Somewhere Over America

Dispatch at 32,000 feet. That's a lot of shoes stacked high in a low oxygen cold environment. Too windy up here for balancing that well. I'm sitting in a sky chair warm on the south side of a plane looking out over a menagerie of cloud formations and there's this thunderhead almost as big as Donald Trump's head. Can't fly to Dallas out of J.F.K. too soon. Air travel sure beats driving and wagons. Club sodas and iphones and cream-o-land in coffee, flyover country. The wing is a perfect work of art. It's not a knife cutting through air like some aesthetically disagreeable steak knife. It's more of a pie server swimming in a sea of decorative whipped cream. Suddenly everything makes sense. I'm not hungry. If only more signage was embroidered. Would we take the world more or less seriously? In the future we'll have mute buttons for other people's children. My club soda is particularly excellent though seltzer was my preference. We were willing to make a compromise. A nice couple moves to the back of the plane to join the mile high club. I'm sure of it. That or everyone wants to pee. Indeed everyone wants to pee. Maybe I'll join in the spirit of the times. Now I'm thirsty for for a beer or scotch. My gum isn't doing it for me as I groove to Mr. Big Stuff in my ear. Contemplating aeronautics and flight, it's been nearly a century since the start of World War I and we are still in the wake of that radical and crazy world. I'm ready for a nap. DB 6.25