Monday, June 9, 2003 | 8:11 a.m.
This out-of-valley tale doesn't happen in a particular region of Nevada, but rather above it.
At 33,000 feet.
Upon moving to the Las Vegas Valley, people eventually learn when not to travel and where.
For instance, if you are embarking on a weeklong vacation to Southern California, you know to avoid starting out at noon Sunday -- unless you enjoy sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Interstate 15 for eight hours.
And if you are flying back to Las Vegas from anywhere, avoid Thursday and Friday nights.
Granted, airline travel has become a cattle call. Early check-in mandates have created waits long enough to require extra underwear and a toothbrush or extra cash for the bar. We end up with testy travelers or drunk ones.
"Testy" is what we'd consider the parents traveling with two little boys on Southwest Airlines from Portland, Ore., to Sacramento last Thursday night.
"We're buying free drinks for anyone who will move so I can sit with my child," Mom announced.
Someone moved, and while Dad shuffled gear into the overhead and lashed the littlest child's booster chair into the airline seat next to Mom, the flight attendant urged them to hurry so we could push back from the gate.
Dad, who strapped the seat in backward, came a little unglued as the youngest shrieked, "I wanna sit with Daddeeee!" In an obviously ticked yet moderate tone, Dad explained that at 8 p.m. they were all very tired, very stressed and hurrying as fast as they could.
A lecture from flight attendants ensued, along with threats of going back to the gate if Dad continued muttering under his breath about crabby women. Half of me wondered why the attendants were so impatient, and the other half wondered how much of the sons' college money would be spent on counseling.
We changed planes in Sacramento and headed to Las Vegas. This is where the air bus becomes the idiot bus. Eight frightfully drunk and obnoxious twentysomething men boarded with all the coordination of eight oxen on a balance beam.
We cannot repeat what they said, and not because it wasn't loud enough. Suffice to say that during the period spent in the airport's bar, these fellows honed a language that used profanity in figures of speech even I have never imagined. It's amazing what can be turned into a verb.
The flight attendants joked with them, smiled a lot and seem generally happy these guys were seated, buckled and not vomiting in the aisle or punching other passengers, although threats of significant harm to sensitive body regions were exchanged among members of their group. And they ordered more beer.
Upon landing, other passengers stood aside only too happy to let them "deplane" on the way to detox.
Whitney Eichinger, a Southwest Airlines spokeswoman, said Las Vegas doesn't attract any more drunken goofs than other cities.
"It's not destinations, but situations," she said Friday.
No telling whether those guys ever made it to the MGM Grand or a brothel in Pahrump. We can only hope they made it back to the airport.
Drive on Saturdays. Fly on Tuesdays. That's the a plan. Don't leave home without it.
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