2 Stories about Planes
I’ve blogged about airplanes before. To recap:
-
I hate other people and their conversations in
confined spaces
-
If I’m reading a book, regardless of location,
you should leave me alone
On trip one I was sitting by myself and reading Bossypants.
The book isn’t that good, but I made a goal to try and finish it by the end of
the flight, so I was chunking text like it was my job.
Usually when you encounter an airplane conversationalist,
it’s in the first 10 minutes that they ruin your whole flight. Sitting next so
someone offers the perfect opportunity to make meaningless commentary about the
plane:
“This is a PLANE.”
“I hope they don’t charge $500 for PeaNUTS!”
“Can you believe that check-in line?”
“Where you going?”
Never it is an attractive or interesting person, either.
It’s always some complete and total Schlubbub.
Schlubbub \shlub-bub \ (noun): 1. A person of great,
overbearing blandness. 2. Someone that would order salad at KFC. 3. One who
likes to discuss their lives on planes.
In this case, however, it was a dormant schlubbub. This guy
waited until we were about 1.5 hours into the flight before he says to no one
in particular:
“Uggghhhh.”
I threw a quick glance to my left (I was against the
window.) and realized the other woman in the seat with us was sleeping. The man
talking was between myself and the woman and roughly 900 years old.
I immediately went back to my book.
“Huuuummm-uuuugghhhhh. These seats.”
Oh no…actual verbiage.
Then he said: “Where you going?”
Sunnuvabitch.
“Chicago.” I said.
“Me too.”
Our plane was expected to land at O’Hare, so this was a good
thing for both of us.
Another pause followed this exchange, which led me to lift
my book up slowly and continue to read. I got in one word before:
“I was in ‘Nam, you know.”
There was nothing left for me to do but put down the book
and listen in rapt attention. Had I done anything else it would have bordered
on Canadian activity. As an American we’re obligated to listen to veterans say
ANYTHING, especially old ones!
“Why…are…you…going to…Chicago?” I asked dejectedly, my goal
of finishing my mediocre book drifting out the double-paned window.
“Well…,”
What followed was a long monologue about him and his war
buddies and how they’re all on the verge of death. I tried really hard to
engage him, throwing in lines like, “I was just visiting my friends, too.” And
“Yes.” He continued to drone on, eventually turning the monologue into an
existential point about life and death and war and ending with a gruff, “You
know?”
“Yes.”
This dramatic point seemed to indicate the end of our
exchange, so again, I turned myself, very awkwardly and slowly, to stare
forward. I threw one side-eyed glance to see if he was talking again before,
again, very slowly lifting my book to cover my face. I read three words before
he says:
“But friendship, you know…”
A second monologue followed, which I didn’t really pay
attention to. My mind drifted to the weekend previously when I had been at a
party. A girl had been there who brought a bunch of hula hoops. I don’t know
why either.
So again, the guy wraps up.
“…And that is the meaning of life.”
“Yes.”
Again, I turned and started on my book. This time, it was to
undisturbed peace, as the woman on the other side of the man had stirred and I
realized that it was his wife.
They exchanged some banter and I realized that I would still
be annoyed as a point of conversation, so I quickly put in headphones and
pretended to sleep.
I’m an anti-American dick.
Story 2:
Recently on a flight to Minnesota, I sat in the middle seat.
I thought I may get lucky and sit alone, but was soon joined by Middle-aged-mom
Kathy Griffin and Overweight Illini Alum.
The Illini Alum was about my age, so we started talking
about being tall. (See previous comment about how airline banter is THE WORST.)
We were talking about seats and being tall when all of a sudden Middle-aged-mom
KG jumped in.
“You boys from Chicago?”
I swear this woman thought she was on a talk show. Her voice
was a shout for no particular reason and she kept looking at us raising her
eyebrow and winking as if we were her guests and audience.
“Yeah,” we said.
“Oh boy! Minnesota! Let me tell ya! What are you two going
to Minneapolis for?”
We both said we had friends that we were visiting.
“Well,” she said emphatically. “Don’t let them take you in a
truck on the ice!”
This lady evidently had really strong feelings about trucks
driving on ice. Well, I take that back, it served as a kind of twist ending
when she, at the conclusion of her ranting, mentioned that it is find to drive
on the ice this time of year BUT don’t’ do it in March… Because… Both of us
said we were also planning trips in March?
