Things I can see from seat 6A:

I see a woman. She’s dressed in a yellow blazer like they used to wear on ABC sports back in the seventies. She’s about sixty, trying to look fifty-nine. She’s standing in the aisle wearing noise-canceling headphones and she’s visibly moving to whatever she’s listening to. Her movements are too big to be called “swaying” and too small to be called “salsa”. They lie somewhere in between. She’s rich. The rock on her ring finger would make my wife vomit salty tears. It’s big. She’s also wearing two Swatches. Yeah. People didn’t even do that when Swatch was trying to cram that fashion down our throats. I love her.


My always full glass of wine. I’m drunk.


The dude next to me. He has hair like Superman. He has slept the entire time. I’ve had flights like that. I envy him but I also hate him because he looks like a guy I know who I don’t like.


The “fly-over” states. I’m glad I’m flying over them. No offense if you live there. On second thought, FUCK you.


The dude across the aisle. This guy is a puzzler. At first I thought he was Fred Durst. He’s a little chunky. He wears a black-on-black Yankees cap, flat brimmed. He wears a tight t-shirt with a stitched decoration of what looks like a bird-frog. He has sculpted eyebrows and one of those black-guy beards: thin, sparse and meticulously trimmed into a fine line. It’s not Fred Durst. Then, a bunch of young girls walk down the aisle and squeal when they see him and I start to think he’s Fred Durst again. But they just know him. What a coincidence. He catches me looking at him and angles his video ipod away from my line of sight. He thinks I want to watch Shooter with him. I don’t.


Cashew chicken. Mmmmm. Airplane food has gotten a lot better. The gravy is a little gel-like and the chicken is not of the best quality but these cashews are good. Mmmm. They are, like, the king of the cashews.


The gayest Flight Attendant ever. He keeps filling my wine with a coy smile. We are in cahoots. We both know that a cross-continental flight is unbearable and he is in a position to ease my pain. He smiles at me conspiratorially as if to say, “I know it’s not the most comfortable plane and I’m sorry you can hear the autistic kid screaming in the back but the Bible says ‘drink wine’ so why not drink this.” Little does he know I am a functional alcoholic and afternoon flights are one of my triggers. But he’s nice. I might fuck him. Depends on how drunk I get.


The Autistic kid screaming in the back. I don’t see him as much as I hear him. I feel bad for the people sitting next to him but I feel worse for his parents. I feel worse yet for him. If you think it’s bad sitting next to or being the parents of a screaming, writhing four-year old, try being autistic. I imagine it’s unbearable. You’d count stuff too.


The guy’s head in front of me. He has the worst comb-over ever. Crystal Gale circa 1977 couldn’t grow the amount of hair this guy has whipped up onto the top of his head. I fucking hate him with every hate-filled cell of my body. Sell-out.


The Northwestern Airlines Logo. Is it an N? Is it a W? Is it two-people staring at each other? Is it a wine glass? Sobering up.


My empty wine glass. Perhaps I’ve reached my quota. My wine-toting friend has not returned with the bottle of “Three Blind Moose” in some time. I do not want to sober up. Nor do I want to hit the bar at LAX before I pick up my luggage at baggage claim. That goes more than slightly beyond functional alcoholism.


Shooter, starring Mark Whalberg. Not-Fred-Durst has forgotten about my prying eyes and I actually find myself getting a little sucked in. You know it’s a bad movie when you don’t need the sound to know exactly what’s going on.


The feet of the guy next to me. They are tiny. Impossibly small. I want to dress them up like little dollies and serve them make-believe tea.


My yellow pee. Okay, I’m technically not sitting in seat 6A anymore, I’m standing above the toilet. I’m really dehydrated. We’re landing soon and I thought I’d squeeze in one more pee before I have to buckle my seat belt. I pee a lot. The guy sitting next to me (Tiny Superman) is hiding his annoyance well as I am constantly climbing over him. It’s not easy to extricate myself from the seat because I have “a thing” about using the seat in front of me as leverage. It’s rude. So, I’m basically rolling over the poor little guy. He’s handsome though. Superman handsome.


I get back to my seat and, in my absence; the Sommelier has refilled my wine glass one more time. What a sweetheart. I’ll be able to keep my “functional” moniker another day. Appropriately, we fly over Paso Robles. Wine country. I tip my glass of Three Blind Moose to the rolling hills and take a sip. Mmmm. It tastes like salty tears.