Of the five Sieger brothers, I'm the one who writes songs and always turns the screwdriver the wrong way. There are four other male sibs, two on either side, who can do things like rebuild an engine, wire a house, remodel a bathroom or make hi-tech mounts for $6 million Greek statues (that would be brother Bob, who spent time at the Getty). Me? I cry when I see tools in my hand.

This all came up when I happily discovered the two perfect rolling bags in he attic. One is about the size of a St. Bernard's doghouse and the other a healthy sized gym bag that will be perfect for a carry-on. "Oh boy," I thought until I tried to roll them. The years of attic storage had done a number on their cheap Chinese wheels. They were more sled than wagon and rolling them would be like sledding when there's no snow.

A light bulb – or as I've been told by friend fluent in German, a "glowing pear" – went off in my head. Downstairs on the world's most neglected work bench was a can of WD-40. A couple spritzes (another Teutonic term) later, we were rolling smoothly across  the bumpy basement floor.

Of course, this does not put me in the Bill, Mike, Bob or Jim Sieger league, but that won't stop me from walking through the airport with my chest puffed out a little. Of course, I found out today that Mr. Big Important Songwriter will be sitting in a middle seat. The jumbo we'll be on is laid out two-three-two — in other words, you ether have a window or an aisle, unless you're in the middle. Then you are saying "excuse me" to someone who may need it translated before they get up and let you make your way to the bathroom.

I'm optimistic this all amounts to a character building experience. Problem is, I'm already a character.