I discovered writing about high-tech wireless hasn’t prepared me for the real world. On spring vacation with my family in central Florida, I got an early taste of the coming 2000 computer meltdown, topped with a dash of Seinfeld.
I thought the worst was over. We and others on the airplane survived a two-year-old, my son Graham, who, when not breaking the sound barrier with his screaming, was walking nonstop up and down the aisle with mom or dad. And then, the cruelest of jokes was played: He fell asleep 10 minutes before touchdown.
Graham woke up at the airport and that was it for everyone else. A tired two-year-old, with molars coming in, had begun to terrorize Orlando. The magic was gone. We took a shuttle to Alamo car rental. The facility was the size of a small airport. It was mobbed with people and littered with luggage. You thought you were at Newark Airport in Jersey. For a cool $7.50, you could buy a soft pretzel and couple of sodas. Where’d this place come from?
Anyway, we arrived the next morning at the gates of Epcot, only to find a line that kept my mother-in-law from getting a day pass. The reason: “The computer is down.” Sound familiar? Luckily, Disneyites kept control of the situation with the help of private wireless two-way radios. The FCC is vaguely aware such devices exist, I understand. Then, good luck and smart business set in. They let my mother-in-law in for free. I’m sure Michael Eisner won’t miss the $35 loss in revenue.
That accomplished, we walked around for a bit before stopping in the park for Mexican food. We snagged a table outside. There were several lines, only a few folks deep, but the lines weren’t moving. Why? “The computer is down.” Oh.
We finally started getting a taste of Disney when my mother-in-law realized in panic she’d left her purse at Wendy’s on the way back from a visit to her sister’s. You just don’t know where it might be now, with so many tourists milling around, she said. We hopped in the car, passing a PrimeCo billboard and endless construction on the way. We arrived at Wendy’s and walked in. I triumphantly announced, “There it is!,” seeing a purse on a seat at an empty table. I was just about to grab it when my mother-in-law said she had sat not at that table, but somewhere else. Good thing she spoke up and spared me the embarrassment of taking the purse of a woman at the salad bar. The manager had the purse and returned it.
I’m back at my computer, which was down early Thursday, and have tuned back into the soap opera of official Washington. I am again entertained by Grumpy Ginsberg statements, Sleepy Starr subpoenas and Washington’s own icon, Monica. What a Mickey-Mouse operation it is, the Clinton White House.
