to be; was written well, which is my style; and was about a topic I had once brought up to her in a complaint. Never resolved, the following year, I simply stayed away from the other actors to avoid the smoke. Not a big deal.

I was more than shocked. First of all, the unprofessionalism of a manager reading out loud a letter sent to corporate, anonymously or not, then handed down to the Houston division. And then assigning guilt based on gut-feeling, without investigation. I was vocal about my issues with backstage smoking and was not alone in the complaints. It would be easy to craft a letter in the style of my speaking, and my blog is not exactly private, with over 35,000 views. Believe me, were I to write a letter in hopes of keeping it anonymous, it would be written in the style of someone other than myself. Doy!

 

I often had friends over

So upset over this accusation and the method in which it was handled in front of my friends, I dealt with it differently than in high school. To defend myself I called her out in a letter that, as she had done, I shared with the actors. The haunted house in Houston was never lacking for drama. There were actors with an ego the size of Alaska who thought they ran the place. Actually, they sort of do...telling others who displease them that they shouldn't bother to show up for work.

One of these ego-cretins once came to me and asked to speak in private. I followed him and he said, “This is coming from (our director), but you can't advertise your party here.”  What displeased him was leaving fliers advertising my Halloween party. And now he was telling me I couldn't do so, as had been done by others. This guy hated me. He tore down signs I posted in the break area selling contact lenses I couldn't wear. He once accused me of “stealing” the new hires when inviting them to join a group of us another place from where he wanted to go.

My immediate response to this mental midget was, “If this is coming from (director), have (director) tell me," and I walked away. Our director never said a thing and my fliers remained (It was a great party, by the way). The third time he asked me to step aside so he could speak to me—yes, third—I told him that I was done being pulled aside by him. If he had something to tell me, he could do so in front of everyone present. This time it was to complain that was planning a party the same night he wanted one. Tough shit, Sherlock. I announced first.

 

Just look at the spread

The Halloween Party was off the hook

My point is, this guy hated me enough that I could see him trying to set me up with this anonymous letter. The funniest thing is that he had no idea that I was only planning to work 1 night that season because I was returning to my full-time job. Such energy was wasted trying to set me up when I wasn't even going to work that season. And (director) fell for it, regardless of who wrote the letter.

After posting my open letter to her defending myself, I received a threat from the halfwit himself. Asshole, I replied, you are not in charge of me. Not now and not then. You can't tell me what I can and can't write or what I can and cannot say in trying to defend myself. Next I heard from (director) who wanted me to know she didn't ask him to threaten me. She may have been daft enough to read a letter falsely attributed to me, but not so much so as to sick the dimwit on me. Note taken.

 

It took a year, but she finally spoke to me about this letter and I took the opportunity to fill her in a few of the things the moron did while I was employed by her, including his various verbal threats, each of which I laughed at him and walked away. His hatred of me grew each time. If I felt no need to write her a letter about all that, I certainly had no need to write a letter about backstage smoking. I was never, nor am I now, scared of that simpleton.

But like Dr. Tuckey in 1985, she stood by her guns saying she knew I wrote the letters (yes, plural). So now to find I wrote 2 letters. Just how many did I write?, I asked. But don't bother. As much as I'd love to hear what the letters said, I know I didn't write them, regardless of the style in which they were written or the topics covered.

A few years ago I learned that Mrs. Blair had passed away. I have no idea if Dr. Tuckey is alive, but I couldn't help but wonder if that 12-sandwich eating man still thinks I made that call to Principal Golden. Not only did I really admire Mrs. Blair, she now knows the truth about the call to Principal G. I didn't make the call. I didn't write the letters. End of story.

 

As stated in my defense, I own my thoughts and don't hide behind fear. The backstage smoking pales in comparison to the backstabbing and yet I never mentioned it. The saddest thing about being drug back into their drama is that it has stained the joy I had in working there for two seasons.

