In some long ago world when I was a barely 20, I found myself flying back to Houston from a visit to New York. I was reading that perfect beach volume Being and Time by Martin Heidegger, because I was a pretentious little sod of a creature. The attractive stewardess (as we called them that back then) was friendly, and I was drawn to her immediately. I stared at her through the flight, made sure I asked for various items (soft drinks, peanuts, etc.) so that she would come to my seat. As the flight settled onto the tarmac at Houston Intercontinental, I hastily scrawled my name and phone number on Heidegger's title page and waited for the aircraft to come to a full stop at the terminal. As I went out the back door, the lovely stewardess touched my wrist and wished me well, and I handed her the great philosopher's most important work, showing her my name and phone on the title page. This is a wonderful book, I said. So interesting. You could call me when you finish and we could meet up and talk about it. She accepted the book and smiled her thanks. I am still waiting for the call.

¶ 4:46 PM