Sunday, February 4, 2024

How Does This Grab Ya?

 

Not quite three months ago I had hernia surgery. It was an inguinal hernia on my right side and the surgery was performed laparoscopically, using a robot. I didn’t get to meet the robot prior to the procedure, but my surgeon assured me that he would be the one controlling the robot, and the chances of the machine going haywire during the surgery and trying to take over the world were practically zero. That was very reassuring.


My surgery went well, and I was sent home with nifty painkillers and told to take it easy for the next four to six weeks. The first week after the surgery was particularly challenging as I had difficulty with even the simplest of tasks. Open a jar? Not gonna happen. Put on socks? No dice, Chicago. Carry my laptop to a different location? Uh-uh. Fortunately, my wife and kids were very helpful during this time, but I felt guilty having them do everything for me.

Slowly but surely, I was able to start doing things for myself again, but the one activity that remained challenging as the weeks wore on was bending down to pick something up off the floor. Basically, if I dropped something and I happened to be home alone, I was screwed. I tried to enlist the help of our cats, but despite my explaining what they had to do as logically as possible, they would generally just sniff the object I wanted them to pick up and slowly walk away. Jerks!

As my frustration with my unbendability increased, it occurred to me that I could greatly benefit from owning a grabber. Decades ago, when I worked at MAD, the publisher, Bill Gaines, had one of these devices near his desk and he would often employ it to pick something up out of the chaos of his office. Bill was a millionaire genius, so I figured he must have known what he was doing, so I jumped onto Amazon to find one of these handy devices.

I was unsure if there was a more technical term for the tool I sought, so I just typed “grabber” into the search engine to see what I would find. Sure enough, when I hit enter, the exact tool I was looking for appeared on my screen; indeed, hundreds of them did. At first, I was thrilled that I managed to find what I was looking for so easily, but then I started clicking on my options and got annoyed. Almost every one of the products displayed was listed as either “Grabbers for Elderly” or “Pickup Stick for Seniors.” Clearly, at 54 I’m no spring chicken, but I’m surely not “elderly” or a “senior;” at least not yet.

As I scrolled through my various grabber options I wondered if there were some that were somehow specifically for the elderly and others that were meant for younger individuals. But there was nothing in the descriptions that led me to believe that might be the case. A grabber is a grabber is a grabber, no matter the age of the user. Eventually I got past the misguided description that implied you had to be old to use this particular product, and I settled on a grabber that seemed just right for me. I put it on my Amazon wish list and got it from my wife on the first night of Hanukkah.

When I received my grabber, I was not quite a month out from my surgery and picking things up off the floor was still a definite challenge. But with the grabber in hand, my life transformed. Accidentally dropping a tissue on the ground no longer led to an hour-long depression. I was now able to confidently retrieve my snot-rag and deposit it in the trash without bending an inch. For the first few weeks after getting this miracle tool, I used it frequently. In fact, I came to enjoy dropping things, because it gave me a chance to flex my grabber.

But here’s the fascinating part…three months after my surgery, now almost completely healed and more or less able to bend without pain, I still use my grabber to pick things up. Why shouldn’t I? The convenience of not having to bend is amazing! It makes me wonder why everyone isn’t walking around with one of these things. I think the marketers of this product who call it a “grabber for the elderly” are missing a golden opportunity here. Who wants to bend down to pick things up when the grabber can do the work for you?  I say, just like mailing checks, using a phonebook, and writing in cursive, in 2024, bending down to pick something up should become obsolete. Take it from me, a guy who uses his grabber more than his cellphone. Just don’t call me elderly.

Saturday, November 4, 2023

Experimental Cat Post

It has been a very long time since I have written a blog post. Why? Maybe laziness, maybe exhaustion, maybe fear. Yes, I said fear. But fear of what, you may ask. Great question! Thanks for asking! It's the fear of inadequacy in the face of new technology. Specifically, I'm talking about AI and the fear of robot writers replacing real life writers like myself. They say, though, that you should face your fears head on and in today's blog, I will do just that. I have decided to write a blog post about the fact that my cats are simultaneously cute and gross. I then provided ChatGPT with some specific prompts on the same topic. I will post both versions below without telling you, my faithful readers, which is which. Now it will be your task to: a) guess which version is mine and which is AI, and b) tell me which you like better. If AI wins, I'll hang up my writing gloves. If I win, I'll start my novel tomorrow. (No pressure, even though my entire future is in your hands.) Now, read away...

