Too Much Stress

It's time for the annual gripe and even though I’ve been doing it since I was eleven, I don’t really like flying. There is too much stress involved.

I had just arrived in Nashville TN an hour late doing that airport hopping thing that people do when they’re trying to get from one city to another but have to change planes at behind “God’s Back” county 30 miles east of nowhere. The airport at Nashville seemed to fit the bill. It looked dark and dingy and dismal and I thought, “If I’ve missed the last connecting flight to Philly, there’s no fucking way I’m staying overnight in this place.” I swear a lot when I’m talking to myself; somehow it seems more poetic and insightful. Call me crazy.

While I was leaving the plane from Florida, trying to figure out which gate I should go to and where the flight information board was, I noticed that I was a behind a man in a wheelchair who was tipping the person who had helped him off the plane that I had just left. In fact there was a whole bunch of people sitting there in their wheelchairs waiting for another flight or for someone to take them somewhere and I realized why the flight attendant on the plane had asked passengers in wheelchairs to be patient since there was only one person who would be able to help them disembark.

I passed the group, carry-on luggage in hand and I was hit by the stench of what can only described as the smell of raw sewage and baby shit. “Oh God, this must be some sort of decrepit persons wheelchair convention,” and then I wondered how long it would be before I joined them. But I heard over the loud speakers, “Last call for flight blah, blah, blah to Philadelphia at Gate 25 please come immediately to the gate.” “Freedom!” I thought and made a quick dash to the right only to stop and do a u-turn after 20 yards when I realized I was heading in the wrong direction.

Anyway after arriving at gate 25 panting and wheezing feeling the sweat start to trickle down my back, I really do need to quit smoking, they took my boarding pass and closed the door of the airplane 20 seconds after I had boarded. Last on board as usual. This seems to be becoming a habit.

I don’t think I really like flying, there’s just too much stress involved.

I hate Hoaxes!

“There is someone being sucked out of the aircraft where the tail is supposed to be and there is some bozo standing up taking a picture of it happening,” was my first thought to myself. The second was that I was ashamed for even giving a nanosecond of thought to the picture and the others that came with it.

The pictures screamed hoax and I felt sorry for myself that I gave them any attention. I felt sorry that someone or some people didn’t have the sensibility to restrain their urge for fame or notoriety by not playing with someone else’s tragedy. I felt sorry for friends and family who might have been subjected to their losses as just a joke.


I am referring to a series of pictures that were circulating on the net this week showing what was supposedly the last moments of Air France’s flight #447 from Rio to Paris. It was said that a camera belonging to a Brazilian had been found in and amongst parts of the wreckage and it had three pictures of when the plane’s fuselage had broken apart. It reminded me of the picture of the tourist in his winter coat and hat at the end of summer on top of one of the Twin Towers in NYC having his picture took just seconds before one of the jets hit the World Trade Center. Why do people get a thrill from this, I don’t get it?

Sure, my sense of humor can be little sordid and out of place at times, but give me a minute or two and something will usually kick in and tell me to rethink what I’m about to do. As long as I haven’t said anything, I can generally steer clear of any mess that I’m about to commit and no one is the wiser for it. Why can’t others do that?


Speaking of which my next post will be about why I think John McCain is a crazy bitch and that the world is so much better than it would have been if he had become President. Well maybe. I have to think it through first.

I have a Question

I have no family members living in Brazil or France that I’m aware of, although with the number of uncles and aunts and cousins that I have it may be possible. I also have really have no vested interest in the recent Air France tragedy but since the plane was an Airbus, the plane I seem to use more and more when I travel, I do seem to have slight curiosity as to what happened since, I’ll admit, I have a fear of flying.

