"Is it against FAA regulations to annotate the safety instruction card with snarky captions making fun of the illustrations?"
The plane hasn't even left the ground and already there's been enough amusement, annoyance, hilarity and disdain to fill the average person's average day. I haven't flown for nine months, mind you, and I've unintentionally prepped for this particular journey by immersing myself in the delightful world of aviation disasters thanks to about three dozen episodes of Air Crash Investigation on YouTube. (I've been obsessed with airplane crashes for most of my life, so this shouldn't come as any surprise.) I trust this bird implicitly and the flight crew only slightly less. The way I see it, if it's my time to go, fuck it. I certainly won't be able to say that I didn't have any fun in this baffling and highly nonsensical mind-bender called life.
I'm sitting alone in the last row of this modest little Brazilian-built Embraer jet--18 rows of three seats each and only about half of them occupied--enjoying the warm euphoria of a dull whiskey high. (I'd asked the bartender for gin and I got a nine dollar double-shot of Jameson instead, God help me--and did I mention that I sat at the bar for a full seven minutes before any of the THREE bartenders paid me any mind? I could feel other patrons' stares penetrating into the cotton candy core of my insecurity like poison darts and was only moments away from walking out unserved. Can you imagine me walking away from a bar without a single drink? I swear, this plane could go down right now and I think I'd be laughing all the way to the ground!) Mere feet away from my head, positioned like a big round piece of minimalist contemporary sculpture just outside the window, is one of the two gas-snorting, air-sucking contraptions driving this hunk of metal through the sky. These big round dumb gray objects that most of us take for granted don't look like they're doing anything at all, especially when their turbine blades spin their mad dervish whirl so fast that they're not even visible; yet I know that this machine is inexplicably complex and enormously dangerous, capable of converting an errant bird (or a person) into red vapor and dime-size meat chunks in about three-tenths of a second. Speaking of bluntly morbid hilarity, ahead of me and across the aisle a kind of intense looking guy about my age is reading Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. Fantastic! Another Vonnegut fan! I haven't read this particular book, but I brought both Hocus Pocus and Breakfast of Champions with me on my trip to Hawaii last year. (My incessant satanic giggle raised more than a few eyebrows on airplane and beach alike as I devoured those sardonic, sharp-witted literary gems.) I considered striking up a conversation with the guy--"Hey, don't mean to interrupt your reading but I love Kurt Vonnegut!..."--and then decided against it.
For the first time ever, I ventured to add my own commentary to the safety instruction card tucked into the seat pocket before me. (Don't worry, though. If you should find yourself sitting in this very seat sometime in the near future, my scrawled nuggets of sarcastic contempt won't necessarily distract you from saving your ass as the plane settles deeper into the ocean and you're doing what any other sane, life-loving person would be doing at that moment: calmly consulting the safety instruction card.) Never before have I seen such tranquil acceptance, such satisfaction, on the face of a person clinging desperately to a seat cushion to avoid drowning. Never have I seen--thankfully--such an ugly little man-baby, here also seemingly content as a king while floating in a veritable shark cafeteria. Never have I seen a woman so evidently pleased to have to strap an emergency oxygen mask over her face. And, for Christ's sakes, how often does a commercial aircraft come to a tidy stop in a grassy field with its landing gear down, passengers dashing forth excitedly as if exiting a thrilling amusement park ride? This happy little document begged defacing!
