Funny things always happen when I travel. OK, that really depends on what you define as "funny." I guess we could also call them annoying. I am a people-watcher for sure. When I travel solo, my people-watching skills are in full tilt whirl. Out of sheer boredom when I landed in LAX, I took a seat at an open cantina just to observe the comings and goings of the many travelers. As I crunched my orange-colored chips amply dipped in salsa, I started to make a bet with myself if I could identify who lived in Los Angeles and who was merely marching by to get to the next concourse and gate. In LA, it's not a challenge. You can call LA the "look-at-me" capitol of the world. The guys, who I assumed with probable accuracy, strolled by the in the latest, too-casual-to-travel looks that were comprised of designer t-shirts that probably cost a fortune but nothing to make; and the girls, who strolled by in impossibly high heels to be flying or walking in for that matter, would stroll passed with their too-perky-to-be-real breasts all up and center. The girls and boys each had on their too-cool sunglasses, because god forbid the brightness might cause them to squint and create a wrinkle or two on their sublimely smooth, Botoxed brows. Most of the women were either sun-kissed blondes or bottle blondes (not that yours truly has anything to say about that). As I stood in security earlier that day, I also noticed this woman who wore at least five-inch heels and despite the added height was way shorter than me. I figured she was trying to add some inches to her short stature, but I have to say, "Is that worth it?" In my oh-so-humble opinion that would be a big, "No way!" I cannot imagine walks all over an airport in those tortuous shoes. Now the capper for this trip came on the airplane ride to Salt Lake City (yes, I had a lay-over in Salt Lake City on my way to Vegas and yes, it was quite a ridiculous detour). I had the unpleasant encounter with a fellow passenger seated in the aisle seat who had this snuffing and snorting problem. I decided to name him Mr. Snuffalofagus after Big Bird's secret best friend. Good God, he snorted the entire trip. I wanted to reach across the aisle and hand him a tissue and command a good nose blowing ... in the bathroom! I will say, though, this was far better than the woman who sat next to me wearing day-old Depends and smelled like an open sewer. The only thing I can really say is, "Fly first class."