What I love most is when I asked my friend why I was just hearing about this over a year after it happened. He said no one from our group of friends really thought I wrote the letter. It's like Mrs. Blair said…if you have good integrity, if you live life right, no one who really knows you or counts will believe shit like making calls to a man you know, pretending to be your girlfriend's father, or writing anonymous letters. 

 

No fear

 

 

If you enjoy poetry, you can purchase signed copies of my 3 books at www.penguinscott.com 

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Beautiful and Villainous, My January 6th

 

My beloved Astrodome during Rodeo

I survived yesterday, January 6th, spending it relatively quiet, sleeping in, and keeping mostly to myself. I ventured out just long enough to say hello to my neighbors before driving to the Astrodome in order to volunteer at the 2026 Houston Rodeo. It was actually at NRG Stadium, which is next door to the vacant Eighth Wonder of the World Astrodome, one of my all time favorite buildings, so in my head, that was my destination.

January 6th isn't necessarily a difficult day for me, but it is a memorable one. Just five years ago, on the 7th day in the hospital with the trump virus, my doctor stopped by to inform me that he thought I was well enough to go home. What a relief. I call it the trump virus because he did so little to protect Americans, cum the world, from such a vicious illness. I figured if he could call COVID the China virus, I could call it the trump virus. Only seems fitting, finding out first hand what a vile illness that was. (Not sure of which I speak.)

I thought I would die in that hospital, as many around me did. I'd hear the nurses talk outside my door about who had died the night before. Twice in rooms that neighbored mine. The second time was complete with a discussion on when they could use the room for the next patient—not until the afternoon, because they were backed up downstairs, so the patient was still lying in state in room next to mine. And then her replacement moaned and cried for help all night long.

What led me to the hospital stay was my second visit to the ER. The first time I was sent home only because I didn't need to be ventilated. I could hardly breathe, my chest hurt with double pneumonia, I couldn't smell a thing when inhaling deep from the container of ground coffee next to my Keurig. As much as I enjoy coffee, I hate the smell of coffee beans. As I struggled from the examination table to my feet, I whimpered, "OK, then I'll go home to die." I later regretted saying that. It wasn't the nurse's fault, and I hope she can know that in the end, I didn't die.

Barely alive in hospital

There are many things I don't recall from the days following my first ER visit; like what I did when I got home. Probably passed out from the struggle of walking into my home. I don't recall driving myself to the hospital the second time. I do recall being turned away from the main entrance and forced to walk around the block to the ER entrance. I remember thinking I was about to pass out and wondered how long I'd lie in the grass before being discovered. I don't recall checking in, but I do remember being wheeled to my hospital room. I remember how shaky I was, how concerned everyone was about my state of health, and how kind the doctor and nurses were to me. Thinking back, it was a wonderful gift to give a patient who may not see the next day.

So on day seven, that kind doctor said he thought I was well enough to go home. He'd requested I be released with a home oxygen system, which I stayed on for at least a month. I was so excited to see my cats, thinking I'd never see them again. I remember the night before going to the ER that second time, standing in my bedroom, unable to inhale because the pain was so bad, crying, wishing to die, knees going weak, looking for the best way to fall when I passed out, and seeing all three of my cats in different corners watching me like children seeing their father go off to war.

The first thing I asked the nurse the following morning—day 8—was if she knew when I could go home. I'd see that question all day go unanswered. For the first time since I entered that room I turned on the television. The news reports from Georgia's run-off election kept getting interrupted by the crowd gathering at the capitol in DC. By the crowd growing in size and in frustration in how the counting of electoral ballots wasn't going their way. By the crowd rushing the steps and climbing the walls. By the crowd then breaking into the United States Capitol building. It was the first time I'd cried for something other than my pain in a month. Perhaps yet since Mom died that previous March.

A month later still on oxygen

So much was my anticipation in going home, I missed dinner. When hearing the dining room had closed, a nurse brought me a sandwich from Subway. "I can't eat a whole sandwich," I told her. "Please take the other half." She left me the cookie and earned a place in heart, along with the other wonderful nurses, doctors and friends who had given me encouragement since falling ill early December. She refused my attempt to pay her.