I'm sitting alone in the last row of this modest little Brazilian-built Embraer jet--18 rows of three seats each and only about half of them occupied--enjoying the warm euphoria of a dull whiskey high. (I'd asked the bartender for gin and I got a nine dollar double-shot of Jameson instead, God help me--and did I mention that I sat at the bar for a full seven minutes before any of the THREE bartenders paid me any mind? I could feel other patrons' stares penetrating into the cotton candy core of my insecurity like poison darts and was only moments away from walking out unserved. Can you imagine me walking away from a bar without a single drink? I swear, this plane could go down right now and I think I'd be laughing all the way to the ground!) Mere feet away from my head, positioned like a big round piece of minimalist contemporary sculpture just outside the window, is one of the two gas-snorting, air-sucking contraptions driving this hunk of metal through the sky. These big round dumb gray objects that most of us take for granted don't look like they're doing anything at all, especially when their turbine blades spin their mad dervish whirl so fast that they're not even visible; yet I know that this machine is inexplicably complex and enormously dangerous, capable of converting an errant bird (or a person) into red vapor and dime-size meat chunks in about three-tenths of a second. Speaking of bluntly morbid hilarity, ahead of me and across the aisle a kind of intense looking guy about my age is reading Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. Fantastic! Another Vonnegut fan! I haven't read this particular book, but I brought both Hocus Pocus and Breakfast of Champions with me on my trip to Hawaii last year. (My incessant satanic giggle raised more than a few eyebrows on airplane and beach alike as I devoured those sardonic, sharp-witted literary gems.) I considered striking up a conversation with the guy--"Hey, don't mean to interrupt your reading but I love Kurt Vonnegut!..."--and then decided against it.
For the first time ever, I ventured to add my own commentary to the safety instruction card tucked into the seat pocket before me. (Don't worry, though. If you should find yourself sitting in this very seat sometime in the near future, my scrawled nuggets of sarcastic contempt won't necessarily distract you from saving your ass as the plane settles deeper into the ocean and you're doing what any other sane, life-loving person would be doing at that moment: calmly consulting the safety instruction card.) Never before have I seen such tranquil acceptance, such satisfaction, on the face of a person clinging desperately to a seat cushion to avoid drowning. Never have I seen--thankfully--such an ugly little man-baby, here also seemingly content as a king while floating in a veritable shark cafeteria. Never have I seen a woman so evidently pleased to have to strap an emergency oxygen mask over her face. And, for Christ's sakes, how often does a commercial aircraft come to a tidy stop in a grassy field with its landing gear down, passengers dashing forth excitedly as if exiting a thrilling amusement park ride? This happy little document begged defacing!
Just after I got seated in my secluded back row seat, all spinny in the head and privately entertained by all manner of deviant thoughts fabricated to pass the time, I witnessed a most amusing choreographed dance by two of those runway traffic control guys--you know, the ones with the neon vests who wave the little orange mini-lightsaber flashlight things around. What made this brief moment of pure human joy all the more satisfying to me as the intrigued and tipsy spectator is that these guys usually appear, at least from all my years of experience flying, to be fairly damned miserable individuals (or just abysmally bored) who'd quite possibly rather get run over by a taxiing aircraft--thereby spending the next four months propped in front of a TV collecting disability from bed while pleasantly stoned on painkillers and afternoon soaps--than work this particular job for ten more minutes. No misery this time. It was a moment that seemed almost commercial-perfect, this unlikely duo circling their arms and kick-stepping in perfect sync, laughing like kids without a hint of self-consciousness. Ten minutes later, as my plane finally started to pull back from the terminal, I decided that I'd try to get the attention of one of the dancing lightsaber-waving Drive your airplane where I fucking tell you to! guys--the younger one, wearing shades that might or might not have been expensive and looking a bit too smart, a bit too model-pretty to be in this line of work. I waved the peace sign. When he saw me, he grinned widely and waved a peace sign back. It wasn't Okay, I'll humor the lame-o passenger just this once; it was genuine, and that made my day. Genuine anything in these cynical times is rare. It reminded me of how delighted we used to be as children when we'd make downward arm-pumping gestures to the engineer of an approaching locomotive and he'd blast the horn several times in return. (It was even better when they'd toss candy at us.)
