I had a layover in Calgary last night. So this morning my dad drove to Calgary to meet me.

He and I were eating breakfast at My Marvin's Deli in Downtown Calgary this morning. The food was decent but the service was terrible. I was able to overlook the terrible service because there were no less than three gigantic flat-screen televisions tuned into the Red Bull Air Race. It was good. Dad and I sat there talking to each other neither looking at each other as our eyes were fixed on Peter Besenyei.

At about the time that Besenyei got a penalty for flying "too high" through one of the inflatable gates, I looked away. A homeless man was walking by the deli's gigantic windows. He was a sight that is for sure. He was the portrait of derelict. He wore a ratty old Calgary Flames toque with wiry grayish-brown hair that in bent and broke in all different directions. He had the thickest, dirtiest beard that I have ever seen. It looked like an oriental fan made out of trash and the pubic hair of an elephant. A cigarette dangled from his lips and he gazed forward but his eyes didn't look focused on anything. His shoulders were slumped. His hands were cracked and dry.

His shirt, dirty. His pants, torn. And he pushed the token shopping cart full of trash bags, and trinkets and cans and broken furniture. The front, left wheel spun and bumped around like it had a mind of its own. I let out a sigh, as both the conversation I had been having with my dad and the sight of this bum depressed me. The air race was not consoling me any longer. I looked at my uneaten hash browns.

"Dad," I began, "I think my biggest fear is that I'm going to end up just like that guy."

My dad looked over his shoulder at the bum, and chuckled.

"Oh Jack," He smiled and put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, "don't you worry about that. There is no way you could grow a beard that thick."

Thank God for fathers.

and that's the beautiful thing about an airport. One hundred thousand and one lives converge under one, single roof.

It can be seen in the smallest of terminals, from Hot Springs, Arkansas; to Seattle Tacoma; to Sydney, Australia, to Chicago O'Hare. Humanity at it's fullest. Some stand tall. Some slouch. Some cry, some mourn, some rejoice. All live.

It wasn't until I saw a mourning widow and a doting mother sitting next to each other that I realised that all humanity is in the terminal at my airport. I see everybody waiting for my planes. Some people travel to weddings, others to funerals. Both exist in the purest state of emotion, and neither more strong than the other. On my plane I have had new grandmothers, and I have had soldiers; those without rank and Generals. I have had the US Secretary of the Treasury on my plane, and I have had African refugees. I have carried divorcees, and newlyweds. I have taken people to rehab. I have shook hands with those who just graduated from college and those who are on their way to hug those who are about to. All of them live.

Some peoples' lives are just beginning; others still, their lives are falling apart at the seams. Some feel as if they could go forever, others hope that forever isn't real. Some just try to make it through this day... this minute. Some hurt. Some Smile. All live.

Some people have someone waiting to pick them up on the other side. Some of them will wait for a cab. Some will get sick. Some crave turbulence. Some cry when they think about their lives. Some laugh. I smile.

Some will be dead tomorrow. Some carry cancer. Their cargo is my cargo. Some carry lifesaving organs. I carry lifesaving organs. Some carry guilt and some carry confidence. I carry both.

Some are angry! Some are tired. Some bring those stupid U-shaped neck pillows. Some need seat-belt extenders, and others carry their car-seats. Some parents carry their children, and some children carry their parents. I carry them all.

It's in this beautiful tapestry of humanity that I rest assure that nothing has happened, or will happen in my life that hasn't already happened to someone else. And because all these people breathe right now; all these people carry on, they carry me.

There are two things that routinely happen in my life that would probably be considered unhealthy in anyone else's life.

First off, I get text (sms) messages at all hours of the night. I got a message this morning at 3:30am, "hey dude, wut r u doing? where r u? i hope your CA isnt a douche. fly safe. l8r." Which roughly translates into, "Jack, I'm stuck in Memphis and I am getting on the van to the airport. The hotel here sucks. I know you're working standups and likely you're up to read this. Where are you? Salt Lake City right? I hope the Captain you are flying with isn't a douchebag. I've flown with that guy. Watch him like a hawk. Later." How did I get all that from one message with 125 characters? Some were appointed to work miracles, some given the gift of healing, still others speak in tongues, not me, I read text messages like a mo-fo.

Yeah, yeah, blasphemy. My other gift. It's delicious.

“Blashphempy, It's Delicious”
Colbert/Ensor 2008 campaign slogan

Anyway, the other thing that I can pull off is having a beer at 0645. There's nothing quite like the having a Bud Light at watching the sun come up. It's the perfect way to go to bed really: a Yoplait and a Bud Light. I prefer the apple turnover flavor (yogurt not the beer). It's funny because, just as I'm polishing off that beer, Katie's alarm goes off and she has to get up and fly to Edmonton or something like that. Not me, I'm not going anywhere. I've been up for the last twenty-seven hours. I'm going to bed. That is after I send a text to my BFF CA Dave who got roped into a standup in Eugene last night. He's probably just finishing his beer too. Bottoms up.

