A View from 37,000 Feet

I originally began drafting this post on 10/31/08. Needless to say laziness took over and I lost track of the 4 1/2 inch by 3 1/4 inch notebook in which I scrawled the outline for this post. Why am I now posting it? It can't be because anyone will actually read it. I'm sure some of you are reading this as a result of randomly checking AoF just to pay your last respects to the corpse. Enough with the ramblings, here goes what may very well be the first and last AoF post of the New Year...
I wake up some 37,000 feet over Indianapolis...
Definitely drank too much last night, fully knowing I had to catch a flight 4 hours later. I realize now that ordering the "Simply Steak and Eggs" at 1 am was a truly regrettable decision. I do recall managing to request a 4 am wake up call, and the blur of a trip to the airport. It was a cyclical combination of nearly shitting my pants and sweating, the alcohol ingested mere hours earlier pouring out of my pores. Now I was sitting on the plane, grateful that my frequent travel has paid off in a complimentary upgrade to business class.

(As I was expelling my demons in the airport restroom, in my alcohol induced haze, it felt as though someone was anxiously waiting for me to exit that particular stall. Figuring either all the other stalls had been previously blown up, and thus uninhabitable, or I was going to get mugged at 5 am, I ignored the feeling as best I could. Upon exiting, sure enough there was a fairly ragged looking man eagerly waiting for me. Before I could defend myself, he pushed past me briskly. I twirled, nearly falling backwards over my carry-on bag into the high powered hand dryer as he scooped his plane tickets from off the top of the paper towel dispenser and hastily made a beeline out the door. Mystery solved, no further bodily injury suffered.) I pass out.

The man sitting next top me is shoving fist fulls of peanuts, SunChips, and Delta's trademark biscoff cookies into his mouth. This wouldn't have been so ironic if I hadn't just witnessed him picking daintily at what airlines attempt to represent as an egg/canadian bacon/potato wedge /fruit platter breakfast. Granted airplane food is hardly palatable, but it's 6:30 am and plane snacks is hardly the way to break fast.

Busted.

I just caught him looking at my notebook. Asshole. Claims that he was examining my handwriting style. Something about being left handed, I nod a half-hearted acknowledgement. He attempts to make conversation as I polish off the bloodmary in front of me, close my notebook and my eyes, and fall back to sleep...

As a general rule, I don't welcome unsolicited and/or (in this case and) unnecessary conversations. I'll make the occassional exceptions besides those necessistated by being a slave to the almighty billable hour - and when that's the case, at least someone's gotta pay for it. One of the few exceptions is when someone wants to shoot the shit about sports - usually at a bar or sporting event.

This is what landed me on this cross country flight, half hungover, likely still half in the bag and if not, trying to get back there. At least I didn't have to crap anymore. Immodium is a wonder drug. I wonder what the drug companies were really researching when they came up with immodium. We've all heard the story about Viagra starting out as a heart disease drug gone wrong. Improve blood flow indeed. I bet immodium have started out as an AIDS cure. The patients involved in the clinical trials interviews read something like: "Sure my AIDS is about the same, but let me tell you, I haven't shit in two weeks..." Boom, pharmaceutical gold mine.
As TDX knows, I've discovered a tea that can effectively solve that problem...

Reflecting while passing over the Great Lakes, I realize now that law school is an interesting time. Despite having a ton of work, the one thing you generally do not get in return is health insurance. TDX walked the tight rope and did not buy it, I did and as it turns out, am still getting fucked over by it. once did a chemical dance comprised of overdosing on Immodium (akin to shoving a little white pill, rather than a finger, in the dike) and after realizing everything was brought to a full stop rather than a slow trickle, combatting the effects with California Dieters tea and metamusil. Needless to say, it wasn't pretty.

I recently bought a 4-pack of yogurt, didn't eat any of it. A big waste. Activia. Let me ask this to no one in particular, what the hell is "regular"? Supposedly Activia is marketed to women as it contains certain bacteria which aids in "regularity". I never gave much thought about regularity but once I did I came to realize it means pooping. Now, I'm clearly missing something here. If I have to go I go (and if it's worthy, will consider memorializing it at poopics.blogspot.com), if I don't have to go I won't force the issue. Is it different for women? Is there a constant state of constipation until a box of prunes presents itself? Is Activia the holy grail of defecation where if I eat it, I can somehow program exactly what time I'm going to have to go everyday? I dare not find out.

The moving map in the headrest in front of me displays our flight path. We're just crossing into Pennsylvania. It just so happens that while was fighting his intestinal battle, we had to take a 5 hour road trip to Pennsylvania. With tuxedos in tow, we hit a lot of rest stops along the way (this was the dieters tea phase) - no need for skid marks on my leather seats. I flip over to ESPN. Suns/Hornets highlights. That was part of what contributed to my current state. I had floor seats to the game the last night and played the part of the random guy wearing a suit with no discernable allegiance to a team, sandwiched between a 50 year old "plastic" as I'm told they're called --> a woman well past her prime with a rack fit for a 20 year old but probably as old as a newborn. This one had little going for her. On the other side of me was a squat, fat 15 year old girl and her father, similarly short, squat and fat, tossing back Miller lights and mercilously heckling, of all people, the Budweiser vendor. TDX would have appreciated that.

Following the Suns loss, in which CP3 made the Suns in their home orange look like stationary cones in a practice drill as he dribbled around them, I found myself saddled up to the hotel bar at the Biltmore - ultimately a very nice establishment where ironically I'd spent many a lonely weeknight. At least the bartenders knew me as that becomes the closest thing to a familiar face and a slight source of comfort. Just my luck someone at the bar was also at the Suns game, and seeing the give-away lanyard around my neck they strike up a conversation about the game. Let's see, conversation, in a bar, about sports...I guess I can chat for a bit...

"I'M WATCHING MAMMA MIA, THIS GIRL GOES TO AN ISLAND WITH 3 MEN SHE THINKS ARE HER FATHER." I realize the man next to me has a discernable accent. "HAVE YOU EVER SEENT IT?" he asks. "No, but I heard it was a Broadway play and um, well I don't bang dudes." Perfect exit, conversation over. I get 10's across the board except for a 2 from the French judge...must be an Abba fan.

Flipping back to the moving map I look at the information presented to me. 500mph, 37,000 feet, crossing PA. What good does that information do me? I guess if I somehow fell out of the plane, at 37,000 feet, falling at terminal velocity or 9.8 meters per second like a bullet shot straight up in the air, falling back to earth, ah no calculator, can't convert feet to meters, screw it, the information is useless. At this point my eyes are fully open, the saliva has dried on my lapel and I'm fully cognizant. I'm definitely going to need to smoke. This drinking thing really fucks up my system...and makes me write train of thought posts.