VERSION 1

Cats are the epitome of cute and gross all rolled into one fuzzy, little package. I should know, because I’m the proud owner of two feline terrors – Muffin and Ping. These two furballs bring a unique blend of adorableness and repulsiveness into my life every day. It’s a never-ending rollercoaster of emotions, and I wouldn’t want have it any other way.

Let’s start with the cute. Muffin and Ping are the poster children for feline cuteness. When they stretch out in the sun, their tiny paws curl and their eyes squint, making them look like fluffy, contented marshmallows. I can’t resist snapping pictures of them in these moments and bombarding my friends with endless cat photos. I’ve even considered starting an Instagram account just for them. Cute cats could potentially be my ticket to internet stardom. So, you see, the cuteness is undeniable.

But then, there’s the gross. Cats have a knack for finding and playing with the most disgusting things. Ping, for instance, has a weird obsession with rubber bands. I’ll be sitting at my desk, working diligently, and then I’ll hear that unmistakable ping of a rubber band being flicked across the room. Ping has managed to collect an impressive assortment of rubber bands from the far corners of our house. I don’t know where he finds them, but I suspect there’s some sort of secret underground rubber band marketplace for cats. It’s a mystery that may never be solved.

Muffin, on the other hand, has a love for hunting. While it’s a natural instinct for cats to catch prey, Muffin’s idea of “hunting” involves tracking down flies and eating them. Yes, you heard me right – eating them. I once caught her mid-bite with a fly’s wing sticking out of her mouth. It was both impressive and nauseating at the same time. I had to give her credit for her resourcefulness, but I also couldn't help but cringe at the thought of fly wings being consumed in my living room.

Cats are also notorious for their less-than-pleasant bathroom habits. The litter box, or as I like to call it, the poop palace, is a necessary evil in any cat owner’s life. It’s a never-ending cycle of scooping out clumps of litter mixed with cat waste, and it always seems to happen right after I’ve cleaned the darn thing. Muffin and Ping have impeccable timing when it comes to leaving their gifts in the litter box.

And let’s not forget the joy of being woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of Muffin and Ping having a WWE-style wrestling match in the hallway. There’s nothing quite like being jolted out of a peaceful slumber by the sounds of crashing furniture and hissing cats. It’s as if they’ve decided that 3 a.m. is the perfect time to reenact the Battler of the Bastards from Game of Thrones in my living room.

Despite all the cuteness and grossness, I wouldn’t trade Muffin and Ping for anything in the world. They bring endless entertainment, and their antics keep me on my toes. Sure, they may have a knack for finding and playing with gross things, but they also have a way of making me smile even on the toughest days. The ups and downs of cat ownership are all part of the adventure, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, here’s to Muffin and Ping, the dynamic duo of cute and gross, and to all the other cat owners out there who can relate to the chaos and joy that comes with these furry little companions.


VERSION 2

There are dog households and there are cat households (and I suppose a few hybrid dog-cat households) and we fall squarely into the cat household category. That means, in addition to the four human inhabitants in our domicile, there are two feline family members walking around. Well, let’s be honest, they’re mostly lying around, but you get the point.

Our cats are Ping (black and lean) and Muffin (grey and round) and they bring much joy to our lives. Their hobbies are being cute, purring when petted, and begging for food every time we sit down at the dinner table. They also have their own little interesting eccentricities. Ping, for example, will headbutt me in the knee when he wants cat treats, while Muffin will aggressively meow at you if you sneeze. (I’m pretty sure Muffin thinks that sneezing is equivalent to roaring or growling, so when it happens, she has to stand her ground.)

As much as we love our cats and absolutely swoon the two or three times per year they show affection toward each other, there is an ugly side to cat ownership that few people talk about. I’m going to be brave, though, and discuss the topic that is often swept under the rug…cats are gross.

There, I said it. Adorable as they are, cats can be disgusting. On multiple occasions I have unwittingly stepped in, or sat in, cat puke. (Well, I guess it would have to have been unwittingly—who would wittingly do such a thing?) In fact, just a couple of weeks ago I had to change from shoes to sneakers right before going to work, because I stepped in a puddle of sick moments before leaving the house. Luckily, even though my work dress code forbids sneakers, nobody in my office happened to look down that day.