After eating half the sandwich given to me, I fell asleep. The night nurse woke me, "It's time to go home. I'm here to help gather your things." I smiled at her. "I don't have much," I said. Since I drove myself to the hospital, and had no one to pick me up, I also drove myself home. The attendant had fun wheeling me all over looking for my car. And just like getting there, I have no memory of driving home. Had it not been 11PM in a world still mostly devoid of unnecessary traffic thanks to the covid shut down, I would not have attempted it. But I was a desperate man.

Seeing my cats again gave me such joy that I nearly fell dead to the ground in my living room. Their boxes needed to be emptied and the effort it took to clean them required a break in between. When getting ready for bed I fell, grabbing my night stand and causing it to roll completely upside down. I wasn't hurt. And as my shallow breaths slowed to normal, pulling the sheets up to my chin, I thought back on the day. January 6, 2021 was one of the longest days of my life. It was nearly January 7th before I got home. And I had watched an insurrection against my beloved country by my own countrymen live on television. How could my heart rise at being home and so crushed at the same time? The body is truly amazing.

My fur babies, Cusco, Miss Ellie, and Winona

It was nearly three months before I was able to drive. The book I'd been working on before falling ill was now impossible to finish because I was unable to type. Had I been able to, my concentration was shot. The fatigue was so bad that I slept much of the time, just like my cats, who stuck by my side to help me recover.

Recovery took four years. The brain fog never left, the dizzy spells, the phantom smells, seeing things in my periphery, unable to concentrate on what was being said to me. I was ineffectual in speaking the words that came to my brain because of some weird filter just inside my mouth that had me stuttering and slurring words like an afternoon drunkard trying to find his way home.

In the months after hospital, I was still shaky, and so easily distracted that I was becoming a danger to myself at home. A doctor suggested I consider admitting myself to an after care center, but I soon found a friend who needed a place to live as much as I needed assistance. The recovery was slow, but with encouragement from friends and family and my desire to get back to the career I love so much, I fought my way back.

Back where I belong, to a career I cherish

After nearly giving up on life, unable to write or return to flying, things began to turn around in the summer of 2024. By that October I was back in the skies, happier than I've ever been in my life. I'd beat the trump virus. I'd heard people die in the hospital. I'd lost neighbors and family. I saw the entire world shut down the week my mother died. And witnessed the first insurrection that our once proud nation has endured.

Like my illness, it was but a misstep. The USA will survive just as I have. It will recover. It will be stronger and happier than ever. I lost 100 pounds in the year after January 6, 2021. The world will eventually lose the obscene weight of an ego maniacal, bigoted, misogynistic, fake, loser of president- a convicted sex offender on top of being found guilty on all 34 charges of corruption, and likely just as guilty of pedophilia. We really need to tighten up our constitution so we never see another criminal enterprise brainwash half the country into an actual political cult.

But five years later, I'm flying. I'm happy. I'm spending quality time with my sweet gato-kitties, seeing the world, drinking good wine, visiting with friends and family, riding roller coasters, and writing again. The fatigue still keeps watch over me, but I do what I can, the best I can, to curse it away. We may have seen an insurrection on January 6th, but I won an insurrection against the trump virus that same day. Maybe it's fitting that this date in history is both beautiful to me, and vile at the same time.

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Turning 58

 

A very young Penguin and his Mommy

As I slide into the final stretch of my fifty-seventh encircling of our sun I can't help but laugh. Not at being this old, but recalling a few months ago when I had to ask my brother how old I was, in the middle of a minor freak-out thinking I was about to turn 59 and how did I just lose a year of my life. I remember Mom calling me many years ago with the same thing. She always used my age to remember hers because our birthdays were exactly 20 years apart...by only 2 days. She was delightfully silly in her ability to remember my age and not hers. But now that I'm as old, I see her logic.