As most people will know already flight AF447, an Airbus A330 took off from Brazil last Sunday with 216 passengers and 12 crew members and disappeared off of the radar as it hit a large storm in the southern area of the Atlantic Ocean. Experts from both sides of the Atlantic as well as government men have been speculating about the causes were for the disappearance. While terrorism has not been ruled out, most people have talked about the catastrophic failure of the plane’s onboard computers, including the autopilot, all of which shut down within a 4 minute time span and are guessing that the disappearance was due to frozen wind speed sensors or a broken rudder.

I say guessing because the “black box” has yet to be located as well as any other part of the plane which can be identified as belonging to the A330. The French have said that the debris that has been found in the ocean doesn’t belong to the missing plane and that they are not even sure that plane fell in the same area. That is why I haven’t used the word crash yet, but before I start to go into my Bermuda Triangle theory and I’m carted off somewhere in a jacket with straps in the back for my own safety, I have just one question. If the debris that has been found floating on the water doesn’t belong to flight 447, then who does it belong to and why does it seem to be Airbus planes that seem to do all the crashes these days?

Alright so that's 2 questions, but still who and why?

Serving nuts on the Plane

Sometimes I wonder about going crazy, and sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy already and I just don't know it yet. I mean if I was crazy already, how would I know? Would there be some spark of enlightenment that would come to me as I took a shit in the middle of the street as a truck came rolling up to me. Would something say to me that this might be a good time for further reflection on my actions. Or will I have to wait until I am either medicated or placed somewhere for my own protection. I wonder.

Yesterday, after getting less than 2 hours of sleep the night before, I was trying to get to the airport by train. It would cost about 5 or $8 I can never remember which, but by far it would be cheaper than any other method. Of course the moment I ran up to the platform was the exact time the train was pulling out of the station. I could wait for next train 30 minutes later for a 25 minute ride but the would have left me 15 minutes for check-in and security. Not much wiggle room. So I took a cab to the airport for $30.

I checked in by 9:02am and realized that even though I had gone to the wrong terminal, there would be time for 2 cigarettes before I took the stroll over to the International Terminal A. Why someone scheduled a domestic flight from an international terminal I don't know, but then I don't work there.

By 9:20, I figured it was time to go through security and start my trek for a 9:40 flight. Plenty of time right? So by 9:35 I'm huffing down through a series of moving walk-way things with my bag on my back wondering why it had become so heavy all of a sudden and which vindictive and sadistic bastard had designed Philadelphia International, and was it just so they could see reasonably healthy people keel over from exhaustion or heart failure.

Well there was no one left at the gate as I ran to the plane door and I handed over the boarding pass to a woman standing there. Crossed over a stewardess making herself comfortable on the jump seat already. Slam, the door shuts to the fuselage and it was time to find my seat so the plane could start to taxi. And I'm started to think this was not the first time that this had happened to me. In fact it's not the second or even the fifth time. In fact it happens to me all the time and I started to think that maybe it might be time for self-investigation. I was and am constantly late for everything that is important to me and I didn't think I could keep blaming it on everyone else and not take any responsibility for it myself.

It's like I deliberately find ways to to make things more complicated or difficult for myself just so I can come out and say...well I don't know. That's why today I'm wondering if perhaps I may need some kind of professional help so that I can understand myself and figure out what it is that I seem to be doing. Why do I sabotage myself in the most silliest of ways? Am I crazy?

I would make an appointment for myself with someone, but I think I would probably show up late for that too and I wouldn't want some stranger deciding I was nuts just because I was late.

On the Road Again

I hate Southwest Airlines. This is, I think the third time that I have flown with them. The first time was when I went to Vegas in the mid-nineties and I saw Drew Barrymore on the flight. The second time I went to Tampa for Thanksgiving a couple of years ago and the flight was 2 hours late.

Now I am on my way to Tampa again, and again it seems that the flight will be delayed another 2 hours and it’s almost 10pm now. At least that’s what they are saying at this time. Even though Philadelphia is a hub airport, I always seem to have to wait for a flight that has been delayed by leaving from some place else.