And then there’s the litterbox, which must be changed daily. Scooping up another creature’s waste is never a fun undertaking to begin with, but one of our cats, who shall remain nameless (Ping, I’m looking at you) doesn’t know how to cover their own poo. Oh, he tries—boy does he try. He’ll spend a good five minutes after he goes, pawing all around the litterbox, thinking he’s actually burying his business, when in fact, the litter has been sent everywhere except where it should have gone. Then he will casually walk out of the box as though everything is hunky dory, leaving one of the humans (generally me) to finish the burial process for him.

At times I wonder why I put up with such revolting behavior. Why must I spend a significant portion of my waking hours dealing with the bodily emissions of someone other than myself? Then I remember that I have kids and that for the first two years of their lives, I spent even more time dealing with their heinous waste than I ever did with the cats. And the kids aren’t even as fun to pet as the cats.

So, I guess we put up with the gross stuff because they are cute, and because they are part of the family, and because, in the end, love is stronger than poo.

Sunday, July 30, 2023

A Voice From the Past

 

Recently I had to call my financial institution to resolve an online banking issue. These types of calls are usually about as fun as getting hit in the kneecap with a sock full of nickels. So, as I made my way through the dozens of automated prompts to get to an actual living, breathing human, I was experiencing a fair amount of anxiety. Eventually, I pressed the right sequence of buttons and a representative got on the line and said: “Hello, this is John. I’m going to be your banking concierge today. How can I help you?” Right away I smiled.

You see, as soon as John started talking, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he must have grown up very close to where I grew up. In fact, the more he talked, the more convinced I was that not only was this guy originally from Brooklyn, but quite likely grew up in the very same neighborhood as me, so specific was his accent. The more he spoke, the more nostalgic I became.

John was tenacious in trying to resolve my issue. In fact, he said, “I’m not going to get off the phone with you until we get this fixed. I don’t give up.” I found his persistence reassuring and his accent comforting. There were moments of downtime while he was waiting for something to update on his end. During these silences, I wondered if I should ask him where he was from. I was conflicted, because asking this question could go one of two ways: 1) he happily tells me where he’s from and we start having a conversation about the old country, or 2) he gets annoyed that I’m crossing a personal line during a business call and is less inclined to help me.

People have varying reactions to being called out for their accent. The truth is that many times, people don't think that they have much of an accent since everyone they grew up with talked the exact same way; so if it’s called out, they may get annoyed. I certainly wasn’t aware that I had a Brooklyn accent until I moved away from Brooklyn. The first couple of years that I lived in Arizona it was very common for people who I just met to ask me where from New York, or where from “back East” I was from. This rubbed me the wrong way at first—like a secret part of me was discovered. But soon I owned it, and was happy to reveal my background, which many people seemed to find exciting or exotic. The longer I have lived away from Brooklyn, the more subtle my accent has become, so these days it is rare that any new person that I meet asks me about it anymore. If they did, though, I would be fine with it. But how would John react?

Eventually, John reached a point while working on my issue where he said it could take up to 15 minutes for the online platform to be updated, but he would stay on the line with me to make sure it worked. Fifteen minutes is a long time, so I decided to go for broke.

“John, I’ve got to ask what part of the world you’re from, because I’m pretty sure we grew up in the same neck of the woods,” I said, holding my breath.

“I’m from Brooklyn,” he said, with a chuckle.

“Me too,” I said. “Bensonhurst.” Mentioning my specific neighborhood opened the floodgates.

“I’m from Gravesend. I grew up on East 3rd and Avenue U during the disco era, when everybody wore chains, and all your friends were named Tony.”

I told him where I grew up, which was about two miles from him. For the next few minutes, we waxed nostalgic about the old neighborhood. We talked about going to rival high schools—Lafayette for me, Lincoln for him—and about how cool it was that we could walk to anything we wanted or needed when we were kids. He told me that he loves it in Arizona, but he misses being in a place where he knows everyone in the neighborhood. I was just about to turn the conversation to the virtues of a good slice of pizza when he said, “Okay update your screen and I think you’ll see what you need to.”

I updated my screen and saw that my issue had been resolved. I was grateful for that but was a little bit sad that this conversation was about to come to an end. It was a Saturday morning and I had nowhere to be, so I could have talked to John for hours, but he was at work, so I’m sure he had to help more customers. I thanked him profusely and told him I enjoyed talking to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did some banking; we did some bonding. It was fun.”

It was, indeed, fun. It kind of makes me want to grow my Brooklyn accent back, because not once has anyone ever called me out on my Chandler, Arizona accent.