Our December birthday pix often had Christmas trees

When I was very young and it was just Mom and me, we'd celebrate on the day between. She'd bake eclairs, cover them in chocolate cake frosting, and stuff them with ice cream. She'd dim the lights, we'd sing, and blow out our candles. It was this time of year they usually showed her favorite movie, "The Wizard of Oz." In my little footie pajamas, we'd cuddle under a blanket and eat milk duds and popcorn. That might account for my affection for wicked witches. Warm-fuzzies. (If only evil could be so easily destroyed by nothing more than a pail of water. Evil these days.) 

I don't recall the dinners. For years her tradition was eclairs and ice cream, but knowing me, she probably made something as mundane as fish sticks. To this day one of my favorite things is soft fish tacos with the cheap-o fish sticks. After all, with a little lime and tartar sauce, you're not going to notice the fish as much as the delightful texture of a crisp fish stick wrapped in a soft tortilla snuggled with shredded cheddar.

Mom and me at the Texas capitol with my brother

Tonight's meal was a leftover steak from a holiday dinner I attended earlier in the week. When my brother called (he's the best) we mutualed our fondness for leftovers. Steaks aren't always the best. That typically goes to Italian, Chinese, or anything with sauces that can meld overnight, but every once in a while I manage to cook leftover steak perfectly. This was one of those nights.

Last week while shopping I came across mini eclairs in the freezer section. I asked her if I should; and her response was, you're only young once. (Too late?) Mom's were the size of ten of these minis (at least that's how this little kid remembers them), and her icing was much better. And moms know best...ice cream is superior to the sweet cream in these little treats—good, but not Mom-quality. Nothing can compare to the memory of a six-year old with the best mom there ever was. Right?

I asked my brother if he ever shared his birthday with his oldest son. Like me and Mom, theirs is 2 days apart. Half out of financial hardship and half from being far from her family, who were in the Texas Panhandle, we combined our birthday in between. But it isn't the hardship that I remember, and I never saw signs of Mom being unhappy or lonely sharing her birthday with me so close to the holidays. We may have shared our special day, but she made it all about me. Those early memories are stronger than titanium.

I wanted to advise my brother, in the few years left before his eldest of two sets off for college, bake him a cake, sing to each other, and cuddle up to watch your favorite movie together. Because we're never promised tomorrow, and long after you're gone, its these sort of memories that will warm his heart. But Mom and I shared a sense of sentiment rarely seen in kids these days, and high school boys would sooner eat titanium than cuddle under a blanket to watch Ninja Turtles with Dad.

Here's to you Mom, on my Birthday (our birthday). Thank you for me and all you sacrificed to create the man I've become. I know I make you proud and I'm thankful for feeling your presence often. And now that I've titled this, I'm all, "Wait. WHAT?! Fifty who?"

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My Evening with Jane Fonda

I was in South America when I first saw an ad to spend an evening with Jane Fonda. I started to jump at the opportunity, then pulled back and thought, there really are better uses of money right now in my life. I'm still struggling to get back financially after being out with long covid for four years.

Several days later, and many discussions with myself, I decided that she is such an icon, has always meant a lot to me, and because of her workout video is a big part of my current health, not to mention the fact that I worked out with her every day for years resulting in the loss of 100 pounds. (I've been unable to do her workout routine since my car accident in July 2024.)

Missing the chance to meet such an amazing person, actress, and activist would manifest regret. After all, one of my philosophies on life is to seize meaningful experiences. Since meeting a legend such as Jane Fonda would be akin to therapy, something worth spending money on, I became the proud owner of a third row seat at the famed Jones Hall in downtown Houston.

I chose to dress in an artful fashion as I do, and noticed people across the lobby taking photos of me. Several even asked to take a photo with me. I had so many people compliment my attire, others out of earshot thought I was someone famous. "Look at all the people stopping that guy and take pictures with him. I wonder who he is." It's just little ole me, Penguin. I felt like a star.

