I can fly.

My dad likes to tell the story of how, when I was somewhere around six years old, and we were driving silently through big piles of steep white drifts of snow in Colorado, I announced to him all of a sudden that I wanted to be an angel when I grew up.

Given the way he tells it (and I love the way he tells it) I suspect he credits an inborn compassion and desire to help humanity.

I never told him that hanging out in the clouds was mostly what I was thinking.

Queuing by cameraphone, headed for Cincinnati.