Today’s soundtrack: blue collar turns to bourgeois
Today at 8:02pm: lost, found and everything in between


I turn into a real loser on airplanes. Having flown fairly fucking frequently, I still never get over taking pictures from elevations you can only achieve with help from Boeing.

On the way back the flight was crazy full. Filled with Americans, which is still a strange sensation for me on an airplane. All the flights I’ve taken that stick out in my mind are the long-distance jaunts to Asia, which come with starkly different demographics than your typical LaGuardia-to-O’Hare haul.

For one thing, Americans are simply larger people, and when you’re packed in like sardines that’s nothing but a pejorative. Milk-fed, ham-hock eatin’ motherfuckers to the left and right of me. No place to put my elbows, both armrests are absorbed in ample hocks of Ameri-fat.

Don’t get me wrong, if it wasn’t for genetic happenstance I’d be one of the largest of the large and I wouldn’t give a good goddamn what any of you said. In fact if I was large and you started criticizing my weight, I’d either slap a heavy hand on the pizza stains on my chest to reinforce the fact I don’t care, or I’d lean forward and eat you.

Because you see, I eat when I’m depressed. I eat when I’m feeling bad about myself. Perhaps most embarassingly I eat any and all cookies that are within a five-foot radius of me, regardless of whose they are and whether permission was granted. But gastrointestinal fate and the fact that I’m a spaz prevent calories from sticking and there isn’t a damn thing to be done about it.

My point is humans should be alotted the space they require to be comfortable--instead of eating into my shit. There are limits to the size of carry-on baggage, and anytime you ship a package it’s priced according to weight. Why should humans be any different?

I’m not saying those who take up more space should be “discriminated against,” or made bad to feel about their weight. To be frank I don’t care if you’re fat, just as you shouldn’t give a damn if I look like I formed my dietary habits in a Soviet prison. These are the genetic hands we were dealt so let’s get over it.

A six-foot-three, 270-pound Arkansasian should be able to settle into a big-ass American Airlines armchair and not feel bad about it, having pulled his own weight (literally) to earn his ticket. He should be able to stretch out without absorbing my head into his armpit. Similarly I should be able to let a crack of daylight appear between my legs without having to gouge my knees into the ample thighs on either side of me.

Shirts, shoes and everything in between comes in different sizes. So should airplane seats. Get off my armrest man.

For one leg of my trip I had to take an Embraer ERJ-145 Jet, which is tiny by airplane standards. It’s basically like you slapped wings on a car from the six-train and it’s only three seats wide. I pictured the cockpit having a little tiny-ass joystick, like the kind on Ms. Pac Man, and no buttons whatsoever.

This particular flight was only half-full, and as the pilot put a quarter into the slot or whatever, the stewardess popped up and was like Yo, some of you people in the front have to move to the back to balance shit out. I mean those weren’t the exact words but you get the gist of it.

“We need some volunteers. Someone in the first five rows, please move to the back,” she stated firmly, growing uglier by the minute. No one said shit; no one wanted to move. I stayed in my seat because my little-ass frame wouldn’t affect the flight quality if I was perched on top of the pilot’s head.

After a full minute of awkward silence the couple behind me got up and moved to the back, which took less than 30 seconds because the plane was stupid small. I settled into my seat, dreaming of cookies that, unfortunately, would never come. Short flight.