Not only did I feel majestic, the evening was resplendent. I was one of only 60 VIPs to meet with her, get a signed book, "What Can I Do?" and tell her how much she means to me, having helped me lose 100 pounds.

My evening began on the red carpet of Jones Hall with sushi and a glass of Prosecco. She had tuna, eel, and California rolls, shrimp nagiri, caterpillar rolls, and more. I enjoyed the peppered tuna and caterpillar the most. The bubbly was divine, as bubbly tends to be.

We were then led to our seats—mine in the third row stage left. The lights came down, and she spent over 90 minutes talking about her life. In politics there are pillars required to fail in order for an authoritarian regime to succeed...it's up to us to dismantle the ability to tear these pillars down before he's successful. The audience replied with thunderous applause.

She spoke about her movie love interests. She cherished kissing Robert Redford and Donald Sutherland before revealing a surprise as her favorite leading man...Lillie Tomlin. She spoke about her years in Atlanta married to Ted Turner. She wasn't used to someone else paying for things, since she was well to do already. But advocating the power one enjoys with wealth and notoriety was something she came to enjoy. They still spend time together on his ranch fishing.

The evening had tender moments where she expressed regret in how she raised her children when they were young. She had no idea how to raise a child, having been raised by a governess. Observing mothers during the Atlanta years was educational. Now Jane spends much time earning the love of her children, saying that her goal is to die at home, in bed, surrounded by those she loves. But to make that happen means having to work at keeping those relationships, or she could die alone.

She is strong and driven to leave the world a better place for her grandchildren (and society). She was forgetful, at times going off in tangents and losing track of the question. She is 88 after all. From climate change to feminism, she understands the importance of voting, standing up for values, calling out authoritarianism, and doing the work required to better our world. Her advocacy of LGBTQ rights, social justice, and environmental challenges is legendary.

At one point in her life she was close to putting money down on a nice home in the mountains that looked down to the valley below, thinking it would be a great place to host fundraisers. But on a trip through Colorado, driving east, she had an epiphany. She didn't want to be looking down on the people she hoped to help, she wanted to live among them. 

Jane loves to work and to keep busy, so hopes for another TV series. It was obvious that the crowd enjoyed her Grace and Frankie series. I enjoyed hearing how she bonded with Dolly Parton. To prepare for a character, Dolly took her on tour in the forgotten parts of Appalachia where she met a family and later returned to spend time with them, sleeping on the floor.

One part of the night early on really struck me. She said that white people in America are beginning to experience something we have never gone through before. Black people know what it's like to have their freedoms at risk. They've fought for voting rights, to be able to marry who they please, to own land and businesses; things people are only now beginning to see are at risk. Elections are in danger, businesses are struggling, farmers are fearful, gays face a real chance of losing rights. Our country has never seen such attacks on our way of life, our rights, our very own constitution.

Her charge? Wake up, get involved, learn how to protest safely, and named freedomtrainers.net as a resource. The crowd cheered often as she made point after point, and the moderator from Texas Monthly Magazine, Mimi Swartz, pointed out how unusual it is to see this sort of support in Texas, being so conservative. The house clapped and in the silence afterwards I shouted in what my friend calls my stadium voice, "We are here!" This elicited more applause and Jane looked over at me and smiled.

After the show, back in the green room, she held out her hands to hold mine. I had watched her give comfort to two women earlier. Her smile was as warm as chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven. She not only embraced me, but was present as I thanked her for her body of work, especially the workout video. She was proud to have been such a big part of my life. And then I told her, if you ever need a home among the people to host a party, I'm your guy. (She had mentioned needing one in a place like Texas to do so.)

After our hug, I began to leave. She stopped me, "Please take my book. I've signed it for you." I nearly forgot. It was heavy in my hands and with a colorful cover, where the white dome of our nation's capitol watches over Jane Fonda and others protesting. "What Can I Do?" by Jane Fonda. And on the spine is a penguin. How perfect.