 


Monday, May 15, 2023

A Tale of Two Concerts

The first concert I ever went to was when I was 16 years and 6 months old. This was way back…way, way, way back in 1986 when the price of a floor seat ticket to see Rush at Meadowlands Arena was $15.50. Yes, there is indeed a dot between those two fives. That’s right, I paid less than twenty bucks to go to that show and sit in the 40th row.

The monetary cost of the tickets was not, however, the only price I paid to go to that concert 37 years ago. That concert also cost me my integrity. Knowing that my overprotective parents would never let me go to a rock concert in a million years, what with the loud noises and alcohol consumption and people wearing leather, I lied and said I was going to the movies and then sleeping over at my friend Chris’s house. The second part was actually true—I did sleep over at my friend Chris’s house that night, but we did not, in fact, go to the movies. This lie was the most rebellious moment of my young life. I was terrified that I might be caught in the lie, but my excitement over seeing my favorite band outweighed my terror and I did the horrible deed. I felt guilty about the lie and proceeded to have the time of my life.

Cut to last night. My oldest son is currently 16 years and 6 months old, and I took him to his first concert. We paid a mere $75 per ticket to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers in the upper, upper deck of State Farm Stadium. Indeed, if we were any higher up, I think local air traffic controllers may have had to help us navigate to our seats.

Despite the dizzying heights at which we sat, my son and I had a blast. Yes, famed bassist, Flea, looked about the size of a flea from our vantage point, but there were two massive screens on either side of the stage showing close-up views of the band, so we were able to keep track of their frenetic movements throughout the entire 90-minute show. And while there were definitely loud noises, people consuming alcohol nearby, and even one dude wearing leather (despite the fact that we’re in Arizona and it was close to 100-degrees out) I didn’t feel like I was corrupting my son all that much. Instead, we were just digging on the music together. While my first concert was a rebellious moment, my son’s was a bonding moment.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not naïve enough to think that my son is never going to rebel as long as I keep on buying overpriced concert tickets. I just know that for now, I’ve thwarted that rebellion for a little while longer. Truly, I’m fine with him eventually rebelling, as long as he does it when he’s in his 40s when I’m too old and tired to care.

My son and I several miles from the stage at State Farm Stadium
(Photo Credit: Someone sitting behind us who may
have consumed alcohol but was not wearing leather.)




Wednesday, April 19, 2023

Queue Up the End of DVDs

 


Yesterday I got an email that will change my life forever—or at least change my movie-viewing life forever. The email, ominously titled “Our Final Season,” revealed that on September 29, 2023, Netflix DVD will ship its final red envelope. When I read this horrifying bit of information, I let out an audible gasp. Had there been anyone around at that moment to hear my gasp, they would surely have asked “What’s wrong?” and I would have told them. But there was no one around at that moment to ask, so now I’m telling you instead.

First off, I’m not a complete idiot. I recognize that DVDs are an outdated technology and it’s highly likely that at this point the Netflix DVD subscriber database consists of me and about 14 other dinosaurs who just can’t let go of the 1990s. I get that keeping a multi-million-dollar enterprise open for 15 nerds isn’t a sustainable business model. So, I’m not outraged, just sad.

I should also mention that I do stream movies all the time, not only on Netflix but on Prime and Hulu, as well. In fact, I watch streaming movies way more than DVDs. So why am I so sad, you ask? I will sum up my sadness with one word—SELECTION.

Yes, streaming is horribly convenient, and there are certainly thousands of titles to choose from, but almost all of those titles have come out in the past two decades. Sure, there are a handful of flicks available from earlier than that, but most of those are either very popular flicks that I’ve already seen or, frankly, they’re hot garbage. For a movie geek like me who wants to see films like Going My Way (1944) or Vampyr (1932), waiting around for them to be available via a streaming service could take a very, very, VERY long time. Yet I was able to get both titles on DVD through Netflix without any problem.

So now I’m faced with an interesting dilemma. I am on the two-disc per month plan, which means that between now and when Netflix DVDs are gone forever, I will be able to rent 10 discs. How do I possibly choose the 10 movies I will see? These may be the 10 most important decisions I make this year.

There are currently 38 movies in my DVD queue, which means that 28 of them will have to be thrown by the wayside. There are a handful of movies in my queue that I’ve already seen and wanted to see again, but given the gravity of this situation, rewatching a movie would be downright irresponsible. No, all the movies need to be ones I’ve never laid eyes on.

