23. How to be a Person -- 40 000 Feet
The Newsletter from Bold Acting for June 9th, 2024.
When I type the title of this newsletter there is always a grammatical negotiation that goes on in my head. Title case isn’t, as previously thought, capitalizing the first letter of every word. It is capitalizing just the major words — which suggests there are minor words. These are articles and pronouns. (Even in 2024 grammar doesn’t really care all that much about your pronouns.) But what of ‘be’? Isn’t the word ‘be’ major? It’s the subject of pretty much everything from Hamlet’s relentless monologuing re. his existence to all of the latest new age self-helpy be-here-now books, ‘Be’ is major.
I’m at the airport. I sweated through this shirt by the time I got to the train that took me to the airport. I like an airport just like I like a hospital. The comings and goings, hellos and goodbyes. People of all different shapes and sizes and outfits (zipper pants) and economic classes. Except for those flying private or First Class. Ever notice you’ve never seen First Class? You’ve seen Business Class. You’ve called Business Class First Class. But it’s not. Where is First Class? I bet they have a separate entrance.
It’s the planes I don’t like. It’s traveling I can’t take anymore. I don’t fit anywhere. I can’t afford the seat I so richly deserve. I’m too tall for economy. Even the exit row doesn’t provide enough girth for my thoroughbred-size hips.
And then Chuck comes on the blower - ‘cause he’s hands-free — and brags about us being up at 40 000 feet. I wanna say Chuckles, why don’t you put the PA down and quit filling me with fear? Your Hey-isn’t-jet-travel-great is my Bring-on-the-holodeck-tout-suite.
40 000 feet up in the air with nothing between you and certain, protracted death but a couple engines built by Boeing, a company best known for planes that shed parts mid-flight. Why don’t you just put me in an open-air dinghy heading out to the reef for some snorkelling only for the Australian guide to exclaim The water is just frothing with sharks. Thanks Bruce. This is a right rippa.
Both planes and sharks account for far less deaths than cars I hear you say and to that I say Fuck off. I’m not interested in your reason. When has reason ever worked for you? When is reason a reasonable response to someone having emotions? Have you learned nothing from that old battle-axe in the corner you call Honey?
I don’t fly a lot. Not like a I used to. I love that. I love not going places. I love staying home. When the kids leave I’m going to leave too but it’s not to travel. It’s to go to another gigantic city and live there. Deep and narrow, that’s how I like to see a place. Deep and narrow.
I’m trying to think of a That’s what she said joke but nothing’s coming.
Anyway, back to the zipper pants. When are those gonna get stylish? You see all kinds wearing other atrocities like Crocs or fleece or an adult wearing a baseball cap backwards of all things. Often that animal will have paired a pair of wraparound sunglasses perched either on the brim or on the back of their neck (not wanting to block the tattoo on the side of said neck.) The zipper pant hasn’t made the jump from the Tilley crowd to the Cool crowd. Yet.
Whose legs all of a sudden get so hot they have to unzip just the 30% from the knees down?
I just saw a couple devour a couple of foot-longs in total silence. They sat across from each other, between them at least thirty years of marriage. I thought of the beautiful couple in Tampopo passing a raw yolk between their mouths.
Tampopo. I think it might be perfect.
Across from me there’s a tattooed couple from Quebec that favour deep, rich tans, muscle shirts and jarhead haircuts. The one with the thyroid condition cannot leave his phone alone. Oh now he’s taking photos of the crowd in front of the gate desk. Now an Air Canada employee is talking to him, asking him why he’s taking pictures of his co-workers.
The footlong wife just handed her bottle of chocolate milk to her husband to open. That’s sweet. Both the move and the drink. Surprising because she’s got the arms of a linebacker. She’s holding her phone up. I wonder if she’s taking my picture? No one takes my picture anymore. Getting older means becoming invisible. Maybe that’s why we die our hair blue and vote conservative. Everyone just wants to be included.
Chuck can drop dead at the controls for all I care. We all know it’s a computer that flies these birds. I just hope the emergency door I’m sitting beside stays put. I do like being here.
A human being at 40 000 feet above the Earth, praying he makes it to an age where zipper pants are not only expected but make sense.
Be here now. How can I not?
Lovely writing. Focused then funny, then focused.