It is 7AM I am on a plane from Ft. Lauderdale to San Francisco the White Trash Northern Florida, Leather skinned man next to me is pounding SKY Vodka’s and Bloody Mary Mix from a can at an alarming rate. The 70 Year Old Texas Playboy behind him seems to be circling the towers of an overly anxious 24 year old girl sitting beside him. The geriatric women behind me just shit her pants and the women beside her is removing her nail polish and the Goddam Air blower thing is limping along like a three legged dog in a Pensacola swamp. Air Travel, the luxurious way to travel.

Having chosen to live in Northern California I am forced to embark on this ever more traumatizing ritual of airports, security checkpoints, lost luggage and looking over my shoulder to ensure Mohammed Atta is quietly sitting down and not plotting to ignite his penny loafers. Having the luxury of spending some time in Europe this July I am honing my coping strategies for these flying overcrowded public transit nightmares.

Some things I try to do before these mind bending events include securing medication from overly stressed friends with sleeping disorders, panic attacks, or a general inability to cope during every day life. Next on this list is working the ticketing agents for an Exit Aisle seat, being 6’3’ it is often the lack of leg room in these flying sardine cans that jolt my senses when I first step aboard (This one troubles me a bit, Should they really give the exit aisle to people who request the exit aisle, Hi, my name is Oshama Karzai and I would like to be seated in the exit aisle, They don’t even ask the perfunctory questions like do you plan on opening the door at 30,000 Feat?). Anyway I digress.

So having secured an exit Aisle the next important thing is a window seat. There is nothing worse then being in the aisle getting rammed by the drink cart by the over zealous Flying Bimbo’s or being woken because the person sitting in the middle or window seat couldn’t hold there 8 oz beverage. The window is the only true zone out section on the plane except maybe the flight navigator guy who sits behind the pilot tinkering with his coordinates.

So with my anti-psychotic medication slowly being churned by my gastric juices I secure a couple of pillows and embark on the calculated act of avoidance and time passage and work myself into a deep sleep only hoping I don’t utter obscene words or other non flattering Islamic phrases until I am woken by the screeching tires and two hour taxi to the gate.

Jeff
A Bit Offkilter