There are few stars in this world I am proud to have met. Stevie Nicks, Al Gore, Ann Richards, Henry Rollins, Barbara Bush, Shirley Maclaine, Tony Curtis, Larry Hagman to name a few...and now Jane Fonda. Honestly, I have no recollection of what this VIP experience cost. The entire evening was pure joy. Soaking in her passion and authenticity was invigorating. I spent an evening with Jane Fonda and loved it. Thank the gods.

If you enjoy poetry, you can purchase signed copies of my 3 books at 

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Texas-shaped Indulgence

 

Those who know me are aware of my penchant for all things horror. Those who follow my blog know I was once a general manager of an amazing haunted house in Northern California (Doctor Evil’s House of Horrors). As a kid I was a HUGE fan of the Munsters and the Addams Family. And years later, my brother and I would help Mom pop corn and watch Friday the 13^th, where he’d ask her to “brave him.”

It’s hard to believe that it was only about a year ago that I met Mark, the YouTube sensation known as Frightman. He was looking for a makeup artist and heard of my pal Hayden from the Houston haunt where I worked for 2 seasons. Hayden called Mark one night when he was at my house, so I heard his side of the conversation. Next thing I know, I’m inviting Mark to join us in Bastrop for a visit to Scream Hollow, for their summer Halloween festival. (You should check it out when in the Austin area, it’s a SCREAM.)

Soon after that, I’m helping Mark with camera work and appearing in his YouTube videos helping him assemble and review animated props. Turns out he and I make a pretty good comedy team with a freakish following of on-line fans. We both feel like we’ve known one another for years, perhaps because not only do we both love horror, but we share a history of working at Astroworld back in the day, when it was an astronomical theme park. Astroworld. Rest in peace.

(Here's a link to his channel: https://www.youtube.com/@Frightman )

Last year he and I went to nearly a dozen haunted house attractions together, including a series of such held at Six Flags Fiesta Texas in San Antonio. When traveling there, we go in together on a hotel room, and he marvels at my insistence to stay in hotels that offer not just free breakfast, but with Texas-shaped waffles. Recently while in Dallas to visit Six Flags over Texas (yes, I have a season pass) I sent him a photo of my Friendly State waffle.

As I sat at the table eating the Panhandle of Texas, I began to wonder what it is about Texas-shaped waffles for me. Indeed, I am a proud Texas boy, born and raised in the Lone Star state. So ecstatic of my home state, I chose Texas History as one of my electives at the University of Houston (go coogs!). But when did I first have a Texas-shaped waffle? I can’t quite recall, but I do have one strong memory that warms my heart.

The family gathered in Columbus, Texas for my cousin’s wedding party, and stayed at a hotel with these lovely-shaped waffles. So many were we that the wait for a hot waffle off the rotating waffle iron seemed eternal. That’s not the warm-my-heart part. That part is about Mom.

Not at the hotel, but at the reception, as the families gathered to celebrate the newlyweds with good food, music to dance to, and much laughter, I caught Mom standing alone at the back of the room, just taking it all in with a glowing smile on her face. I caught a photo of her and it instantly became one of my favorites.

Mom wouldn’t be around for their first anniversary; she passed away of cancer. She had fought it for several years and kept how serious it was from us. She had beat it once, and when it came back, we knew she’d do so again. She was feeling well, looked fantastic, and was always in her typical good mood. But she knew. She knew that was the last time she would be with the whole family in this fashion, and she wanted to soak it all in.

So when I eat a waffle in the shape of the old republic of Texas, it takes me back to that family moment, the reception, and all of us in the breakfast room of the hotel in Columbus, each waiting for our turn to eat Texas. It reminds me of Mom, and how we chose where to start: I like to start in the Panhandle, because I grew up visiting my grandparents there in Borger. Mom liked to start in the south and work her way up the coast like a hurricane, flooding the state in syrup, saving the hill country for last. I know, right? Because the middle of the waffle is the best part. Yup. She and I shared the pleasure of saving the mushy part of the waffle for last.

