I Hate to Fly

This isn’t a fear issue. I’ve never been afraid to fly, and I’ve spent more time on planes at my tender age than most people will in their entire lives. I’ve had super-duper-elite-medallion-preferred status on several airlines at the same time. But, for some reason, I have not gotten used to what flying entails.

I made it to LaGuardia airport an hour before my flight, already pissed because I was under the gun for a day job deadline. I was starving and dropped my pizza on the floor. Of course, I screamed an obscenity, though it was my own fucking fault. Just a reference point– this is the type of mood I was in.

Well, I guess I still haven’t leared that everyone working in an airport is fucking inept. Quadruple espresso: how fucking hard is that? But, I get it. This is ot were the folks who will cure cancer someday wind up. I’m coming to accept this.

I have particular hatred for infrequent travelers. Though I’m no longer on the road 40+ weeks a year(how I hated those days …), I do still get to an airport almost monthly, and I’ve been a pretty frequent traveler for more than a decade. My point: I know how to behave in an airport. These other dimwits don’t. It drives me out of my fucking mind to see them fuck everything up (like not taking laptops out of bags until at the x-ray machine.

If you can’t, read signs and follow instructions, you belong on a fucking bus.

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One thought on “I Hate to Fly

  1. Der Alte

    Maybe I should title this ‘An Ode to Airline Regulation’.

    Until two years ago, when I flew to Parris Island for your brother’s graduation from boot camp, I hadn’t flown since the mid-80s. Even then the bulk of my flying had been in the 60s; to and from college and to various training and duty stations with the Navy. Allow the old man to say, “Those were the days”: back when Pan Am had the big building in NYC, when airline fares were set and standard for all carriers, which then had to compete based on service (“I’m Daphne, fly me!”), when stewardesses were just that (all girls, big tits required, and no fatties or oldies or males), when you could run into an airport at the last minute, buy a one-way ticket for cash with no identification or luggage, and wave goodby with your pistol.

    And I was supremely annoyed when, in the 80s, because of skyjacking, ticket agents would ask, “Did you pack your bags yourself, or did someone else pack them?” Now, THAT was security.

    And then there was that flight to PI. Forget my hassles with security (“Sir, is there something about ’empty your pockets’ that you don’t understand?”), forget you can’t smoke on the plane, what I couldn’t take was the claustrophobia from sitting in a Coke can of a regional jet.

    I understand that flying was much more expensive in the days of regulation, but the difference in service– on-time flights, courteous and helpful airline personnel, comfort on the planes, decent food– made it worth it. And for those who couldn’t now afford those rates for a trip to see Aunt Agnes in East Overshoe, Nebraska, well, fuck Aunt Agnes anyway.

    Reply

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