I don't know if you've ever had airplane coffee, but it usually sucks. However, it's coffee, and it's air travel, and air travel usually sucks these days anyway--and I need my coffee. I need my coffee like a Roman crowd in the Colosseum needs blood. (That and elaborate recreations of naval battles with lions and spiky-wheeled chariots circling around giant statues of dicks while their drivers try to spear other gladiators' heads off.) When the flight attendant finally got to me, I had my head down, concentrating on composing this very specimen of literary perversion, and she said "A beverage, ma'am?" I looked up and said "SIR?!" She was black as Diana Ross but her cheeks went sunset red. In order to defray any tension I said "I sure hope you've never seen a woman with sideburns like these!", tugging my outrageously overgrown mutton chops. "Sorry, it was your hair--the ponytail!" she laughed. Sipping bad coffee as we descended over the White House and the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial almost underneath us and the Capitol building in the distance, kind of made me feel superior to just about everything. (It also made me wonder, How do people really live in the White House anyway? I think I'd get more privacy, more quiet, in a tent in the back yard. Of course, if I can make it that far inside the perimeter gates, you sure as hell aren't holding me back from hot showers in marble bathrooms and fancy catered meals! I'll bet the coffee's better there, too.)
So here I am, sitting at my second airport bar of the evening--this one in Reagan International, named after the president that conservative loudmouth and all-around humanity hater Anne Coulter considers one of America's best ever. (You do understand he had Alzheimer's from about '82 onward, right?) Considering how chaotic the place is, how many passengers are clustered outside the restaurant scoping out empty seats, I'm damned lucky to have even scored a stool at the counter. The gray-haired guy next to me has his laptop out, showing off dozens and dozens of closeup photos he's taken of famous personalities to the younger guy on his right--Obama and Joe Biden, both Clintons, Tim Russert and Sean Hannity, even Marie Osmond. I could tell from their conversation that the guy's got an ego the size of planet Jupiter. (Possibly larger.) Even so, his stories are interesting and there's a certain quick, low-key, almost English-like bite to his humor. He strikes me as kind of a cool guy and kind of a douche at the same time, well aware that the same could probably be said about me. I order gin and get gin, but this time the bartender, a quirkily attractive middle-aged woman with a tasteful diamond nose stud who I've warmed up to nicely, initially got off to a rocky start (and I don't mean the rocks in my gin) when she checked my driver's license, turned away with a smile as I put it back in the wallet, changed her mind, asked me to produce my ID again, scrutinized the birth date a second time through squinted eyes, and said with a frown and a certain condescending upward hook in her tone, "You're too young!" Clutching my gin glass like a hand grenade I responded, a bit more sharply than necessary, “May thirteenth. Nineteen. Eighty. ONE. That would make me thirty." A moment of awkward silence as she read the date again. "Oops!" she chirped, glancing at me with one of those whimsical Well whaddya know?! expressions. "I thought it said ninety-one!" I was flattered. Seriously. It's good to know you're aging so well that bartenders still think you're underage. (And just when I was considering follicle implants and Botox...) I took a glance at some more up-close public rally shots of President Obama on the laptop; Mr. Showoff then had the audacity to turn the computer away from me as if I were trying to catch a precious glimpse of some critical top-secret government document. Yep, more douche than cool. No doubt about it.
Other than the close friend I'm going to visit, New York City is no place special--I mean, whatever happened there but some movies and mob hits and terrorist attacks?! (It's a joke, folks.) But this trip, this process of physical transferal to another realm of existence, will certainly linger in the strangely decorated hallways of my memory. Remind me of King Kong, Woody Allen and Lady Liberty, Marilyn's skirt flaring over a subway grate and ice skating in Central Park, Donald Trump and the Rockettes, Sinatra and the Macy's Day Parade, Wall Street debauchery and a miracle plane landing on the Hudson; I'll think mostly of how funny it is just getting to New York. You show up and a whole new symphony begins--a cacophony of horrors with a touch of serendipity, endless sidewalk clamor, and enough mad laughter to go around.