It might seem like my taste for waffles in the shape of Texas is out of pride. But I discovered that while it is true that I'm fond of the stars at night that are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas, it's that special moment with Mom that I'm soaking up...with maple syrup, but I prefer honey. 



Here's a link to my latest video with Frightman: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mh9XpKwIHMc

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7-Hub Run: An Aviation Geek’s Dream

I would like to say that one of the perks of being a flight attendant is that there isn’t such a thing as a typical day. That might not be entirely true. Sure, each day we generally fly with a new crew, most of whom we’ve not met, or maybe we flew together, but spend half the flight trying to remember where it was. If I don’t remember by the time we part ways once we land, it hits me at 3am.

While there can be a run of trips that are mundane—board the plane, serve a few drinks, pass out a few peanuts, laugh with passengers, talk about soup recipes with Sarah on the jumpseat, who commutes to Houston from Spokane and spends half the flight talking about her grand kids. The other half is spent talking about her cats. These sorts of trips can go from one to the next, to where you don’t recall, was that seat duplication with the blue-haired lady yesterday or today? There’s a receipt in my pocket from Chicago. When was I in Chicago? How long have I been on this aircraft? Where am I?

And then there are the times that really make for a day you’ll long remember. Like the time I served dinner to Shirley MacClaine, one of my favorite actresses. Or the flight the guy said he wanted to knee me in the nuts. Or the day they brought 2 service animals on an empty airplane for press photos in the cockpit with pilot’s hats. One time I even worked a flight to Hong Kong with a very light load only to deadhome home in first class, and because the hotel was oversold, they put us in a swank hotel at the airport in a suite with a hot tub, free breakfast, drinks at happy hour with tasty appetizers, and everything in the minibar was completely gratis. When I checked out, I don’t think there was a single item left. To make things better, it was on my company anniversary.

...Or today.

It was one of those days I thought would be fairly generic; an easy Denver turn, commenting on passenger shirts, asking if they’re going home or away, making old guys laugh when they tell me they are with the woman in front of them, prompting me to ask if SHE knows that. I don’t know why old guys like to tell us that, but it happened two times just today. 

The crew was briefing on board the plane when a supervisor boarded to let us know about a gaggle of special guests traveling with us. They were mostly our high-yield passengers flying together on what was called a Seven Hub Run: Newark, DC, Chicago, Houston, Denver, San Francisco, and LA. One was supposedly an “influencer.”

We had questions. Why? A whole day taking seven flights? Those seats in back are not exactly thrones—my butt hurt just thinking about it. Are they crazy? But, more importantly, will the influencer make us internet famous? We agreed that it sounds like fun, if you’ve got the time and money...why not? Maybe not the whole day, but I can I go with them to San Francisco?

It was a 3,900 mile trip starting at 6AM Eastern and ending at 1030PM Pacific...or 19 hours. Oh, but were they fun, with matching lanyards and racing bibs. Their enthusiasm was as if it was their first flight of the day. Service agents lined the jetbridge with signs and cheered them on. We made special announcements and received crew gift bags. A few wanted pictures in the cockpit with the pilots. As if planned, but not, the first officer was a dead ringer for late night comedian Conan O’Brien, complete with a swirl of red hair dangling across his forehead.

I was working first class, so enthusiastically informed that we’d take special care of them. My goal: this segment of their marathon would be the most memorable. One woman was celebrating a birthday, so I wrote a card for her. She said she had gotten cards from a few other crews. I replied that none were as caring as this one. Really, THIS card means something.

One of the things I like to do to make an impression in first class is presenting the hot towel service with a white coffee mug of dry ice in water, making a wave of smoke to drift across the tray and off the edge. Some passengers are mesmerized. Others hardly take note. But if I can do one little thing to really up the flying experience...it’s how I roll after nearly dying a few years ago. But catering messed up and not only did we not have hot towels, they boarded an economy bar cart that, instead of having bottles of red, white, and sparkling wine, had individual cans. And I really wanted to wow these guys with the best flight of their day. Drats.

