Today’s soundtrack: hair will become interesting.
Today at 8:42pm: deplaning.


Cleveland is a grim little airport. An infernally small, miserable place to get stuck if ever I’ve seen one. Luckily I didn’t have to spend more than twenty minutes in that bitch. The girl who works in the bagel joint by gate C-7 lives in a profoundly deep and torturous personal hell of unimaginable despair. Look the bitch in the eye and you’ll see what I mean.

In the ‘70s people used to clap when the pilot landed the plane. Assuming the landing wasn’t all fucked-up, I mean.

First time I was on a plane must’ve been 1978 or so, I think I was seven, and when the pilot landed it motherfuckers applauded. I looked at my mom and she said that’s what you do when planes land so I clapped too.

Needless to say, Landing Applause has gone the way of eight-tracks and Betamax. In the past month I’ve experienced a total of fourteen landings, some rough, some smooth but afterwards no one lifts a finger.

They used to applaud at the end of movies, too. Remember that shit?

Maybe in thirty years you’ll get up at the end of a jazz set and everyone will just put their coats on.

“Years ago, they used to applaud after a set,” you’ll mutter as you exit the bar. Your hovercraft whisks you away to your own profoundly deep personal hell of unimaginable strife and torment.