News of the world seems destined to go through some more changes in the near future. For one thing, several alert readers have pointed out that NOW is the acronym of an already-existing organization, and they don't appreciate being referred to as "left-wing conspiracy nuts." NOW, I mean, not the readers. For another thing, I've received information that "News of the World" is the name of a newspaper in Britain. Not a serious and factual news-dissemination organization like this one, but one that uses the phrase "HEAVING BOSOMS" in every headline, particularly if it's a story about President Clinton. At this News of the world, we wouldn't stoop to such low-brow tactics, largely because we don't have headlines. Instead, we speculate on what sort of social diseases the president might have. Recently, neither publication is distinguishable from CNN, of course.

President Clinton might be interested in a North Carolina legal case with possibly significant ramifications for him. According to the Raleigh News and Observer, at the trial of attorney Don Soule, an interesting defense has been presented. Soule's lawyer, Stephen Smith, says that Soule "suffers from an organic brain disease that caused him to grope and touch 12 female clients [on somewhat- to extremely-personal areas of their bodies]." To date, White House Press Secretary Mike McCurry has not denied that the administration plans to hire Smith as another personal counsel to the president.

Speaking of locations where I've gone to school, I went to Nashville last weekend. I didn't hear much about the actual news, but I am transitioning smoothly to my story about flying on Southwest Airlines, the airline well-known for low prices and no seat assignments. Their first-come, first-served boarding technique is known as the "cattle call" method, because shortly after you come through the door, you start wishing someone would hit you on the head with a sledgehammer.

The flight wasn't that bad, except it was extremely full, which meant my friends had to stow their baby daughter in the overhead compartment. My friends were actually pretty lucky, though. A late-boarding couple had to check their infant son, and when they couldn't find him at baggage claim, they were quite frantic. Everything turned out fine, though, when police stopped a cab with steamed-up windows to find the baby, $6,200, and former Seattle schoolteacher Mary Kay LeTourneau. The cabbie said, "I don't care how much money she had, I wasn't driving them to Tijuana."

The flight home on Sunday doesn't go quite so well. I get to the airport early, just in time to catch an earlier flight back to Chicago. That's when I discover that Southwest is the airline that is less-well-known for being the only one that might charge you $65 to fly standby. I still don't get this, and in the future, it might cause me to avoid Southwest on principle, unless I get a good reason to change my principle, such as: they have another sale. So anyway, it gives me a chance to hang out in the airport for another three hours, plus a special bonus hour for the late plane.

I have a question. All these airlines fly thousands of flights a day, and my flight 1857 (Houston-New Orleans-Tampa-Ft. Lauderdale-Nashville-Chicago-Detroit) has been running late since 8:00am the previous day, but these geniuses can't figure it out until arrival time comes and they look out the window and...! No plane! How did that happen?! Where could it be?! This hasn't happened since the last time a flight was due to arrive! So my question is, why didn't I just pay the damn $65?

Like I was saying, I'm in the airport most of the afternoon, which allows me to discover that the people you see in the airport are essentially the same people who were in traffic school, except now they have their families with them. I'm sitting in the gate area reading the book on which the movie Wag the Dog is based, and a man with whom I've made no eye contact starts talking to me, apparently because his wife is ignoring him with the tenacity that only 40 years of marriage can bring to bear. [Textual note: you may need to say some of the dialogue out loud.] "I saw 'at movie pictshur," he says, noticing the cover of my book. "I'n't lahk it." "Oh no?" I inquire foolishly. "It's too realistic to that there Clinton fella," he says. I consider telling him the book is about how George Bush, Saddam Hussein, the late Lee Atwater, and a couple Hollywood types conspire to fake the Gulf War, but it occurs to me that he and I probably don't see quite eye to eye, ideologically speaking, and that now is as good a time as any to start following what alert readers will recall as Traffic School Tip #2.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I learn about movies and planes. For example, "Er Force One, that there's a good movie, although there ain't no escape pod on the real Er Force One." And "Con Er, that there's another good movie, but there ain't any room to stand up in that there lower level on that plane, where he says `Wha couldn't you put th' bunna baick in th' box?'" Except as far as I can tell, he isn't actually trying to do the Nicholas Cage accent. Some readers will be interested to know that Turbulence and Executive Decision, them there's some good movies, too. In retrospect, it will seem vaguely appropriate that while I'm stuck in the airport I should learn about terrorists taking over planes, but this doesn't occur to me at the time because I'm too busy wishing terrorists would come take over the gate area.

Roughly one (1) and a half weeks later, it's time for me to board my plane, which means I can finally get back to the topic I'd been planning to segue to from the "HEAVING BOSOMS" line, namely, trophy wives. I'm the second one to get on the plane, but there are already people on board, continuing from Tampa. Or New Orleans. Or Houston. I settle in behind a nice-looking family. There's a successful professional father across the way, a carbon-copy high school senior son on the aisle in front of me, and two younger daughters. The All-American Family. Then "Mom" comes back from the lavatory. Except "Mom" doesn't look like a mom. She looks like a White House intern, and she's wearing a dress that used to be a man's tank top undershirt. Also, she has a diamond larger then some British protectorates on her left hand. The reason I notice this is because she makes sure everyone sees it by swinging it around and putting Gibraltar-sized holes in the fuselage. I assume this is to draw our attention away from the plastic surgery.

So "Mom" is sitting diagonally across the aisle from me. The whole flight, Son is putting his head out in the aisle and leaning back until he's practically in my seat. I assume he's just trying to be deferential to her, staying a pace behind her all the time. Either that or it's because there's a much better angle on the plastic surgery from where I'm sitting, if you catch my drift. For her part, "Mom" seems to be a very friendly sort, by which I mean she can't say anything to Son without leaning way over, giggling, and touching him on the arm, leg, or face.

But I don't think this is an unhealthy relationship for Son, judging by the conversation I overhear between him and his sister. "Sis, I had this dream, and I was wondering if you can help me figure it out. I'm on a train with Bambi, and we just keep going into tunnel after tunnel after tunnel, pounding our way down the track, and when we finally stop, we're at the Washington Monument. Plus, we're smoking cigars." So the thought I can't get out of my head is, I can't believe these are the people I might die with in the next hour.

The point I'm driving relentlessly toward, of course, is that I need a new name and acronym for the column, and I'm soliciting suggestions from alert readers. Qualified entrants will receive half-off the subscription price and be made fun of in print. I should mention that I've already decided against "HEAVING BOSOMS." Although it would be a helluva name for a band.