Orange County, USA

Never pack fireworks in your bag.

It's one of those cardinal sins of air travel. The kind of thing that's pretty much guaranteed to get you onto the no-fly list for several years.

After a quick visit to Canada for the holiday weekend, I board an airplane to go back home. Of course, thinking nothing of the alcohol soaked celebration of Queen Victoria's birthday I completely neglect to remember that I may have been using my suitcase to transport around...oh... I don't know... ten unexploded roman candles.

The thought completely escapes my mind.

Of course, the next day I find myself crossing through security at the airport. Suddenly, as I'm next in line... it occurs to me.

Oh my God, I'm carrying a bag full of explosives.

I'm sure that the kind people at airport security are well trained in behavioral profiling and how to spot nervousness. My sweaty forehead and twitchy demeanor says it all. But I've committed to going through the line, and I'm next... and I figure that I can explain it all away.

I put my bag on the belt. I walk through the metal detector.

"Sir, is this your bag?"

Hello prison.

"Sir, we'd like to have a look inside."

Sure, nothing to lose now. I picture a SWAT team ready to zoom in and take me out. I envision the look on the agent's face as he pulls out stick after stick of fireworks with names like "Bazooka Blaster", "Red Deathball" and "The Nine Eleven" from my luggage. Fuck.

I figure that smiling will get me out of this. So I start.

So I'm standing at the security counter while a man unfortunately named (no joke) Kalid Mohhamad is rummaging through my unfolded clothing looking for something. And I'm smiling like a maniac. And I know that this is all going to end terribly.

"Sir, Thank you."

The bubble pops.

Excuse me?

"Sir, A routine baggage check. Have a nice flight."

Atlanta, USA

6:45am.

I wake up with a large man in my room.

"Good morning" I say. "Who are you?"

The man is wearing a suit. He looks serious.

"Oh, I thought this room was vacant."

This room is not vacant.

I am on the 67th floor. There's no real escape option. I figure that this is the end. I start thinking of things to throw at the intruder. The alarm clock. A pillow. I'm running out of ideas.

"We heard that the storm blew out this room. I'm sorry for the disturbance sir."

I figure that I'm not dreaming because things like this do not happen in dreams.

Last night there was a ridiculous tornado storm here. Apparently some people in room 6710 had a very very wet evening. In my mind, I imagine that they were sucked out into the vortex.

I pour some coffee and walk downstairs into the geometric maze.

Stamford, USA

“There must be a sale on button down shirts.”

Perhaps everyone got an extra vacation day. Perhaps sales increases are becoming linked to employee morale. Perhaps it was a particularly good day at the insurance convention. Either way, this is a particularly hot night at the random suburban hotel bar. They’re segmented according to department, and clearly the boys in interoffice payroll are feeling it. They’re seated in a semi-circle around the table, their middle management in the middle, their free hand cradling their blackberries, their wedding rings in their pockets…

We observe.

Perhaps Ramona in receivables will be the one who falls first.

She’s looking tipsy off of her second Corona. She’s cute in that frazzled desperate business trip way. She’s amazed that she is this close to New York City.

It’s a high school dance party meets the JC Penny catalogue. The voyeurism is enticing.

Our attention shifts.

“Who would win in a fight? A Porcupine or a Panda?”

“Excuse me?”

Setting up fictitious animal battles is always a good way to change the direction of conversation.

“What do you mean?”

“Seriously, who would win in a fight? A Porcupine or a Panda?”

“A Panda, I guess. It’s a bear.”

“No. Not really. A Panda is just a glorified raccoon.”

“How do you figure?”