#airplanechronicles

[tinymongerpatrolopera]

Man if y’all only knew how many damn selfies I took while in the air 😂. Each one you notice some slight imperfections. One time it’s your lips are dry so you need 💦 the next time you might have a booger up your 👃 and the next time you might need a comb for your 🧔. Oh well after 40-50 attempts this is what I got. Your welcome. Happy Selfie Sunday Folks. #beardgang #beardsandbeenies #beardedandblack #beardedtraveler #airplanechronicles #selfieshenanigans #mamatheregoesthatman #selfiesunday #potd📷 #warsaw #poland #enroutetogermany #obey #0711 #stuttgart #germany #okayenoughhashtags

[urbancampweekend]

#selfies with the pilot makes for a fun trip! #funflight #takeoff #airplanechronicles #urbanexcursionweekend

[gourmetwordvomit]

Airplane Chronicles: The Coachella (That Never Was) Edition

            As I sit in my standard single-serving airport chair, I think of how I should be ecstatic about the 2013 Coachella Music and Arts Festival…if I were actually going that is. My upcoming days off were requested in the hopes that I would scrounge up enough money for the pricey three-day music pass in time. Thanks to some slight missteps on my part, my car was impounded and I have quite a hefty debt on my hands. Be that as it may, I will not be in attendance this year. So instead of flying into PSP for an alcohol-induced weekend of melodic indulgence with friends, I will be touching down in SNA to take in the sunny yet stifling republican air and catch up with my folks. 

            In light of the 13-minute delay, I get to enjoy the sounds of my ailing neighbor blowing his congested nose, and his obnoxious munchkin abusing the sound button on his Buzz Lightyear action figure for just a few minutes longer. This is a comprehensive sign I should have taken United Airlines up on their offer for one passenger to take a later flight and receive $200 of- oh my god twins. I’m not sure exactly how wide my eyes became, or how far my jaw dropped, but they both noticed my frozen face and suspended fingers over my keyboard. I avert my eyes as quickly as possible and count down the milliseconds before my face turns beet red. Two attractive identical twins should not be allowed to exist; it’s just not fair (to society or to me).

            I attempt to mind my own business and not look up from my computer until my flight is boarding. By this time the sisters have vanished, hopefully not onto my flight to cause me further embarrassment. I file down the unusually narrow aisle searching for 16B, to my surprise there are only two seats on either side of the aisle, looks like I won’t be sitting in the middle seat for once. I crack a smile for half a second until I spot the man I will be sharing my personal space with for the next fifty-five minutes. I wasn’t aware that Andre the Giant had a son, or any relatives even close to his stature. But here he is, overflowing from 16A onto a good portion of my 16B, all knees and elbows.

            I carefully sit down in my seat, expecting Andre Jr. to respectfully pull in his long limbs to afford me a bit more space, but he does nothing, hardly even acknowledges my presence. I lean my weight towards the walkway and pull out the latest edition of SkyMall magazine to hold my attention until I can escape to the sanctity of my Word document.

            Before I can even hit the double-digit page numbers in the magazine, I have already found some of the most amazing upgrades in quality of products since I last glanced over these glossy pages. The Cube 3D Printer and Solowheel to be specific. Both priced at over one thousand American dollars, I wonder realistically what type of person can both afford these, AND wish to have them in their possession.

            The Cube printer is a perfect example of how far we’ve come from a technological standpoint. It literally prints any 3D object you wish to construct, no hands required. The description boats that “anyone from 8 to 80” can operate this printer and with “easy-to-use software” and “additional color cartridges available” this device ain’t messing around. Brightly colored examples line the bottom of the page with everything from a T-Rex head to a yellow skull bracelet. This is literally blowing my mind, and the thought flutters through my head about what will happen to actual artists in the coming years because of advances like this.

            Let’s move on to the hilarity that is the Solowheel. If a Segway and a unicycle had an illegitimate love child, the Solowheel would be it. It is a motorized wheel with pedals on either side to place your feet, reaching up to “20 miles per hour on a fully charged battery”. I imagine more people will end up lying on the ground next to this contraption missing their train because they fell off one too many times; instead the text reads “compact and easily fits on public transportation!”

            I look to my left and Andre Jr. has clasped his hands together in a prayer-like embrace so I think that will signal my exit. Let my mini vacation begin…sans Coachella…dammit.  

