I seem to suffer from a selective Tourrette's Syndrome, which causes me to say some of the most wretched things at the most inappropriate times. This is an example of one such instance. These are written in no discernable chronological order and just surface to the fore of my memory totally unbidden.

Late one night, when I was driving a cab, I picked up a fare going to Cincinnati from the Dayton International Airport. One of the skycaps had brought out the man's luggage and the voucher and the man arrived shortly thereafter while I was loading the luggage. I only caught a glimpse of him as he got in. He was a slender man, in his mid to late forties or so with a balding pate and Lennon specs. I finished loading the luggage and we started on our merry way.
After about fifteen to twenty minutes, I decided to strike up a conversation. I had been listening to a radio program touting the twenty-fifth anniversary of Frampton Comes Alive! so I decided to share some of the wealth of knowledge I had most recently been subjected to with my passenger. I mentioned some little trivial bit about who had played on the album and how the whole event came about. I waited for my passenger to give some indication that he was impressed with this conversational salvo, but was instead met with a soft, "No." in s light British accent.
"What?" I said, perplexed that this man did not agree with my trivial pursuits.
"No, I called Billy Preston's agent and talked to him first. Billy and I had played some session work together. I always kept a book listing the musicians I had played with."
I can't win the lottery. I usually don't even get one of the five numbers correct, which I think is a far more impressive mathematical anomaly then getting all the numbers right. Yet, out of hundreds of flights with hundreds of thousands of passengers on board, I try to impress Peter Frampton with incorrect trivia about himself.