You enter a kind of limbo when you reach your gate area at the airport. No more thrusting, shoving, bustling--suddenly you're suspended in timelessness, sitting in a room waiting for the call to go sit in another room, a long skinny one with oxygen masks,after which a bell dings and you move to another stationary room to wait to be told to go sit in another skinny room. You're traveling through your life on your butt. Or, as my pal Steve would say, on you're butt. You know, there must be an apostrophe gene buried down in the double helix somewhere, because its application is not just a random phenomenon. People like Steve get apostrophes wrong pretty close to 100% of the time, meaning there's some kind of system at work, some trigger that beats the odds at every turn. Well, it's going to be a moot point soon enough, because writing is going to be just like texting in a few years. And punctuation will be thought of as a way to make cute emoticons. Just for the record, I'm really not happy about turning into an old crank, sitting on my front porch waving my cane at the punk kids cutting across my lawn. I think I'll go find a Kings of Leon concert or whatnot.