[gourmetwordvomit]

Airplane Chronicles: The Great Grounded Grapevine Edition

Since moving to San Francisco almost two years ago, the most time I’ve ever spent visiting home has not surpassed more than three days, tops. I purposely keep to this strict regimen for a few reasons. One: Once you move to a big city, suburbia just doesn’t cut it anymore. It’s all too facile to become bored to tears unless I have every minute of my days planned to a tee. Two: I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but moving out was one of the most life-changing events of my life to date. I prematurely reached the age where you become “friends” with your parents very young. The father-daughter lines were blurred long ago, creating a deep rift and making it challenging to live with one another. So needless to say I like to take my doses of both Orange County and my parents in small manageable quantities.

            With five days of paid vacation under my belt and a fresh new oil change, I headed out on my way down south in my trusty Toyota Yaris over the Bay Bridge. I was granted an early shift and was off by 2:30 in the afternoon. I had originally planned to head straight from work so I could be home in time for a late dinner with my parents, but I stretched my limits a tad and didn’t get on the road until about 4:30, the peak of rush hour. I’ll be hitting traffic somewhere, might as well be at home, I think to myself as I alternate tapping my foot on the brake and accelerator in snail’s pace congestion.

            I was never one who minded freeway gridlock all that much. As long as I have my music and I don’t have to pee, I’m content. The tie-up eased up soon and I was barreling down the 580 en route to the 5 in no time. I hadn’t done this drive in a while and forgot how cathartic it can sometimes be to be alone with your thoughts in a six by fourteen confined space. It had already started getting dark by the time the 5 freeway was in sight but I wasn’t worried because once I hit the 5 it was essentially a straight shot back home.

            As soon as I was to merge onto the grapevine and throw my car into cruise control, there was a sudden onslaught of red brake lights in my vision. What the fuck?  There’s never this much traffic here, I wonder what kind of terrible accident lay ahead of me.

Now I failed to mention that before I left, my dad had warned me about bad weather down south, which I quickly brushed off because by “bad weather” I assumed he meant blistering heat, which is standard for Southern California. And I also ignored repeated signs that I saw flashing at me every twenty-five miles or so about having to use a detour at the 5-freeway junction, because usually when those signs are displayed, they show you just exactly which way to be detoured. But as my car crawled to the pinnacle of the commotion, I was re-routed back the way I had just come with no helpful signs in sight. I quickly turned my radio to the frequency that had been displayed at me earlier and cranked up the volume.

Snow. Atmospheric water vapor that had frozen into ice crystals was blocking the pass and the grapevine was closed until further notice. Southern California was clearly intoxicated, there’s not even a glimmer of anything other than sun around here, let alone snow. The grapevine was my Plan A, B, and, C to get home to my parents. And as Wikipedia politely reminded me, “…the Grapevine is the major route between Northern and Southern California, any closure is a major disruption to traffic along the West Coast.” Yeah, gee thanks interwebz.

As I zoomed back the way I came, I cranked up the radio and strained my ear to hear the instructions the robotic voice was reciting. All I could discern from the static-ridden post, was that I needed to somehow locate the 99 Bakersfield Freeway and that would get me around the closed overpass. I vaguely remember a sign I had passed on the opposite sign indicating that there were at least one or two other freeway connections I would have to make after the 99…but what were they? Instead of attempting to hack into the archives of my brain, I decided I would rely on my telephonic device and hope it didn’t run out of battery before I reached the comfort of the 5 Freeway.

So while I was attempting to navigate my way to the freeway in my car, I was simultaneously pinching and swiping my way through the map on my phone’s interface to formulate possible interstate connections for myself. I eventually concluded that I would be taking the 99 to the 58 to the 14 and that would finally end in the onramp for the 5 south and my ticket home. Granted this route would take me in a giant detour into the desert and around my original course completely, it would at least ensure that I would get home.

Halfway between the 58 and the 14 it begins to hail on me in the midst of my neurotic babblings to myself above my Brand New playlist. Like, what in the actual fuck is my life right now? A heavy fog set in along with the giant hailstones pelting my windshield so I drive like a hunched over 85 year old with cataracts for the next twenty miles or so.

The rest of the drive is a haze of monotony spotted with red taillights, and my delirium is in full swing by the time I eventually make it into my driveway. I roll my eyes at the clock displaying 2:21am and sling my chrome bag over my shoulder as I all but fall out of my car. Goddamn it’s good to be back in this godforsaken suburban cul de sac. “Sarah! Don’t shout that out at this time of night!!” my mortified step mom gasps. Whoops…guess it really is good to be home.             