I don't know if you've ever had airplane coffee, but it usually sucks. However, it's coffee, and it's air travel, and air travel usually sucks these days anyway--and I need my coffee. I need my coffee like a Roman crowd in the Colosseum needs blood. (That and elaborate recreations of naval battles with lions and spiky-wheeled chariots circling around giant statues of dicks while their drivers try to spear other gladiators' heads off.) When the flight attendant finally got to me, I had my head down, concentrating on composing this very specimen of literary perversion, and she said "A beverage, ma'am?" I looked up and said "SIR?!" She was black as Diana Ross but her cheeks went sunset red. In order to defray any tension I said "I sure hope you've never seen a woman with sideburns like these!", tugging my outrageously overgrown mutton chops. "Sorry, it was your hair--the ponytail!" she laughed. Sipping bad coffee as we descended over the White House and the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial almost underneath us and the Capitol building in the distance, kind of made me feel superior to just about everything. (It also made me wonder, How do people really live in the White House anyway? I think I'd get more privacy, more quiet, in a tent in the back yard. Of course, if I can make it that far inside the perimeter gates, you sure as hell aren't holding me back from hot showers in marble bathrooms and fancy catered meals! I'll bet the coffee's better there, too.)
So here I am, sitting at my second airport bar of the evening--this one in Reagan International, named after the president that conservative loudmouth and all-around humanity hater Anne Coulter considers one of America's best ever. (You do understand he had Alzheimer's from about '82 onward, right?) Considering how chaotic the place is, how many passengers are clustered outside the restaurant scoping out empty seats, I'm damned lucky to have even scored a stool at the counter. The gray-haired guy next to me has his laptop out, showing off dozens and dozens of closeup photos he's taken of famous personalities to the younger guy on his right--Obama and Joe Biden, both Clintons, Tim Russert and Sean Hannity, even Marie Osmond. I could tell from their conversation that the guy's got an ego the size of planet Jupiter. (Possibly larger.) Even so, his stories are interesting and there's a certain quick, low-key, almost English-like bite to his humor. He strikes me as kind of a cool guy and kind of a douche at the same time, well aware that the same could probably be said about me. I order gin and get gin, but this time the bartender, a quirkily attractive middle-aged woman with a tasteful diamond nose stud who I've warmed up to nicely, initially got off to a rocky start (and I don't mean the rocks in my gin) when she checked my driver's license, turned away with a smile as I put it back in the wallet, changed her mind, asked me to produce my ID again, scrutinized the birth date a second time through squinted eyes, and said with a frown and a certain condescending upward hook in her tone, "You're too young!" Clutching my gin glass like a hand grenade I responded, a bit more sharply than necessary, “May thirteenth. Nineteen. Eighty. ONE. That would make me thirty." A moment of awkward silence as she read the date again. "Oops!" she chirped, glancing at me with one of those whimsical Well whaddya know?! expressions. "I thought it said ninety-one!" I was flattered. Seriously. It's good to know you're aging so well that bartenders still think you're underage. (And just when I was considering follicle implants and Botox...) I took a glance at some more up-close public rally shots of President Obama on the laptop; Mr. Showoff then had the audacity to turn the computer away from me as if I were trying to catch a precious glimpse of some critical top-secret government document. Yep, more douche than cool. No doubt about it.
Other than the close friend I'm going to visit, New York City is no place special--I mean, whatever happened there but some movies and mob hits and terrorist attacks?! (It's a joke, folks.) But this trip, this process of physical transferal to another realm of existence, will certainly linger in the strangely decorated hallways of my memory. Remind me of King Kong, Woody Allen and Lady Liberty, Marilyn's skirt flaring over a subway grate and ice skating in Central Park, Donald Trump and the Rockettes, Sinatra and the Macy's Day Parade, Wall Street debauchery and a miracle plane landing on the Hudson; I'll think mostly of how funny it is just getting to New York. You show up and a whole new symphony begins--a cacophony of horrors with a touch of serendipity, endless sidewalk clamor, and enough mad laughter to go around.
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