Friday, September 28, 2007

Secret Agent Man

Whenever I am traveling (as in “the act of traveling”) I like to assume false identities. No, I don’t change my name… however cool that might be (I think I’d pick “Mathias the Shark-Eater). Instead I like to assume an exaggerated persona of some stereotypical character. For example, when I took my plane flight to Switzerland, I was the “loner journalist.” In order to truly become the LJ, I accessorized by wearing a jacket with too many pockets. LJ’s always have an unnecessarily large number of pockets. They do that in order to store important things like mini-pencils, notepads, film, and flasks of Jack Daniels. I was the red wine drinking, pocket-plentiful jacket, jeans, and boots wearing LJ who snickered at the conversations of others (I purposely let other people know that I was listening. Often times, I have found, people want their conversations to be overheard. I’m just giving the people what they want) and would periodically contort my face and quickly unsheathe a folded paper on which I would rapidly scribble indecipherable gibberish. If I was a smoker, I would have been chain smoking cheap Russian cigarettes. Basically, I gave off an aura of smugness and mystery. Imagine Indiana Jones crossed with Ernie Pyle and a touch of George Clooney.

Today, on my plane ride, I decided that I hate the people who clap when the plane lands. These people (shame on you if you are one of them) must be among the most pessimistic people on the planet, not to mention among the dumbest. First, are you friggin surprised we landed? Does the pilot need your encouragement to land the plan safely? If so, I am in the wrong airplane. Also, after a few hours of flying, I am usually pretty cranky and smelly. Don't fucking clap your hands. You make me hate you.

I need a vacation (sly wink),

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