NEXT TIME SHUT YOUR YAP: A long time away from blogging! A recent travel story...

I'm headed home from Boston after a couple-day jaunt. I miss the early boarding call for big-time travelers such as myself, so I end up boarding cattle-call with everybody else. By the time I make it to my seat, fairly far forward in the plane, all the storage bins around my seat appear full.

Appear.

I have a backpack, which I can easily stow under my seat, and a "roller-board," as they say, which is basically a smallish suitcase with a retractable handle and a small set of wheels on the bottom. The plane is far from full yet, so I can see no reason all the bins are so stuffed already. Probably some jamokes from farther back on the plane have ditched their stuff up front as they passed. Also, a quick inspection reveals that a bunch of folks have stuffed small items -- which could easily be stored under the seat -- up top.

I spy a tiny tote bag and a windbreaker thrown haphazardly into the overhead storage bins, expanding across the space and making it impossible for me to get my bag up there.

"Anybody have this small bag and this windbreaker?" I ask, looking around. Nobody answers. Fine. I take them out and shove my bag in, then work to fit the windbreaker and the small bag back in without mussing or smushing either. Alas, I can't quite fit them back in, no matter how I try.

"Those are mine," says some wormy guy sitting just below my crotch as I wrestle the bags around, trying to make space. "They're delicate."

"Mind putting them under your empty middle seat?" I ask, smiling.

"Your bag won't fit anyway," he says. "Next time pack lighter."

He smiles a little smile at his seatmate.

"My bag will fit," I tell him. "Watch this."

I take my bag out, shove his windbreaker and small bag back in, then smash my suitcase into them driving them into the back of the compartment. I reach over my head and grab the compartment door and slam it shut. It catches, then gives way, swinging back open.

"Told you," he says.

"I'm not done yet," I say.

I reach up and shove my suitcase back as hard as I can, pancaking his windbreaker and small bag. Then I grab hold of the compartment door with both hands, contract my abdominals and my shoulder muscles and my triceps and my pectorals all at once, breathe out a noisy grunting breath, and slam the motherfucking door shut with all my might, driving my palms against the door with all the force of an agitated Lou Ferrigno. (Or at least a testy Bill Bixby.)

"Told you," I say.