I hate to fly...but sometimes you just got to give yourself over to the universe

The following is a thought I shared with somebody, so I thought I'd post it here as well:

I think, on some level, we all fear flying to some degree. It’s just unnatural. My problems with flying are somewhat tied to my analytical brain…oh, and entropy. The thing is, if you pause for one second to consider the thousands of mechanical and electrical processes that have to work perfectly, and in harmony , to keep an aircraft aloft, and then consider the inescapable 2nd law of thermodynamics, nobody would ever fly again. Things break. They fall apart (right Yeats?). Decay. Crack. Warp, bend, and shatter. Entropy dictates things naturally progress from orderly, structured, harmonious states to disordered and deconstructed states (this is, of course, until they reach a point of equilibrium, which is pretty harmonious if you think about it…but equilibrium means your plane crashed…probably thousands of years ago). Anyways, every time I fly, I just look at it as me giving up and turning myself over to the universe, and essentially gambling that the metal, composites and plastics holding me aloft are, at least on this day, relatively fresh on their entropic journey of falling apart. I’ve never felt the need to gamble (with money), I don’t see the appeal. I figure flying, and gambling with my life, is thrill enough for me.

Target, Flying, and Stella Skull Candy

OK, I've bitched about my experiences at Starbucks (I'm going to start calling it "The Bux", because it makes it easier to cram it into one run-on word.  For example: "gettacupatthebux".  I'm all about brevity, and just don't have the time for actual proper English, busy guy that I am) and grocery stores, so naturally, the next, almost organic, progression from these two retailers would be (drumroll, please): Target.  Quick exposition to set up the rant:

I was going on a short one hour flight last weekend, and I wanted to buy some cheap headphones pre-flight.  Why cheap headphones?  Because if they get lost during your journey (which is a 50/50 probability), you won't get all bent out of shape because you left them stuffed in the airline seat-back next to the barf bag and the Alaska Airlines courtesy magazine (why are your headphones stuffed in the barf bag/magazine seat-back?  Because you got up to take a leak.  Duh.  And why are you getting up and taking a leak on a measly one hour flight?  Because you were pounding Stella* prior to the flight.  Double duh).  Anyways, I really don't like to fly (my brain gets mildly preoccupied with the all the moving parts that have to work perfectly in unison in order to keep you aloft...and if you ever spent any time pondering the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics, you'd be preoccupied too...), so listening to music is a nice diversion.  I suppose having a crazy three way with the flight attendants would be another diversion as well, but I feel listening to my iPod is a) more appropriate b) easier to attain c) probably doesn't violate any FAA laws, and d) doesn't require the use of latex, various gels, and an awkward post event shame-walk back to your seat.  Additionally, you're less likely to have to look anyone in the eye and have an uncomfortable moment of false intimacy, talk dirty, cuddle, or wonder two weeks later if that rash that suddenly appeared means anything (then again, I have no idea how involved you are with your iPod/iPhone...so maybe you do experience those things, you perv).  So, off to Target I go, and I see a basic pair of Skull Candy earbuds on sale for less than $10.  Perfect.  I make my purchase and go catch my flight.

OK, so now were back to the flight, post Stella shenanigans and trip to the urinal 30 minutes into the flight (sans flight attendants and the kinky stuff), and I wander back to my seat.  I look out the window and stare at the turbo-prop to my right and immediately start wondering about lift vs. downforce vs. drag, gravity, structural integrity, pressure variances, and, yes, as mentioned above, entropy.  Hey man, to quote Yeats: things fall apart. OK, it's definitely earbuds and iPod (well, iPhone) time!  I pop in the earbuds, crank up the tunes, and......only one of the earbuds (bud?) works.  Looks like the old 2nd Law is working its magic quicker than I would have thought.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to enjoy music with only 1/2 of the stereo sound working?  Exactly.  You cant.  Upside was, I killed another 20 minutes of the flight trying to figure out how to get them to work properly (maybe if I blew in the earpiece to dislodge an unseen particle of plastic, or fiddled with the wires, maybe try and peel of an unseen piece of protective film on the miniature speaker....fuck.  Nope.  Broken as Mickey Rourke's face ((was going to say "mental state", but truth be told, I have no idea how sane Mickey Rourke actually is, or isn't.  But his face, I think we can all agree, is a train wreck.  Btw, he was fucking awesome in Angel Heart.  Just sayin'...)).  In hindsight, I now realize watching me obsessively fuck with the earbuds must have gave the other passengers the idea I snorted a whole bottle of Ritalin in the bathroom, but oh well).  Anyways, I gave up in defeat, and perused the Alaskan Airlines in flight magazine.  The magazine had little nuggets of info like: Alaskan Airlines has flights to Alaska.  Holy shit.  Who knew????  And: the National Parks of the USA are picturesque.  Well, fuck me...somebody better get a photographer over to Yosemite and Yellowstone, stat.  Might be a good idea to photograph them in order to let folks know they may be a nice place to visit.  Amazing nobody thought of that.  Thank you Alaskan Airlines.