I have been asked now by several people comment on the Pinnacle Airlines' Crewmembers who ended up naked in the woods of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania two weeks ago. It's really a hard thing to comment on. Not because the subject is particularly difficult to discuss, but because I cannot type it with a straight face.

For those of you who don't know exactly what happened, I'll give you a brief rundown of the story. Basically, a pilot and flight attendant were found naked and drunk in the woods in Harrisburg. Uh, wow, yeah, it doesn't really need all that much explaining does it? But it does make you laugh. If it doesn't, well, you need to lighten up. To me, the thought of a pilot hiding behind a tool-shed, with nothing but his flip-flops and wristwatch on is hysterical. Funnier still, how do you lose your naked flight attendant? I mean, that's pretty inconsiderate. I always make sure that my flight attendants make it back to the hotel. That's just being a team player. No man/woman left behind right?

What's even funnier to me is that the one with some sense of ingenuity, the woman of course, is now being charged with theft because she "stole" a flashlight from a local's truck. I mean she lost her clothes in the dark woods in Harrisburg, PA and she was all alone. Cut the poor girl some slack.

Honestly though, I do feel for these two. Really, I have flown into Harrisburg no less than a dozen times. I must say, it is one of the most beautiful places in Pennsylvania. I wish that I had been able to spend more time there myself. If I had had more time in Harrisburg and had had a decent crew, I would have gone exploring myself. I guess some people just take becoming "one" with nature to a whole other level. I'm sure that's all this was: appreciation of the Earth.

Unfortunately for my friends at Pinnacle, their company has suspended them pending an investigation. Though it seems pretty simple to me, I am willing to bet the company ousts them for perpetuating a stereotype, but moreso than that, perpetuating a stereotype through the Associated Press and not fewer than thirty other network news sources. You really can't paint a picture better than that. I surely hope the company doesn't can them though. It would seem, to me anyway, that anyone flying Pinnacle Airlines could expect to have a good time. At least the most fun you can have with your clothes on...or not.

Typing a blog entry on a BlackBerry is really a pain in the ass. But here at 34,000 feet I felt the need to get some things down.

I often get asked questions about what it's like to do what I do for a living. Honestly, I enjoy talking to people about what I do, not just because I want to talk about flying, but rather to hear people's pre-concieved notions about I do. To me it's very entertaining.

For the month of June I elected to bid stand-up overnight shifts; standups for short. Now standups are the bain of every pilot's existence. In fact, I have yet to find a flight attendant who really cares for them either. Basically, how a standup shift works is that the crew shows up for work usually sometime around supper and works a continuous-duty shift until just after dawn. We can usually manage about three or four legs in that time. There is usually also a two- or three-hour break in there somewhere. Because the break is so short, we do not get a hotelroom, so we all end up sleeping in the back of the plane while it sits at the gate. It's really glamorous.

Tonight, that break was supposed to happen in Eugene, Oregon. But due to some bad luck involving an MIA fuel truck in San Luis Obispo, our break was eaten up by a delay. That's ok with me though, I had a great time on my San Luis Obispo delay. Most guys just sit around pouting on delays; not me. I meet people. I was very fortunate to meet two ramper-girls who could be blamed for our delay, but were far too charming to blame. They said they were from North Carolina and they claim that's part of the South, but I'm just not convinced. Just because your state doesn't enunciate, does not make it The South. What about Maine? I rest my case. Ok, in fairness, they do deepfry pickles and love Nascar, so it's probably actually The South.

Anyway, back to the standups.

Even though we sleep during the day, and work all night, it becomes very tiring towards the end of the shift. It's difficult to see the sun come up knowing that you watched it go down. Heads become droopy towards the end of the last flight, responses become slower and everything becomes either funnier or more irritating. There are some tricks of the trade when it comes to standups.

1) Don't take anything personally. If someone said something that could be taken two or more ways, and one thing of those ways is going to hurt your feelings, just ignore it. He or she probably didn't mean anything by it.

2) If your head is droopy, don't read. Don't read a newspaper, a book, or anything else. If you can, listen to some loud music. I stop listening to my George Strait, skip the classic rock, and go straight to something VERY loud. Rage Against the Machine, Nine Inch Nails or Linkin Park keeps me up. Music that assails your ears will keep you up, but not for long. NKOTB will make your head explode so don't do that.

3) Engage in conversation. I played hangman with the fight attendant last night. I won. If you do play hangman, use the word Egypt. No one ever gets that one.

4) Get up often. Even if it means leaving the cockpit and doing the walk of shame to the lavatory, having your blood circulating will make you alert.

5) DON'T BID STANDUPS EVER.

So that's a brief rundown on how standups work. By the way, speaking of New Kids on the Block, what the hell is going on in the world when that becomes headline news? They were big when I was in like third grade. Aren't they like forty now? That's all I want to see, five middle-aged men, dancing around, half clothed, reliving the glory days of the early ninetys. I wonder if Vanilla Ice is going to open for them. I hope so.