At one point during the flight, a woman walked up from economy. She was a Global Services passenger,’ (our very top-tier passenger program, which is by invitation only). As a retiree of the airline, she had a few questions and was super friendly. Her husband is the head pilot for their union and has a seat on the board of directors, which gives him the high status. He soon came up as well and the three of us engaged in a very interesting conversation about how we love our aviation career.

There was another GS passenger in row two who stopped me with a pen and paper in hand to ask my name. “Are you the only Scott?” she asked. “I sure hope so,” I replied, making her laugh. She showered me with so many compliments I was searching for a towel to dry off. The best way to make our day is a letter to the airline of the good service you received.

The man in row five who was constantly smiling handed me a guitar pick. Larry Gowan is a member of the band Styx, and he’s got quite an impressive resume. My flying partners are too young and not familiar with the band. Larry and I had a fun conversation about my days working concert security in the late 80s and meeting bands from Stevie Nicks, Pink Floyd, and the Rolling Stones, to Henry Rollins, Adam Ant, The Ramones, and Bruce Hornsby. As I admired the signed guitar pick, I mentioned having a collection of them, including Jimmy Buffet’s and Mark Knopfler’s. But enough name dropping. 

I was having so much fun working first class while the purser was slaving in economy (all those high-yield passengers get free food and drinks, slowing down the service), and that’s why I prefer longer flights. When surrounded by so many wonderful people, I love the chance to mingle and chat.

We kept the aircraft returning to Houston, a real treat from having to change planes. Our load home was lighter as opposed to the one to Denver, which was 100% full. In first class was a woman in her 80s who started to get up with the aid of her 60-something son. The seatbelt sign was on and the ride was quite bumpy. I asked if she couldn’t wait a little bit because I was concerned for her welfare. She said she could with a smile.

When things smoothed out and the sign came off, I asked if she was ready to give it a try. But this time her son stayed in his seat, so it was all me holding onto her as she slow-stepped from row one to the lavatory, complaining of the pain in her right leg. I sympathized with the pain in my right hip from my auto accident last summer.

When we landed in Houston, there was another wheelchair passenger seated in row four. Her daughter assisted her as the purser helped with their bags. I let her take my arm; as we rounded the corner, and with nothing else to hold onto, I lent her my other arm. She was most appreciative, and I said, “Think nothing of it. It’s not every day I have two pretty ladies on my arm. Her daughter was bowled over and her mother laughed, telling me that she was one-hundred and two years old. “I’m SO happy I got to meet you today,” I said to her, as she reached for the aircraft door to take a seat in the wheelchair.

I was aglow as the four of us that worked the two flights walked to the employee bus together, chatting about how fun our day was. It could have been just another day, serving drinks and charming senior ladies at 36,000 feet. Even our worst days are better than most people’s best days. But the fun group of 7-hub marathoners was certainly a far cry from the norm.

No two days are alike when you’re a flight attendant. I knew it was going to be a great day when seeing a bag tag that read, “My second favorite F-word is Flying.” Fondue being the first, perhaps?

Here’s the exact 7-Hub Run itinerary:

6:00–7:19 a.m.: EWR-IAD, UA 1366
8:25–9:38 a.m.: IAD-ORD, UA 2440
10:35 a.m.–1:29 p.m.: ORD-IAH, UA 2483
2:50–4:40 p.m.: IAH-DEN, UA 241
5:59–7:45 p.m.: DEN-SFO, UA 1007
9:00–10:32 p.m.: SFO-LAX, UA 2409

If you enjoy poetry, you can purchase signed copies of my 3 books at 

www.PenguinScott.com

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Follow me for all my latest blog stories. Contact me at www.PenguinScott.com