Not flying. Failing, with style.

January 7, 2010

“Have you noticed that everything on planes is very tiny? There’s always tiny food, tiny liquor bottles, tiny pillows, tiny bathroom, tiny sink, tiny soap, everyone’s in a cramped seat working on a tiny computer. There’s always a small problem: there’ll be a slight delay, we’ll be a little late, if you could be a little patient! We’re just trying to get one of those little trucks to pull us up just a little closer to the jetway so you can walk down the narrow hallway and there’ll be a man there in a tight suit and he’ll tell you you have very little time to make your connecting flight. So move it!”
-Jerry Seinfeld

I really wanted to find a coffee shop in this airport, since I don’t think I have Phoenix on my “Life in Caffeine” list. Unfortunately I was only able to find a Starbucks. Alas, the great Arizona coffee investigation twas not meant to be.

The quality of life on an airplane lies somewhere between freshman all-male college dorm and refrigerator box, but no one seems to notice. We drink our watered-down juice, sit in our ultra-upright seats, breathe recycled B.O. and flatulence, and sit physically closer to strangers than we are emotionally close to our immediate family. No one complains, though. We shuffle around each other in the isles, sneeze on old people, and drop suitcases on six-year-olds and no one says a thing. At the dawn of the age of the airliner, it’s as if they were playing a sick game of “would you rather…”

Travel by automobile and ship for the rest of your life.
Travel ten times faster, but lower the quality of your life tenfold while doing so.

Bad food. High prices.

No...he didn't. Yes. I did.

Of course, someone has to make money off of this travesty, and, as we all know, it’s not the airline industry. Once you’ve lowered your living standards to plane flight level, suddenly you desperately need to feel privileged. Eating at a high-priced Burger King after getting off of a plane flight just adds insult to injury (or injury to insult), so I opt for the comparatively ritzy bar and grill. If I’m going to get ripped off, I at least want to enjoy the food. It’s also fun to listen to people spending $12 for chicken strips and $7.50 for a beer gripe about the superficial excess of Southern California.

Well, the turkey club sandwich was horrid, and now here comes the bill…

“He’d just been hosed pretty hardcore.”


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