So I'm winging across the United States at 38,000 feet, on my way to work in Las Vegas. Yeah ... work. Work! Figures, eh? I mean, there are 179 other souls on this jet, and I'm probably the only one who is dreading nine-hour days, on my feet, having to explain a client's web site to people who are about as computer-savvy as Wal-Mart is ethical. That is, about none at all.
There was a movie on the flight -- just ended -- some lowly-rated, "let's hope it makes money" flick called "Wimbledon". Kirsten Dunst (who I do not find at all attractive) and some wimpy English "chap" starred in it.
I chose, rather, to listen to some jazz on my headphones and do some reading -- which is interesting after two, quickly back-to-back whisky-and-Coke drinks! Woo-hoo.
Anyhow ... since I wasn't listening to the movie, and only occasionally catching a glimpse of it, I noticed something peculiar: whenever people were in the background of a scene, one or more…