I have received an email asking me to order "three chicken sandwiches with everything and one roast beef, plane." Because I am a snob and because being constantly in charge of lunch orders already fills me with fury, being asked to order a "plane" sandwich brings all that simmering indignation to a boil . I'm willing to cut some typo slack on "your" and "you're" or "their" and "they're", but I am seriously drawing the line on "plane" and "plain." You have been warned.
Speaking of planes...I was in LA last week for work. I don't know why anyone would ever, every carry a laptop by choice and one wheel of my suitcase fell off somewhere between the Burbank airport and SFO, but generally it was okay. Flying out of Burbank, which seems like a Fisher-Price airport, was particularly pleasant. I was the only person going through security, so I took my time putting my things into three separate bins (again: laptop=a pain in my arse/right shoulder). During this leisurely belt and shoe removal period, the security man surveyed my driver's license. He asked me if I go by my first name or my middle name. Then he asked me if my mother called me by my whole name when I was in trouble. Then he said:
"How long have you lived up north?"
"All my life."
"Really? Do you ever go downtown?"
"Do you ever walk around while you're reading a book?"
"Yeah!" he said excitedly. "I was up there once and downtown I these people just walking while they were reading books. [pause as he sees this magnificent sight in his mind's eye.] I just think people are more intelligent up there than down here."
So, kudos, San Francisco. Nice work on the literary pursuits. Just please remember to look both ways when you get to the corner.