Math Problem

Lost Luggage

Where do lost suitcases go? I mean the bags that are never found. I think they comprise the rings of Saturn, but this is just a theory.

I'm a comedian on cruise ships. I, along with my buddy Will, do a juggling act (along with other variety skills: bullwhips, fire-eating, magic, escapes, etc.). When Will and I were always on one ship, we left our show there and just had carry-on bags. Road warriors, we scoffed at the dimwits waiting at baggage claim. But now we’re bouncing around from ship to ship. Now we have to carry huge bags full of whips and knives and Twinkies. Now we’re the dimwits waiting.

Worse, we’re always dragging the bags enormous distances, from parking to terminal to ticket counter. (And they don’t even accept them at the counter anymore; you gotta drag ‘em over THERE!) We have incessant waits at the airport, gazing hypnotized by the unending cycle of the carousel. And, Lucy, we got some ‘splainin to do to the customs officer. But c’est la vie, as those cheese-eating surrender monkeys in France would say. At least we’re still working (if you can call it working).

So here’s a tale of lost luggage for you, dear reader. Please enjoy. Hear the story of my misery with gleeful schadenfreude, as the goose stepping, lederhosen wearers would say on their way to invade Poland.

It was Christmas eve, 2005. The day started promisingly. By this I mean the sun rose. After that it all went to hell.

On the way to the airport for a flight to Grand Cayman at 1 pm, I asked Will which airline we were on. He looked at our itinerary. “Cayman Air.” This puzzled us. We didn’t recognize the airline. Searching the itinerary further we realized that the 1 o’clock flight was from MIAMI! We should have flown there from Orlando at 7 am! Oy vey, as my gefilte-fish-eating, dreidel spinning friends would say.

But all was not lost. We weren’t to perform for several days anyway. We could still book new flights and meet the ship in Costa de Maya the next day. This would mean flying to Atlanta and then on to Mexico City, spending the night there and flying the following day to Cancun, getting picked up by an agent and then driving 4 hours across the Yucatan peninsula, bypassing armed paramilitary policia and banditos along the way. Nothing could be simpler.

Flash forward 12 hours. It was a day of (thankfully) uneventful flights. I was at the carousel, waiting and waiting. Will got his bags and went outside to “get some fresh air.” I got one of my bags and then waited and waited. And waited some more. Then I paused, and then lingered, then sat tight before another extensive bout of waiting. Soon it was just me and one sad-looking businessman. We gave one another a woeful glance, brothers in misery. We went to baggage claim where no one spoke English. I did an interpretive mime routine for the fellows at the counter. Then I went out and searched for Will. I gave him the bad news and we hopped into a cab driven by a bunko artist who charged us the GNP of a small Eastern-bloc country to deposit us at a “four star” hotel. There were chickens in the lobby.

The day ended, at last. I fell asleep to the coughing of the consumptive ice machine outside my door.

We were picked up the next morning by a dandy chap named Luis and started our interminable road trip. As we drove we discussed our options. Many of our props were missing, along with my costume, a dashing Armani suit (Salvation Armani). We could probably get away with canceling the show. We could spend a couple days on a cruise ship, have no duties, and get paid anyway. But no! We’re troupers! The show must go on! (Plus, we’re sniffing around for a raise.)

Show night arrived. We walked onstage, Will resplendent in finery, me in T-shirt and shorts. We made jokes about the luggage (“You know what Delta stands for? ‘Don’t expect luggage to arrive!’ Ha ha ha!”). We did our show, substituting oranges for balls, toilet plungers for clubs, etc. I think we actually got brownie points from the crowd for pulling a show out of thin air. I know we got points from the cruise director.

Home again. The bag had stayed in Atlanta instead of accompanying us to Mexico. Unfortunately the next day they sent it on to Mexico, despite my instructions not to do so. I didn’t need it in Mexico. I was getting on a ship and sailing to the States. So, the bag had a Central American vacation of its own, visiting many a foreign locale, instead of coming home to me. Days passed. The next cruise approached, and still no bag. Finally, the night before my next cruise, the bag arrived in Miami. A driver put it in a van and drove it 6 hours to Orlando, delivering it to me at 3 am.

I had to leave for the airport 3 hours later. The good news is, I was already packed!

Conservative Poetry

In 2006, the once respectable publication National Review belched forth a list of the 50 best conservative rock-n-roll songs. Some obvious choices were "Taxman," "Sweet Home Alabama," and "Revolution" for its total pwning of Chairman Mao. More curious inclusions were ditties like "Sympathy for the Devil," "Who'll Stop the Rain," and that ode to lawlessness, “I Can’t Drive 55.” Oh, well, you know what they say: no accounting for wing-nut taste.

More recently they followed up with the best conservative movies. "The Lives of Others" is conservative for demonstrating the perils of governmental spying and torturing, while "The Dark Knight" is conservative for showing the benefits of anonymous, cowled citizens spying and torturing.

Which of the other lively arts shall the Right appropriate? Most conservative graffiti? Most conservative Mapplethorpe photos? I wish to discuss that poetry which could be considered most conservative. Here's an example:

Richard Cory, by Edward Arlington Robinson

(For fear of copyright infringement I won't publish the whole thing, but the first stanzas refer to how cool and bad-ass Richard Cory is, and the final stanzas are:)

And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine -- we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.

See? Even though you're so destitute that you curse the very bread that gives you sustenance, sometimes rich people commit suicide! So there! Suck it, poor people! Rich people have problems too! Kwitcher belly-achin'!!!

But my nominee for conservative poet laureate is Ogden Nash, that stalwart warrior of righteous cultural versification:

On proper parenting:

A bit of talcum
Is always walcum.

and

Many an infant that screams like a calliope
Could be soothed by a little attention to its diope

On the decline of morality in pop culture:

In the Vanities
No one wears Panities

On the virtue of capitalism:

Certainly there are lots of things in life money won't buy, but it's very funny
Have you ever tried to buy them without money?

On not engaging in risky behavior:

If called by a panther
Don't anther

And, finally, on the decline of Western morality:

Purity
Is Obscurity