[gourmetwordvomit]

Airplane Chronicles: Christmas Edition

Part 1

In the middle of my tossing and turning last night I had the brilliant and persistent idea that I’d start writing a book. And what better time than on my flight home tomorrow morning. So I packed my laptop in my carry on with every intention of getting a good chunk of my masterpiece composed in the airport and aboard the JetBlue bird. The contents of my book, I will leave a secret for now.

I finished about a page by the time boarding was beginning. Very pleased with myself, I entered the aircraft and found my seat. To my dismay, I had been randomly assigned the middle seat of Row 22. Not to say I didn’t ask for it, whenever they ask if I have a seat preference I obligingly say “Nope! Anywhere is fine by me!” And better still neither of my seat mates had gotten there yet so I would inevitably have to get up at least one time to let them by.

I settled in and waited to procure my laptop until the window seat had arrived. Feeling uncharacteristically impatient, I pulled out my computer after only a few minutes of waiting. Midway through my first sentence, I can’t help but overhear a loud and rotund gay man making his way down the aisle. It’d be just my luck to be gifted by his presence, and gifted I was.

He jovially said “HelllOOoooOOOoo twenty-two!” in my general direction and plopped down in the aisle seat. Never mind the fact that I had headphones in and was diligently typing away on what was surely to be a future best seller, he spoke aloud to himself, hoping to evoke a response from me. I only directly answered him once when he inquired as to where he could shove his headphones in. And yes, I was more than tempted to tell him EXACTLY where he could shove those neon pink headphones of his, but alas my polite social filter would never allow those words to escape my lips.

He mostly left me alone after this, until the third and final part of our seating trifecta arrived. Even I had to stop my work and look up to admire her. She was your typical Caucasian hipster in an oversized flannel with messy hair and thrift store jewelry. No doubt she was most likely rocking ripped up Toms shoes and some obscure item like a dirty novel or vintage walkman.

We both got up to let her through but not before Big Gay Al offered to help stow her luggage for her. She gladly accepted and he proceeded to shove her obviously oversized carry on above our heads. After some hemming and hawing, he finally secured her items and we filed in to our seats.

As soon as we were seated I opened my Word document to continue my mission, but not without letting out a smirk as Henrietta Hipster sat down and pulled out Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road”. I shifted my gaze to the floor and was satisfied with the aged moccasins I saw peeking up at me. Damn I’m good.

I type out a remaining few sentences before a passing flight attendant alerts me that we’re preparing for take off and am forced to shut my MacBook Pro. I smoothly close the computer and plug my headphones into my phone in one fluid motion, hoping not to give my homo friend any indication that this means I’m ready for some single-serving conversation. But lucky for me he’s engrossed in the in-flight entertainment of Family Guy.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the headrest. I must have drifted off because before I know it we’re flying down the tarmac, moments away from lift off. I close my eyes yet again, and this time I am awoken by my airplane gay gently tapping me awake. I am now face to face with “PHOON”, as her nametag very clear states in size 72 bold font. It doesn’t even appear to be a nametag; it is seemingly STITCHED into the fabric of her lapel. I try not to stare at her too wide-eyed as I courteously ask for a bottle of water.

I blink the remaining sleep out of my eyes and glance over at the sleeping hipster to my left as I prepare to bust out some more writing. It’s no surprise she’s fast asleep, her face smushed against the glass and her Kerouac book left untouched. Before I know it dear Phoon is reminding me to turn off my electronics as we are descending into Orange County.

I glance out the window and to my dismay the weather looks identical to the Nor Cal weather we just left. Confident with where I’m at with my piece, I save and close up shop. This will be the longest I have stayed in Orange County since I left over a year ago, it is well overdue and I am all too ready to spend the next three days lounging around the house with my big black lab drinking alcoholic libations. Let the relaxation ensue.

Part 2

            “Nuts please”, now that’s something I never imagined I’d find myself saying. But hey, there’s a first for everything. I am all too happy to be sitting in Seat B of the Emergency row where, in light of an emergency I am ready and able to perform such tasks. Why am I so content with this? Because I have been waiting around at this godforsaken airport since 7:10am where I just barely missed my check-in for my 7:25am flight, mind you it is now 3:10pm.

            Being the incredibly time-conscious person that I am, it is rare that I am ever late for anything. But the moment I put my precisely manicured schedule in someone else’s hands (specifically my Father’s) things tend to go wrong. My father has no concept of time whatsoever, this in turn I attribute to how I became the time Nazi that I am today.