I know I sound snarky (as always) but this woman is one of
my favorite types of people. She is a middle-aged mother, with liberal
leanings, who thinks that she’s cool. She also thinks that no one knows things
she doesn’t know.
“Cats have tails, do you believe it?!”
This was most prevalent in her long monologue about Jesse
Ventura and his governorship of MN. She started many of her bullet points with
questions with very obvious answers:
“There was no public transit, can you believe it?”
Yes, ma’am. Minneapolis doesn’t have a very centralized
population and there are lakes everywhere. I’ve been there once and know they
have a rail to the airport but I can see how service to the entire metropolitan
area would be difficult. I’m not an idiot.
“And you know people drive on the lakes in April – and they
crash through! Can you believe it!”
Yes, ma’am – people are morons.
She did tell us interesting facts about the train generating
revenue and how Jesse Ventura just did whatever he wanted in office.
This, of course, all linked back to her trucks-on-ice-lake
obsession because Jesse just made people pay for the city services if they
crashed through the ice.
After a solid 40 minutes of MN history, politics, and
central planning discussion. She turned to her magazine.
I thought that this was the conclusion, but then she turned
to me:
“You ever read this? It’s a great magazine!”
I confirmed I hadn’t read it, which led to – “Read this one!
Read it!”
She had four copies of the magazine, so she basically shoved
the one down my throat before grabbing another.
“You’ll just love it!” she said.
I started looking at the magazine, when overweight Illini
alum jumped in.
“I’m going to see my college buddies,”’ he said.
2-for-1! How much did I love this flight?! Seriously though,
if it had been any longer than an hour, I might have murdered someone.
“I’m going to visit friends, too,” I said.
“I just got back from a visit to Texas. I was doing a
location inspection. It was fine, but the guy there…” He gives me this look
like, “you know what I’m sayin’?”
I had no idea what he was sayin’.
“Well the guy is,” he lowers his voice, “gay” regular voice
resumed “and just….” The guy threw up his hands.
“Oh brother,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
I’ve also mentioned this another blog about this trip, but
this was the excursion of everyone thinking I was straight.
The guy went on to talk about how this guy was annoying –
I’m not sure how this was about being gay because he seemed like an ordinary,
run-of-the-mill douchecock without his sexuality involved – and that he
couldn’t wait to get out of Texas.
This all was interrupted by middle-aged-mom KG sighing and
groaning as she read her magazine.
“Uck.”
“Do you believe it!”
“HA!”
By the time the plane landed I thought I was going to murder
everyone. Luckily, my friend was waiting and I got as far away from the airport
as possible.
I sincerely hope overweight Illini alum talked to me about
his friends. “I met this really cool STRAIGHT guy on the plane. He liked vagina
and everything!”
My Intersection: Beyond Thunderdome
I live near this really busy street in Chicago. I’m on a
sidestreet, however, so the traffic situation is a little weird.
Basically, if you get to this intersection as a pedestrian
and the light has turned red, you are forced to stand in the cold/heat/whatever
awful Chicago weather for the next 4 minutes.
4 minutes at a stoplight isn’t a regular 4 minutes. It’s not
like 4 minutes of Breaking Bad or 4 minutes making out in Roscoe’s. This is a
grueling, awkward 4 minutes as more and more people get to the intersection, as
cars pass, as people try to sprint across the street to avoid standing any
longer in stoplight purgatory.
If you live in my neighborhood you know this. You spot the
locals by the dead sprint they take off in any time the light turns to the
white man to signal its okay to cross. I’ve literally, sprinted, full-tilt
sprinted, from a block away to try and get across this street.
At one point the other day I was walking along aimlessly and
I heard a scuffle. I looked up to see a woman in a dress and heeled boots,
carrying some sort of pretentious music instrument, taking off like she was in
the Olympic time trials.
Rather than think this is funny or odd, I immediately see
her as a rival and enemy. The sidewalks are snowy. She has a giant instrument
case that blocks half the sidewalk.
She better get the f$%^k out of my way.
I’m not always a monster, however. The other morning I was
crossing and this guy got 1/3 of the way across the street. He turned to go
back because a car was starting to turn into the intersection.
I never talk to strangers in public, but I turned to this
guy and was about to say:
“You gotta make this light, dude. It takes forever.”
When he shook off whatever fear had him in its grip and
started sprinting the rest of the way through the intersection.
He must have been a local.
