Black ACG Ribbon and home button

ACG Rants

ACG

From: Neef (neef@sloth.vurt.net)
Subject: From Deep Vein Thrombosis to Deborah Sutton

I forced myself to look out the window this time as we took off. Dragging my eyes away from the page, Mr Thompson and a highly amusing tale of illicit fax machine usage I stared past the balding man next to me, and out the window. He'd gone to sleep as soon as he'd forced me to move out of my seat so he could get to his. He was now wheezing slightly like an aged, asthmatic dog.

Not much to see when you get down to it. Have you ever really *noticed* that all airport runways look the same? Just a flash of green either side as some quite possibly demented and deprived individual acting out an unfulfilled children's fantasy of fast cars and fighter planes, rams the throttle forward (or back) and tries frantically to hurl god knows how many tonnes of vaguely aerodynamically shaped metal into the air. God knows how many tonnes of aerodynamically shaped metal, I might add, that has *NO* business being up there in the first place. Sure, flight is good, its quick, its convenient, but lets face it, On some fundamental, logical level, Its wrong. It's a Plane. It's big, It's heavy, and strangely enough for something that's supposed to fly, it has *wheels*.

A close friend once told me - No, he Explained to me - how it all works. Just why its wrong. It made a particular kind of twisted sense. You wont catch me believing otherwise now. This friend was damn convincing.

Turbulence? Don't speak to me about turbulence. You want to know what Turbulence is?
It's a message.
From God.
It's his way of telling us we're not supposed to fly. Being the gentle and forgiving kind of guy he is, he just gives us a bit of a gentle reminder, a small push downward, to remind us exactly where we belong in the scheme of things.
Got the Hint?
Slamming the thing into the ground wouldn't really work as an object lesson, they'd just blame it on those whacky terrorists and we'd all keep on flying. A little more nervous to be sure, but flying none the less. The message would be wasted. Stick with the gentle nudges, sooner or later someone's got to wake up.

The fuckers won't let me turn on my minidisc, or my laptop. They don't understand that I need these things. I need them if I'm going to remain calm and sane. I need them to prevent me from grabbing the nearest flight attendant, pointing out the window at the wings and screaming "Are they supposed to do that!!?" So I have to handwrite this instead. A bourbon and coke will get you it degenerates into utter scrawl later on when I'm trying to ignore god subtle messages

Oh? they say I'm allowed to turn them on 20 minutes into the flight. Once we've reached cruising altitude. Then I'm going to have to turn them off again 20 minutes before landing, which, on an hour long flight leaves me 20 more minutes. Fuck all time. That's long enough for the laptop to boot, freeze, crash, reboot and then complain about crashing before its time to turn it off. It's just long enough to play three tracks, or two long ones. Not long enough to settle down for a good bit of audio torture. Not long enough by anyone's standards.

Fuckers.
I want my machinery. I want my laptop and my minidisc.
I want them on.
Continuously.

The only solace I'm granted in all of this is the classical music on channel 8. Out of 11 channels you'd think they'd have something resembling variety.
Nope.
That would be asking too much.
11 channels.
1 for classical.
9 for utter shit. Four of those playing all the same kind of music. 3 playing talkback radio, and 2 playing something so incomprehensible, I may as well be on acid. Lots of Acid. Or they might as well be. The last channel they reserve for in-flight announcements and news., which is stupid seeing as they break into the other channels anyway, Brutally ripping what little comfort I have away and leaving me defenceless amongst the savages I'm surrounded by.

I have to endure the safety demonstrations by ugly air attendants. Attendants used to be beautiful, statuesque and a pleasure on the eyes. What's the deal with short balding men in unflattering shirts? If I'm going to be stuck on something resembling a cattle truck, I at least want to look at something nice for fucks sake. Especially if its going to be the last thing I see. Equal Opportunities my ass.

After that, the mad bastard in charge up the front points the plane down the runway and guns the engines to the redline. Acceleration and the flash of concrete and grass to either side, while up front in the soundproofed cockpit the pilot is screaming insanely "GET UP! TAKE THE FUCK OFF YOU HEAP OF SHIT! TAKE OFFFFFF!!!!!"

