As you read this, there are 20 milligrams of industrial-grade Lorazepam coursing through my veins. Washed down by two plastic airplane bottle of Jack Daniels.
You see, I'm on a plane.
And if I hadn't made it abundantly clear in the past I hate being on a plane.
My partners throughout the years can easily confirm this.
John Shirley, my art director at Chiat/Day, would always rib me about wind shear and the possibility of one of these anticipated gusts being a true "wing ripper." This was always backed by the comforting thought that...
"...if the wings were to be torn from the fuselage, the decompression at altitude would guarantee a quick and painless death."
Steve Levit, my partner at Team One, also had good fun with my aviophobia. Though my fear was not always unfounded.
One time, while returning from San Francisco, I was following our landing on the United Airlines pilot channel (#9) and watching out the window. As I was carefully monitoring the chatter between the pilots and the control tower, I turned to Steve and said, "we're coming in too hot." I believe his reply was something to the effect of, "pffft." Until that is, the engines suddenly roared to life and the pilot came on the intercom.
"...sorry about that ladies and gentlemen, we were a little too fast on the approach, we're gonna go back up, circle round and try that again."
Once, I even made the mistake of explaining my fat white knuckles to my boss, Lee Clow, who shrugged off my irrational anxiety with the cool, nonchalant wisdom of a Southern California surfer dude.
"Hey if we're gonna die, we're gonna die."
Well, that's not gonna work for me right now, since we're in the middle of a bathroom remodel. And we still haven't picked out a lighting fixture.
More importantly, I want to see my daughter graduate from the University of Colorado in Boulder.
Tomorrow is the big day. Or as my wife put it, the finish line. No more tuition bills. No more lab fees. No more teachers. No more books. School's out forever.
I couldn't be happier or more proud of my two daughters.
Well, I could be happier if one of you freeloading bastards, who have been enjoying this blog for close to ten years, would hire them and put a merciful stop to all this financial bloodletting.
I'm going to have to end this right here.
I just checked the Air Turbulence Forecast Map and as we descend through 27,000 feet it could get a little bumpy.
"Uh, excuse me Ms. Flight Attendant, I'm gonna need another shot of Jack Daniels. And don't tell me the drink cart has been stored away or I'll go all Gerard Finneran on you."
Nobody wants that.
No comments:
Post a Comment