Pilot's Butt & other musings

As I was boarding a plane home from Washington D.C., I was following a pilot who was only commuting on this flight and couldn't help but notice that he had one of those strange male behinds that is wide with hips, but is flat. His blue trousers were pulled up high around his waste. I thought to myself: Pilot's Butt. Years of bad airport food and little exercise, the shape comes with the job -- poor guy.

I did not see the pilot who was flying the aircraft (or his behind), but he was very talkative over the loudspeaker, and even with a dry sense of humor, came across friendly. He explained all the staff's credentials and reassuring features of the plane. He also reviewed some of the rules: "please store items in the overhead bins; please observe the seatbelt signs; and please no conjugating in the bathrooms, I mean congregating near the bathrooms." The commented startled me and I looked around even more startled that NO ONE was laughing. No one even snickered, flinched, or seemed to notice what he had said. I started to wonder if I imagined it, but I replayed the speech in my mind and nope, that is clearly what he said. He went on to tell a few more dry jokes, albeit clean ones, that landed equally as flat.

Later I fell asleep briefly and had a dream that the last three rows on the plane were designated for people who wanted to have sex -- as though there was a section for first class, a section for the mobility impaired, and a section for conjugal activities. I woke up slightly bewildered by this dream.

Along with sleeping, I also like to listen to music while flying. I have discovered that the soundtrack to "Amelie" can make even the most dull connecting flight seem like an adventure; or at the very least leave you with anticipation that fresh croissants and espresso await you at a beautiful sidewalk cafe (instead of a crowded airport offering bad duty free shopping). The "Best of Blondie" makes a great soundtrack to landing at night in a big city. The bedazzling lights, the anxiety/excitement of descending, and late 70's disco/punk playing in your ear gives you a bit of that rock/glam feeling -- you know the one?

Then, you land at Gate C7 and try your hardest to avoid the vulturous sky caps who chew you out when you tip them your last two dollars, even though you really didn't want their service, only directions to the hotel shuttle. Hmmmf.