in de air

I am on the plane. I have probably had enough catfish in two days (2 po-boys and one overly-crusted with pecans fillet) to hold me for a bit. I also ate those beignets and downed some of that chicory coffee. So don’t get on me about not going N’awlins-native just because I didn’t consume anything with claws or pincers. Fish with whiskers will quite do it, I’d say.

Louisiana bayou climate is considered sub-tropical. What this means is that I will, while in that state, always look like I’m trying out for the role of “bedraggled villager” from Braveheart. The air there adds about an extra pound of texture to my hair, mostly in the form of frizzy bits and random lumps.

Just now I’m looking out the airplane window at the left-side engine, painted in Southwest Airlines blue, yellow, and red. On the yellow stripe is painted the universal restroom symbol of your basic hombre, surrounded by a red circle with a diagonal slash across his torso. This means “gentlemen, please do not hang out on this engine.” It makes no reference to whether Yeti may ride on the exterior of the plane. William Shatner, take heed.* And also, don’t count on the flight attendant bringing your tea, as her ability to serve seems to have plateaued at row 5, and you are in row 6.

I always read the in-flight magazines when I’m in the air. This particular issue of “Spirit” magazine contained an article designed to point you, by way of a flow chart, to the specific Arizona resort that will be perfect for you. The first question is: Which view would you rather wake up to? There are three choices, in pictorial form. a) a city skyline, b) the rocky peak of a mountain, and c) a horse’s head. Unable to resist, I took out a pen and wrote on the page, next to choice #3: “Wait...is it still attached to the rest of the horse, or not?” I think the layout staff set themselves up for that one, don’t you?

Flight 890 may be bringing an outbreak of something viral back to Baltimore (and on to Chicago.) Some overly-relaxed mother was allowing her 2 year old to demand high-fives from every human crammed into the waiting area of Louis Armstrong Airport, Gate B4. And, like a bee pollinating every flower in the garden, she made at least three rounds. How can you refuse to high-five a two year old? You can’t.

*please refer to a certain episode of The Twilight Zone.