Today I sit in the squalor of this bottom-rung Santa Monica apartment I share with DJ Steve, recently fired from a job BUSSING TABLES and unsure when, how, or if I will achieve those dreams of screenwriting I’ve harbored for however long.
…But a year ago I was regularly and undeservedly flying FIRST CLASS, and that seems like a better launching pad for today’s post than counting the nooks in my spackled ceiling! Tray tables up, please!
For those who haven’t experienced the ecstasy of first class flight (you simply must), here’s everything you need to know: it is EXACTLY AS PERFECT as you think it is. The booze upgrade hits you first. You can drink in coach, sure, but it’s hampered both by price and frequency of cart appearances. No such problems up front, where you’ve already paid* the open bar fee and flight attendants are less safety regulators than waiters. The nuts? They’re warm. And the space — oh, the space! The fattest among you would find absolutely no trouble even splitting one of those extra-large seats, and with another fatty to boot. You will not be discriminated against!
* Note: I did not pay for a single one of these special flights. I cannot afford shirts most of the time.
But for all the Candyland wizardry, there’s a trade-off in flying first class…and that’s dealing with the kinds of people who fly first-class. We’re not blind to the ways of the world — we know that assholes exist everywhere, and in every form. Little kids and Habitat for Humanity workers can be assholes! But it isn’t all random. Spend enough time in a particular pocket of the world and patterns of asshole-ishness begin to take shape; the Matrix starts to reveal itself. What follows is the result of six months, and 8-10 flights, researching life behind that elusive curtain: a field guide to all of your new best friends.
Lifting Fog 