Hola, amigos. I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but things have been crazy for your ol’ pal Scaia.

It started, as craziness often does, in the Houston area. I was sent to cover the arrival of Tropical Storm Bill. The last time I spent the night along the Galveston sea wall was for the arrival of Hurricane Ike back in 2008.

Oh, and one time a friend recommended a delicious place for po’boys. That was on a sunny day, but I was only in Galveston because the island was preparing for a hurricane a few days later.

Given my experience along the seawall, I’m not sure if Galveston is making the right call by trying to attract tourists to the coast. When I’ve been to the seawall, it’s always been because the island was about to blow over or sink.

And yet the seawall is considered the destination when you’re in Galveston, even though that’s the last place you should be when there’s a hurricane approaching (try telling people who show up on the seawall to welcome the storm). Consider Sundance Square in Ft. Worth. What if the city built that great plaza but then also set loose thousands of fire ants a couple times every year? Would it still be a tourist attraction?

A few days later, I was sitting on a plane. On the tarmac. For quite some time. Finally, the pilot came on the intercom and explained that the flaps hadn’t been working properly, so we’d have to go back to the gate.

I texted my news director, Rick, to let him know I was still on the road for a story and may not be back to Texas on time. At the time, the crew had no estimate when we’d be able to take off.

While the flap crew, I assume is what they’re called, was working, lightning started moving closer to the airport, so they had to stop. We had a damaged plane and a thunderstorm moving through. I became somewhat concerned.

I’m what you might call a “nervous flyer.”

I sent Rick another text about the longer delay and the issues we were having making a safe trip back to DFW. I couldn’t help but think of the time I spent in the hospital after my car crash over the winter.

“Why doesn’t God want me to live?” I asked, quite reasonably.

I continued.

“I immediately regret that last text.”

Even with my Swiss cheese brain, I could recall lines from the movie, Anchorman. On the one hand, I was happy that my memory was coming back. On the other hand, the more I thought about the movie, the more I saw similarities between Ron Burgundy and myself: we were both rendered unable to work for several months. I suspect he had a larger crowd of protesters outside his station than have protested me, but I’m okay with that.

Protests are not a competition .