Saturday, December 30, 2006
Sunday, December 03, 2006
It's like gambling somehow. You go out for a night of drinking and you don't know where youre going to end up the next day. It could work out good or it could be disastrous. It's like the throw of the dice. -Jim Morrison
That pretty much sums up my weekend. Overall a great one, but with a few minor hiccups.
That pretty much sums up my weekend. Overall a great one, but with a few minor hiccups.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
"Start it in the middle....
... where the action is ripe." - advice on story telling from a grammar school teacher
Something interesting happened to me on my trip to Mexico over Thanksgiving. The pilot of our plane, Mexicana airlines flight 805, had just announed that we'd be starting the descent for our landing in Mexico City. I turned off my ipod, as instructed, and gazed out the window at the sea of lights beneath our plane. "It sure doesn't look like a third world country," I said to my mom, who was half asleep in the seat next to mine. A silent Mexican gentleman sat next to her and I wondered if he spoke english. I turned back towards the window and examined the city. There were two large moutains right there in the heart of the city - that's something you won't find in the Midwest. The pilot made another announcment, this time only in Spanish, and I felt sort of left in the dark, sitting there with my belt securely fastened and my tray table locked and in its upright position. I could feel the plane increase its rate of descent, so I searched for a piece of gum to keep my ears from popping.
Then the plane gave a slight jerk. Then another. My body lurched forward to the edge of my seat. This should not have been cause for alarm, as I knew little bumps in the air were commonplace while flying. Yet, I could feel a nervous tingle brewing in my gut and its mere presence confused me. I have flown dozens of times before and never have I had any real fear of flying. I flew overseas to Germany, alone, when I was just 13 without the slightest hint of anxiety. I sensed that we were dropping even faster now and frantically peered out my window, scanning the ground for some sign of the airport - a runway, a hangar, a control tower, anything.
All I found were, cars, homes, businesses, and street lights. We continued dropping and all the cars and homes and streetlights became bigger and bigger. Where the fuck is this airport? As I grew ever more convinced that we were about to crash, I looked back around the plane - at my sleeping mother, the Mexican gentleman next to her, and all ther other quiet passengers - and I noticed no one else showed any signs of stress or anxiety. Many other passengers eyes were glued to their windows, yet they too appeared calm. That's when it hit me, if there was something wrong I wouldn't be the only one to care about it. No one on that plane, Mexican or American or passenger or pilot, wanted to die anymore than I did.
A few moments after that the wheels of the plane touched softly down and directly outside of my window I could see a highway and several storefronts, maybe 200 yards from the plane. As it turns out, that airport, just like those two mountains, was smack dab right in the middle of the city (that's precisely why I felt like we were about to crash right into the heart of the city). So it's not like O'hare, which is not only not in Chicago and over 30 miles from the downtown skyscrapers but is also surrounded on three sides by fields that isolate it from the outside world. You can imagine my surprise to find that the airport features a shopping center filled with only the finest desgner clothing stores (Armani, Gucci, Ferragamo, etc.)
Oh and by the way, "Hello, world."
Something interesting happened to me on my trip to Mexico over Thanksgiving. The pilot of our plane, Mexicana airlines flight 805, had just announed that we'd be starting the descent for our landing in Mexico City. I turned off my ipod, as instructed, and gazed out the window at the sea of lights beneath our plane. "It sure doesn't look like a third world country," I said to my mom, who was half asleep in the seat next to mine. A silent Mexican gentleman sat next to her and I wondered if he spoke english. I turned back towards the window and examined the city. There were two large moutains right there in the heart of the city - that's something you won't find in the Midwest. The pilot made another announcment, this time only in Spanish, and I felt sort of left in the dark, sitting there with my belt securely fastened and my tray table locked and in its upright position. I could feel the plane increase its rate of descent, so I searched for a piece of gum to keep my ears from popping.
Then the plane gave a slight jerk. Then another. My body lurched forward to the edge of my seat. This should not have been cause for alarm, as I knew little bumps in the air were commonplace while flying. Yet, I could feel a nervous tingle brewing in my gut and its mere presence confused me. I have flown dozens of times before and never have I had any real fear of flying. I flew overseas to Germany, alone, when I was just 13 without the slightest hint of anxiety. I sensed that we were dropping even faster now and frantically peered out my window, scanning the ground for some sign of the airport - a runway, a hangar, a control tower, anything.
All I found were, cars, homes, businesses, and street lights. We continued dropping and all the cars and homes and streetlights became bigger and bigger. Where the fuck is this airport? As I grew ever more convinced that we were about to crash, I looked back around the plane - at my sleeping mother, the Mexican gentleman next to her, and all ther other quiet passengers - and I noticed no one else showed any signs of stress or anxiety. Many other passengers eyes were glued to their windows, yet they too appeared calm. That's when it hit me, if there was something wrong I wouldn't be the only one to care about it. No one on that plane, Mexican or American or passenger or pilot, wanted to die anymore than I did.
A few moments after that the wheels of the plane touched softly down and directly outside of my window I could see a highway and several storefronts, maybe 200 yards from the plane. As it turns out, that airport, just like those two mountains, was smack dab right in the middle of the city (that's precisely why I felt like we were about to crash right into the heart of the city). So it's not like O'hare, which is not only not in Chicago and over 30 miles from the downtown skyscrapers but is also surrounded on three sides by fields that isolate it from the outside world. You can imagine my surprise to find that the airport features a shopping center filled with only the finest desgner clothing stores (Armani, Gucci, Ferragamo, etc.)
Oh and by the way, "Hello, world."
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