Wednesday, January 4, 2006

Flying, and I’m referring to the practice of strapping yourself to a winged metal can in the sky, matures from stark terror to dull, hollow fear, once you do it often enough. Liftoff is exciting, to be sure, in the way it violates that comfortable phenomenon known as gravity, but who am I to complain? Southwest had special discounts on airfare, so everything was okay.

My flight back to Chicago was turbulent. One woman fainted, necessitating a concerned rush of medically trained passengers to the front of the plane, which further necessitated someone knocking a sandwich out of my hand. Food, however, was least important at this point, and after the incident other matters caught my attention, such as the jolts that were rocking the cabin.

Air personnel are unflappable, it occurred to me, and probably for good reason. This is what you will hear, even in the most dire of situations–

“Please make sure all seats and tray tables are in their upright and locked positions.”

–when really, they should be saying this:

“Please make sure all seats and tray tables are in their upright and locked positions and prepare to be royally fucked.”

If the plane dropped out of the sky at that specific moment, it also occurred to me, the situation wouldn’t have been so bad. Now, for the record, this isn’t a desperate cry for intervention, nor am I giving away my stuff. I’m just saying, you know? The fancy was liberating–if we did crash, I wouldn’t exactly have a say in the matter, but the stress and the grind would be gone. I was at peace.

Reentry. There’s the rub. Is it ever pleasant? Astronauts don’t usually pop open the freeze-dried ice cream when they’re hurtling back home, I don’t think, though I could be wrong. Remind me to contact NASA for answers.

Tuesday, January 3, 2006

A New Year’s halfolution–a conceit I will peddle tirelessly while the iron’s hot–is a poor man’s resolution, borne out of convenience and dissolved, similarly, by the situation at hand. Let’s say you walk to work. A resolution demands you do so out of fresh desire to improve your health, increase your heart rate, through the magic of ambulation. A halfolution begins when you miss the bus and ends when you carjack.

My Sunday halfolution, crafted on a back pew in church during a rare quarterly visit, would have me become a model attendee. You know the type: shows up on time or at all, doesn’t confuse sitting with standing, takes notes during sermons, never wonders whether “passing the peace” is a recipe for pandemic. The springboard for my halfolution was a speaker who would combine theory and practicality in riveting fashion, much like the seminary where he taught, on the topic of making worthwhile resolutions.

Did not work as advertised. There was approximately enough practicality to sustain a small packet of sea monkeys, for how long I couldn’t say. Some churchgoers bowed their heads as the first point came to a close, and not precisely in prayer, if you catch my drift. I wasn’t nearly so wretched. Know why? It’s a little something I call daydreaming. The louder sleepers were like, “Hrrrrngk,” but I was all, “Holy Shi– *snnnrk* –meah, it would be awesome to websling.”

Certainly I’m not unhappy with all churches. One buddy offered a piece of wisdom once, when asked why she willingly attended church consistently. “To start the week off right,” she replied. I’m sure someone at Wheaton could flowchart this, but I have a feeling she was onto something.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, January 03.