Presumably this is to avoid the large concrete bunker looming ever larger by the second at the end of the strip. To be perfectly honest, I can't hear the pilot screaming, Just as I can't see the concrete bunker, But I do know its happening.
Oh yes, I know. What other excuse could there be for the way that the plane suddenly tilts nose up on a 45 degree angle and leaves the ground? 45 Degrees and tilting sickeningly to bank around over the airport towards our eventual, presumed destination.
Assuming we get there of course.
Why they haven't pointed the plane in the right direction in the first place is a mystery to even myself.
Personally, I'm putting it down to poor organisation and a desire to torture those who don't fly well. Then there's the terrifying view of the airport from a scary angle, just to remind you what you're doing, and how stupid it is. Meanwhile as we level out, the pilot is up front, wiping his brow and asking his co pilot how long they have to stay in this thing. How long in the air? Hoping that the over paid, glorified gas station attendant has remembered to put enough fuel in for both those engines bolted to each wing.

Once up in the air, and my attention returned to the pages in front, Mr Thompson has somehow fired a rocket launcher at a snow-mobile, Bill Clinton, (Ex President Bill Clinton) hasn't ever inhaled and the video screen, claiming to give us important tips is showing us an educational video on Deep Vein Thrombosis, and how to avoid it. Its followed closely, by Deborah Sutton introducing the many and varied wonders of South Australia. Two disparate things, which will forever remain inexorably linked in my mind.
A scary thought at best.

On Channel 1 they're showing us a news broadcast, presumably, specially taped for the flight.
In a stunning fit of irony, they're talking about Bin-laden and how he's encouraging people to rise up and fight the corruption of America.
That's it. We're all going to die a plunging, flaming, debris, laden death.
Am I the only person here that sees the inherent stupidity of reminding people *on a plane* what happened last week? May as well start a panicked riot on board right now. Dozens of people braying and screaming in terror as they remember that some crazed moron with a stanley knife could take over their plane and try to find something important to slam it in to.

I guarantee you, every single person on this flight is thinking exactly the same thing as I am. Hell, Two rows back, there's probably a little old Italian grandmother frantically counting rosary beads, While up in business class is someone else is readying a cattle prod to protect the highly illegal stash of amphetamines he's managed to smuggle aboard. In his mind all this trouble is because of him. The Delayed take off? Its so they can sneak plain-clothes cops on board to make sure he doesn't pass the drugs to anyone else. Turbulence? Its because of the spy planes they have flying alongside, probing his fillings and body cavities for anything else illegal that they can find. Even the Stewards and Stewardesses know. He can tell by the way they ask him if he's comfortable, or if he wants something to drink.
"Sir doesn't look to well, perhaps he would like something to calm his stomach?" They all know. And the moment he panics, the moment he gives in to temptation and makes the slightest wrong move, is the moment they'll be all over him. Goddamn it, 11 Kilos of speed got on this plane and 10 are going to arrive at the destination.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go to the toilet and freshen up, I have to keep alert you know"

It's Chaos here, utter, unadulterated chaos. I'm strapped in between two people I don't know. Weirdo boy on the left with his own pillow, and wheezy dog man on the right. What's worse is that I have no Drugs or Booze. I could order a bottle, Just to tide me over you understand, but somehow I don't think it will stop there, and turning up at the Adelaide branch of the company, staggeringly drunk and vomiting in the nearest bin would probably be a bad thing. IM used to it, But I think they might take it the wrong way.
So here I am. A self-inflicted prisoner of soberiety and chemical deprivation amongst a plane load of weird, sober, straight freaks. All with their own hidden agendas, all paranoid that at the end of the line they're going to be the ones met by an overweight security guard called 'Malcom' waiting to usher them into a room where they'll be examined. Examined with a capital 'E'. Examined with the disposable gloves and cheap lubricants. The Smell never really goes away you know. It stays with you the entire day. They all have something to hide from The Man. Even if it's just the fact that their bag is .5 kilo over the weight limit.

Me?
Oh, I'm fine, Well, As much as I can be anyway. I know the score. I know what's going on with this place, this plane, The airports at either end. Not to say that I'm coping. I'm not, Not by a long shot, In fact, I'm probably the guy that's going to stand up in the aisle and start screaming insanely, demanding to speak to the pilot so he can put down somewhere to let me off.
Why? Because of you.
Because of each and every one of you people sitting there in your own little world, keeping your arms to your side of the arm rests. Making sure you don't look someone else in the eye. Just to make sure that cattle prod, or that stanley knife or the torrent of religious hysteria isn't unleashed in your direction, Or in the direction of the nearest building.

Let me off this goddamned pile of riveted and welded steel.

I want a drink and I want it now.
I want to take off my pants and sit around in my underwear, I want to belch loudly, I want to yell and scream and I want a decent meal.
I want off.
I want off *now*

--
Just think of me as your own personal Trauma Sponge!
neef @ vurt net