I thought I would knock this off while I wait at the airport and vent. One day I will do a DB Copper thing and just get my own jet and jump with a gift bag from the bank into places unknown and into legend. Or maybe I will just take the bus. Heavens!

Travelling by Air

Now I believe in equality and democracy and the American way and everything… that is until I don't get my way and then everyone has to suffer, but why do I always have to be put in the GLBT section of the plane whenever I fly? I mean, take my last trip for example.

It was bad enough that I was in the last row of coach. You know they really should call it steerage because they treat you like an illegal alien getting ready to sneak aboard the Titanic and you know what happened to those people when they asked, "Excuse me sir but does anyone know where the life boats are?" Never heard of again. At any rate, it was Boeing 7 something 7 and I was seated in the row just in front of the only coach toilets, an aisle seat to be exact, when these two young women, they could have been in their mid thirties, but when you reach a certain age, everyone seems to be so young; well they excused themselves and informed me that they had the window and middle row seats. I guess they thought they were being helpful and that I couldn't figure out that information for myself since it was the last row in the airplane.

How thoughtful, I must remember to send cards next year.

Well they sat down and larger of the two in the window seat immediately asked the stewardess for a glass of water for her friend. I should have known then there might be trouble. The water came and the friend took out a pill and swallowed it down. Then they started cooing and petting with each other and I realized I’d seen this stage show before, but never quite so close up. You see I’ve been travelling since the days of when the airlines would provide you with hot towels, meals and clean seats, and the passengers would dress for air travel and behave only in certain manners. Now here I was looking rough sitting next to Riff and Raff making out in the back row. My, how times have changed.

Anyway, I am not a particularly large person, bigger than a lot but smaller than a lot more. So I took up much room as I needed without encroaching on anyone else’s space but grabbing both armrests for myself; trying to get comfortable for the 2 hours plus journey.

The plane was eventually pushed away from the gate when window girl, unexpectedly closed the shade. I turned my head flustered that I would not be able to look out of the window like I normally do. The plane started to taxi onto the runway, we were number one and ready for take-off. In just a few seconds we would up and in the sky.

We started to gather speed as the plane rolled down the runway when all of a sudden; I felt what I can only describe as the Nazi death camp grip on my right wrist. Middle row girl was almost in a trance with her back pressed against the back of her seat, had grabbed a hold of me with a clutch that would have made Darth Vader proud and was shaking, no vibrating as her knees spread apart and pressed against me and her partner on the other side. At least I think she was vibrating, it could have been me trying to get some blood flowing in my arm before she made it wither away.

After a minute or two when we were up in the air and no longer being buffeted by the wind, she relaxed her grip turned to her friend and they rested their heads against each other. No “pardon me,” no “excuse me for the inconvenience.” Well what can you do? Young love. Young dykes.

A quick digression - I decided to go to the bathroom piss and put on a sweater as soon as I could. When I got there, I did what I had to do, but I struggled to put on the sweater. I looked about the small enclosure and wondered how my Ex could have said he was a member of the mile high club and I couldn’t even find room to take a fart. What acrobatics he must have performed there. I should have known earlier not to walk away like others told me to, but to run.

I’m back – Well, so on my return trip to back to Philadelphia, I had the window seat this time and not so far back in the fuselage. I sat next to a young white man and young Asian man. Now I know they were gay, because you never see a white guy and an Asian guy together unless they are fucking or doing business. Although in some parts of the world there would be no distinguishing between the two. They both shared a head phone set and watched Ocean’s 12 or something on their computer. When the Chinese looking fellow wasn’t watching the movie he would rest his head against the other ones shoulder. Ahh, young love...again.

I decided not to go to the bathroom this time because I remembered Brad Pitt’s dilemma in “Fight Club.” What should I give them, the ass view or the dick view as I passed by them? Either one I‘m sure, they would have been happy with, but I decided to hold it until the airport.



So back to my question, out of an airplane that can carry up to 150 or more people, why do I always seem to be sitting in the gay section? Can anyone tell me?