There’s something about trans-Pacific flights.

When I was in elementary school, between the masses of atrophied phospholipid and lactic acid on Mrs. Ralstonheimer’s indian rug, the teachers told us that by this time- The Future- the noble march of science would have already produced telephasic teleportation booths that could decompose the trillions of carbon bonds in a human body and reorient them onto another point anywhere on the globe using the practical magic of Telecommunication.

Anyways, there’s something about trans-Pacific flights. They’re fucking horrific.

I’d heard stories about the olden times, about subsonic peoplemovers taking forty-eight hours to crawl halfway-round the breadth of the world, scrambling the stratosphere’s brains the whole way there. All the while they were packed to the brim with passengers trying their best to deny that they were several thousand feet above the ground in an aluminum cylinder ripe with raw gasoline, plenty of flammables, and travel vodka, or whatnot.

If anything, thermospheric supersonics are a hell of a lot worse. You see, you’ve got to hurtle up to near-suborbital levels of flight before any lateral movement can happen. This is to ensure pineapple villagers in the Marianas and the Solomon Islands don’t have their eardrums blow out in the wake of every white Delta shuttle passing overhead (three every seven minutes).

So you’re left up there in almost-space wondering about all the gees pressing down on the top of your head. It’s hard to hold any thought for long with the mandatory, non-terminable pentalingual safety announcement playing videofeed direct full-screen in your right iris and the smartprotein audio motes collecting onto your eardrums from the recycled air and thumping the sound out.

A few weeks ago, my Californian friend Bootsy linked me to a hack for those visual/audio spams that abound in airports and within fifty yards of any Omnibell or NTT building and also some of those few leftover Fed outposts that dot the hellscape of the California Central Valley. Unfortunately, the hack was lost to the sands of time and reformatting.

Then the jet levels out with the jolt of pre-programmed CO^2 retrojets. You’re left deep in the midst of dessicated parents jamming tissues and vomit bags in their children’s faces to stem the low-gravity tides of bloody noses and veritable Horsehead Nebulas of regurgitation. Somewhere, a baby is shrieking into the plastic.

Economy Class. The Future.

It’s 11:43 AM as of RIGHT NOW in sunny San Jose and the fratboys are just starting to ease out their first tentative bellows and mewling catcalls of the morning.

The primary purpose of weblogs is to bitch about the superfluous and uniquely First World(POSH PEOPLE WITH PROBLEMS!), right? Well the person– i’m sorry, Barista— I order from every morning at the Jazz Cafe gives me a fucking Glare of Death every time I order a wet cappuccino(sometimes a cigar is just cigar).

To be fair and balanced, the drink does look like a pain in the ass to make.

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