Now, where was I?  Oh yeah.  Ear buds no workee.  So, I get back to good old Fresno (Fres-no?  Fres-hell-yes!  Sorry...dumb but irresistible) and eventually head over to Target and get in the "returns" line.  There's three lines.  Two with four people in line, and one with two.  Being the mathematical genius I am, I get in the line with two people ('cuz two be less than four and shit).  All three lines move at equal speed with the first people in line, but then we get to the second in line.  The lines to my left and right continue to move at a nice clip.  But, naturally, mine grinds to a halt, because, as usual, I pick the line that was the opening act for some pretty good street theater.  This evenings show was titled (I'm guessing) "White Trash Camera: A Source of Debate".  I have no fucking clue what the issue in front of me was, but the evenings performers included a goateed family of six (both men and women goateed...with the women possibly having more tattoos than the men...and all in loose fitting tank tops) trying to return a camera, coupled with what appeared to be the entire Target staff clustered around that one register.  The conversation seemed to be going something like this:

-Family matriarch: We just want to return this camera we bought here.  Nobody told us to keep the receipt!
-Target staff: Ma'am...the lack of a receipt is only part of the problem.  The bigger issue is this camera doesn't appear to have been purchased here.  In fact, I'm not even sure it's even a camera. It appears to be made of clay,wood, bits of string and a Pabst beer can...and the brand name "Nykon", which looks to have been scratched on the side with a switchblade, isn't spelled with a "y".

Anyways, by the time I got to the front of a different line, my exchange took about 15 seconds.  That's right...I'm the wet dream "cash register line guy in front of you".  If you're in line behind me, I can guarantee you'll be out of there tout de suite...and I usually smell pretty good too, which is a bonus.  Some folks?  Not so much (see the Duggar family above).

I got my return, and there was great rejoicing throughout the shire (confession: I dont have hairy feet).  I would add more to this story, but I just got back from the gym, it's late, and a hot shower and bed sounds better than...well, something normally fantastic.  I have analogy fatigue.  Sorry.

*Stella as in Stella Artois the beer.  So, when I said I was pounding Stella, I meant I was sucking down a beer, as opposed to having some wildly enthusiastic sex with Stanley Kowalski's wife in the airport (who's that?  Why Stella of course.  Read a damn book** once in a while for god's sake).  

** Yes, I know it was actually a play.  Quite being an argumentative pain in the ass.

Humanism is too human

Was hunting and pecking around the blogosphere for thoughts and ideas about Humanism, and ran across this one here:
http://theoreticalhumanism.wordpress.com/

Here was my reply, and although it was spur of the moment and probably doesn't pass the sniff test, it does contain some ideas I actually believe in (for the moment...after all, I am evolving, and so is my point of view on many a thing).

If I had to subscribe to any “ism”, I guess Humanism would be the closest to any life philosophy I adhere to (although to borrow from Ferris Bueller, I tend to think of most “isms” as dangerous belief systems). However, I feel even Humanism is too narrow a philosophy in that it ascribes some sort of meaning to life (contentment to use your supposition). I think the purpose of humanity is no different than the purpose of the universe itself, and that is a vain attempt to stay one step ahead of death (or entropy if you like). It is of course impossible, and yet we have an unyielding and fundamental drive to reproduce prior to our death to give our genes some type of (false) immortality, as even the universe gives life prior to the death of some of its most complex systems (a dying star can supernova and produce complex…more complex than the star itself… life giving elements back to the vacuum). It all seems ultimately pointless, due to diminishing returns, as entropy and the ultimate heat death of all creation seems inevitable. And yet…I don’t think nihilism is the logical conclusion. It would seem to me, on a true macro scale, we are part of an exceedingly complex whole that seems to be evolving to a point, as if the universe is struggling to evolve in order to understand, and give meaning to, its very self, and perhaps even transcend itself into something beyond creation. Simple evolution on an unimaginable scale (actually, I guess not, as I just imagined it). Then again, to use your argument, it’s ultimately beyond the scientific method, and therefore, not worth discussing. Maybe contentment is where it is at after all. Hmmm…I think I’ll have a taco (yum).

(later on I realized my own flaw) ...of course I contradicted myself by giving meaning as well. This is tricky stuff. OK. I'll just say there is only one meaning, and it applies to, quite literally, everything (from things as elemental as hydrogen gas, all the way to complex structures like human beings and whole galaxies). The meaning is the meaning, it is transcendent, and it is simple as it is complex. It's the alpha and the omega, the yin and yang, 42, the sound of one hand clapping , the chicken or the egg, and that whole tree in the forest thing. It also explains why a taco is so perfect.

Why I Hate Cats

I came home Friday morning to discover that a sprinkler in my back yard had broken and flooded out a small patch of the flower bed next to the pool. This minor flood streamed across the concrete deck to the fence line. As a result of this proof of entropy ruling the Universe, there was a patch of silt deposited on the concrete deck next to the pool pump. This patch of dirt was approximately six inches long and six inches wide, and about one quarter of an inch deep. This small patch of dirt is surrounded by hundreds of square feet of concrete pool decking. It was a small dirt island in the middle of a concrete sea, and it hadn't existed for more than 24 hrs. And guess what? A cat crapped right in the middle of it. Apparently, somehow, the word got out that there was a BRAND SPANKING NEW NEVER BEEN CRAPPED IN PATCH OF DIRT in the neighborhood. Never mind that it wasn't much bigger than a DVD case...it was there, all pristine and un-crapped upon, and well, the neighborhood kitties couldn't have that. In fact, Im sure upon the very creation of this virginal patch of earth, a subatomic particle ray was dispersed causing kitty sphincters all across the neighborhood to spasm. As a result of this call to arms, the hunt for this version of the feline El Dorado was on. Well, one of them found it almost immediately, and before you could say fucking "presto!", took a dump on it. Can somebody again explain to me why we tolerate cats?