Making the "A" List

 I've never been in the "A" group.

When I was a kid, I was strictly a B student. Socially, I was either a loner or a music/theatre nerd. Notice how I spell theatre? That's how theatre nerds spell it.

As an adult, I've rarely rubbed elbows with the "A" Gays, a status conscious caste of gay men - their expensive fashion, cars, homes, and "A" list parties hold little attraction for me. My idea of a good party is to eat pizza and listen to music from the '80s. Come to think of it, I have a lot of parties by myself.

Anyway, being an "A" lister was never something to which I aspired. Until a business trip a couple of weeks ago when I had to fly Southwest Airlines.

If you've flown Southwest, you know what I'm talking about. On a normal airline you can reserve a seat ahead of time, indicating your preference of window or aisle and choosing whether to sit at the front of the plane where it's less bumpy or in the rear where you're more likely to survive a crash. On Southwest, they don't assign seats. You have to compete with other passengers while being herded onto the plane like cattle.

In order to avoid a total stampede, Southwest thoughtfully divides the passengers into three groups. When you get your boarding pass, instead of a seat number, it tells you whether you're in group A, B, or C. The A group gets to board first. The B group boards after the A group, and the C group is just pathetically out of luck, destined to fill up the middle seats, sitting crammed between two other passengers with their elbows turned inward towards their ribs.

For the first flight, I did everything right, at least what I usually do for a normal, assigned seat, airline. I logged into the Southwest web site the night before and printed my boarding pass. Out came a piece of paper with a great big C on it. Good grief! All the A and B passes were already gone. What if I'd waited to check in until I got to the airport? Could I even get on the plane?

The next day at Denver International Airport, I had to watch while the A group lined up and slowly boarded, their huge carry-on bags promising to take up even more room. Then I watched as the B group, slightly more lackluster, did the same. Then the Cs were called. My group of sad sacks. C stands for clueless, I thought. Those not savvy enough to get their boarding passes adequately early.

I'm not a very competitive person. I hate sports and I don't strive to be the first to have the latest anything (technology, car, what have you). But you'd better believe that for the return flight, I logged in exactly 24 hours before takeoff, the soonest they allow you to do it, and got an A boarding pass. I was not going to be in the Clueless group again.

My next flight isn't until November but I've already made my reservation. As I booked the ticket on the United Airlines website, I went to the graphic of the 787 Dreamliner plane and clicked on the most convenient looking aisle seat. There will be plenty of stress on that long flight. Wondering where I'm going to sit will not be part of it.

Postblog from the Southwest: The Definition of Diversity

I get so offended when people from the west coast lump Colorado in with the Midwest – as if Ohio and the Centennial State have anything in common. Colorado is a land of cowboys, high plains, desert, and rugged mountains. Of course, if you live in California, it's just part of that great flyover which is of no consequence.

Please spare me the comments about how all Californians don’t think that way. I know that. I’m just using a little hyperbole to make a point.

Also, just to be clear, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the Midwest. I think Ohio is beautiful. It’s just that I take offence when others dismiss the flyover as one vast homogeneous region where diversity is as foreign as the ocean tides.

In my travels around Colorado trying to visit every state park, I’ve seen a lot of variety. I have to grudgingly admit that the northeast, say Fort Morgan and Sterling, look kind of Midwestern, with corn and wheat fields and just that touch of humidity. Southeast Colorado is high plains hot and dry and though I’ve never been there, I imagine it resembles west Texas, which after all, is not that far away.

This week, I’m vacationing in the four corners part of the state which, in terms of U.S. regions, belongs solidly in the Southwest.

One need look no further than some of the pueblo architecture in these parts to be reminded that this used to be Spanish territory. Spanish names dot the map and descendents of the Spanish as well as the more indigenous people are everywhere, a reminder that these Americans’ roots go way deeper and further back than my own.

Visiting the ancient cliff dwellings of Mesa Verde remind me that though we think history in this hemisphere only started about 1800 or so, there have actually been prosperous people with complex social and technological constructs for many centuries before.

If you really want a taste of the Southwest, just visit the Four Corners Monument, a marker at the point where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah all meet. This interesting geographical occurrence, despite belonging to four states, is truly out in the middle of nowhere. This is desert with a capital D. To my eye it’s lifeless and barren, though the local Navajo selling food and jewelry at the monument would probably disagree. I seek the shade of a jewelry stand and buy a beautiful hematite necklace. I’m on the Arizona side of the marker, so I can say I bought this jewelry from a Navajo woman in Arizona. Don’t I sound well traveled?

Literally (sort of) burned out by the desert, I drive about 90 minutes and up several thousand feet into the green, lush pine and aspen forests of the San Juan range. This is more like what outsiders think Colorado looks like with its jagged peaks and breathtaking vistas. This year there’s been a lot of rain so everything is very green. Early in the morning, plumes of mist rise from the slopes like ghosts. At some points frustrated by the summer traffic, of course, I’m tempted to say that the San Juans look like the back of a camper and smell like diesel. But then I arrive in Silverton which is a truly historic town, preserved much as it was a hundred or more years ago. Unlike some other Colorado towns with their fake Victorian gingerbread looking facades, Silverton is the real thing. A piece of hot apple pie a la mode at the Brown Bear Cafe tops off the high drive in the mountains.

Those of us living on the Front Range are similar to my acquaintances on the west coast. We are at best ignorant and at worst dismissive of other parts of our state. There is a whole big Colorado out here which we should get to know. From the Southwest to the Midwest, Colorado is the very definition of diversity.