November 15th - Atlantic musings

The first of what I will only assume will be many, many, many written texts. It had take six years to un-cramp my hand from all that furious note-taking in Roman History, and now I get to look forward to fingertip bruising from furious note-taking in this crazy new era of technology. At least I don’t have to worry about breaking my space bar from excitement, like some college room-mates I know.

So I get through baggage, my first lesson in the whole metric conversion….it goes well enough, the lady at the ticket counter didn’t even blink when I voiced my surprise at how little the dead babies in my suitcase actually weighed. Good bargain for the buyer, if you’re getting it by the pound. Then off through security, and Steve and I end up at the Sam Adams “Brew House,” which is really more of a “Brew Semi-Circle,” complete with head-inducing soundwaves for your Guiness, and Octoberfest on tap. So what if it’s not actually October? So what if your non-Sam Adams beers outnumber the Sam Adams beers by a 4 to 1 margin? So what if the guy’s wearing a Harpoon shirt while pouring you a Sam? I’ve got freakin’ soundwaves in my Guiness! You can actually taste the sound of the potato famine in every sip! And I don’t know about you, but I’m all about hearing my food from here on out. I don’t want to even see it, I want to feel like I’ve eaten purely from the sound of it. Does broccoli actually scream when it’s being ripped from its roots? God I hope so, because Andrew needs his audible greens.

But I digress. And why type when I could be scarfing down fresh-squeezed orange juice from the can? Why am I wondering how many f’s there are in scarfing when there’s regulation-sized Coke….uh, light? Am I seeing that right…To be had? Mmmmm….Parmalat…the wave of the future. Now all we need are shelf-stable, square cows, and we’re in business. Forget dead babies…shelf-stable cows are the perfect food. If they make them sound good, that is.

Apparently God was taking a smoking break when they created the monstrosity of a sandwich they just served me. And by served I mean boomeranged it from the safety of business class. Why is it that when you ask the stewardess/sky waitress/flight attendant/mile-high runway model/whatever’s P.C. these days for anything, they get this twinge of “does not compute” in their eyes. And I think they clone themselves in the overhead compartments. Apparently, as a row of four people in coach seem to add up to one whole person in business class, we get the equivalent of one-fourth of a sandwich each. That seems right. Once we’ve understood these crazy opposable thumbs and learn how to make fire, us coach serfs shall rise up, I tell ye. And then we’ll create a better sandwich. Yes, that sounds like a good order of progression. I won’t even go into what I think was in the sandwich, because the combination is probably a punishable offense somewhere. I’m just praying that this is the worst food I have the entire next year.