            I reminded him repeatedly the night before of what time he had to be up to take me and so forth; covering my bases as usual. He repeatedly assured me that yes, he understood. So the following morning when I am up, packed, and ready to go, he is lagging as usual. We make it out the door about 25 minutes over schedule, so to compensate he drives like he’s on a high-speed pursuit of a wanted criminal.

            I usually don’t mind his speedy driving so long as I am in the front seat because I had dreadful motion sickness. But today my step mom accompanied us on the drive so I was seated in the back. After my Dad makes the first mistake of driving to the wrong Airport, I can hold my resolve no longer and blow chunks into the nearby tissue box. Full to the brim, I beg them to pull over so I can finish the job on the side of the 405.

            All this puts us back another 20 or so minutes, and as our tires squeal into LGB I know I’ve missed my flight. My only options at this point are to be put on standby for the next flight out, which isn’t until 3:00p. The customer service representative informs me that this is a full flight so it is unfortunately not certain that I will even be able to board this flight. I sigh heavily and look for a lonely corner to possibly get some sleep in while I wait for my nausea to subside. Good thing I have many hours to ensure a full recovery.

By the time boarding begins I feel almost 100% and hopeful I will make this flight and won’t be shuffled on to the next flight’s standby list. I wait patiently until the last person has passed the checkpoint and approach the counter.

My fate rests on Nicole Eggsbar, the last and only individual to have not boarded. Heads she makes the flight and I get to wait around another four hours, tails she never shows and I finally get to return home to San Francisco. The outcome: Tails. I happily board last and take the last available carry on spot in the overhead bins.

What’s even better is I caught the Steelers game on JetBlue’s brilliant entertainment system. I may have missed work but at least I was headed home and my upset stomach had mostly lessened. I’ll cheers to that, even if it is over mediocre nuts and a sprite.

[gourmetwordvomit]

Airplane Chronicles: Halloween Edition

What're the chances that the rowdy baby annoying me at Terminal 1 Gate 25 would be seated next to me on my 1 hour and 22 minute flight to Orange County? About 1 in 100, guess I'm one lucky sonofabitch. Once again I imagined an early flight would cause me to avoid such circumstances as these; not the case. The kid's cute too, which only gives me a mild internal struggle. Nothing against his somewhat MILF-y mother, I just posses a general dislike of children under the age of 5 that I'm forced to be in close proximity to. 

It looks remarkably shitty outside as we prepare for takeoff. The fog is so thick I can only make out the lights on the runway. The scenery disappears in seconds as we ascend. But as quickly as it began, our aircraft breaks through the fog and above the clouds. It's a pretty stunning sight, but slightly comical. It looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy went on an all night marshmallow bender and yanked all over the place before passing out; but upon waking, he just couldn't help but grab his molding spatula to create swirls in his gooey upheaval. And yes, he was giggling that signature giggle for the entirety of his artistic awakening. 

My wandering mind was quickly interrupted by the arrival of my complimentary h20 from Flight Attendant Martha. My flustered MILF consort promptly spilled it on my jean vest and leggings as she attempted to pass it my way. Poor thing, frazzled even when her kid's fast asleep (by the grace of some mighty power out there). 

On the bright side, SkyMall has definitely stepped it's game up since my previous complaints. I'm currently staring at a four foot long "walking" crocodile replica that will supposedly keep my garden free of intruders, and for only $169 hard earned dollars! It's practically a steal. But "Tex" the armadillo beer holder is only $19.95, SOLD. And then I see it, "One Of A Kind shirts for men". It's a classic button up, but with every piece of fabric that encounters a seam, a new pattern is born. And "all shirts are pieces of art, patterns are never repeated!" the caption boasts. Oh god I'm dying. My Dad's birthday is coming up after all. Maybe I should just return the $150 Nike Fuel band I got him and invest in a couple of these instead.

- At this point in time my micron pen has at long last run out of ink, leaving my thoughts immobile. But I manage to scribble (electronically speaking) a few last thoughts into my notes section on my phone before touch down. The rest is as follows -

I hadn't questioned the secondary repetition of every announcement from the pilot in Spanish for the entirety of this flight for some odd reason…but come to find out this happens to be a connection flight to Mexico as well as a one way flight to the great SoCal bubble of Orange County. It all makes sense now..

Side note: Seriously considering conning my way onto the connecting flight to Mexico and skipping out on my responsibilities to my dad and step mom. But alas, I am only but a dreamer, and would never follow through with such a fantasy because logic would get the best of me. Oh well, on to the land of palm trees and spray tans I go, over and out.