There are some movies that have literally been sitting in my queue for years. I often reorder my queue, moving things to the top that I suddenly have an interest in seeing, so some flicks keep on getting jumped over by others. Maybe now is the time to see something like Romance & Cigarettes, an indie musical from 2005 directed by John Turturro, one of my all-time favorite actors. It has been in my queue for more than ten years, so up to the top you go!

One by one I will have to make these crucial decisions, choosing each film I rent with the utmost care. How many horror flicks should I choose? How many Best Picture nominees? How many silent films? And once I watch my last ten rentals by the end of September, the other 28 films in my queue and the thousands more that I never got to will be lost to me forever. I, and my 14 brethren sitting in front of their DVD players, will all shed a tear on September 29th as the credits roll on the end of an era. I’ll be sure to wipe my eyes with a red envelope.


Monday, December 19, 2022

Flyboys

 

I am not the most adventurous guy in the world; especially now, at age 53. In my teens and twenties, I was mildly adventurous—I went on backpacking trips in rugged terrain, took a stab at waterskiing a couple of times, and even wore a Boston Red Sox cap to Yankee Stadium on one occasion. But those wild days are largely behind me. These days the most adventurous I get is using ranch dressing a full week after its expiration date.

The reality is, as a family man with a five-day-a-week office job, not many opportunities for adventure present themselves to me, though admittedly, it’s not like I go out of my way to seek them out. Most of my entertainment time is spent reading books or watching movies, and if I want to increase my heart rate, I’ll read a horror book or watch a horror movie. “Let me get enjoyment from someone else’s peril, not my own,” is my general philosophy.

Every once in a rare while, though, an opportunity for adventure does present itself and when that happens you must ask yourself one question: “Should I seize the day, or should I walk away?” My risk-averse personality usually has me lean toward walking away at these moments, but on a recent occasion, I decided to lean in the other direction, and I am glad I did.

A friend of the family has his pilot’s license and owns a small four-seater plane that he keeps at Chandler Municipal Airport. Last spring, he invited me and my older son to fly with him and said that we could actually be the ones to fly the plane. My first thought was this was some kind of joke, because clearly neither of us had a pilot’s license. Heck, at that point in time, my son didn’t even have his learner’s permit yet…for a car, let alone a plane. But our pilot friend said he would take care of takeoff and landing and the middle part is where we would fly. It sounded a little fun and a lot terrifying.

I should point out here that I do not have a fear of flying. I’ve been on commercial jets hundreds of times in my life and have never been nervous. My family went on many trips that involved air travel throughout my childhood, so I got used to flying at a very young age. Indeed, I have always enjoyed the experience. Of course, the major difference between those flying experiences and the one I was being offered was that those prior experiences involved very large planes, with flight attendants attending to my needs, the possibility of an in-flight movie, and a person flying the plane who was not me. And, of course, it is this last point that made this very generous offer so nerve-wracking. Would I really want to be part of a flight that had me as the pilot?

The initial offer to fly a plane made last spring was not one that I followed up on. But when we saw our pilot friend again recently, he reminded us of his offer and this time I took him up on it for two reasons: 1) I didn’t want my son and I to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, and 2) now that my son actually did have his learner’s permit, I figured we couldn’t get in trouble if we were pulled over mid-flight.

So, this past Saturday, we met our friend at the airport and he took us up in his plane, which he told us was a “Mooney” built in 1966. The fact that the plane was three years older than me made me a tad uneasy, but our friend exuded such confidence and was so thorough in his explanation of what would happen with the plane every step of the way, that I was quickly put at ease.

For the first leg of the trip, my son was the copilot up front, and I sat in the back right behind him. It was a beautiful day and the views from 2,500 feet in the air were incredible. My son was in direct contact with the pilot sitting next to him via a headset, but my headset was for noise-reduction purposes only. So, I never knew when, somewhere up in the air, the pilot with 30+ years of experience, switched control of the plane over to my son, whose flying experience was about to begin the moment control was switched over to him.

The transition was smooth and unnoticeable. While I was chilling in the back taking pictures of the desert mountains in the distance, my son was apparently flying the airplane. I didn’t fully realize this until I glanced to the front of the plane and noticed that the pilot’s hands were not on the yoke (which I learned is the fancy aviation word for steering wheel thingy.) Wow! My 16-year-old son had my fate in his hands. I thought to myself that I should be petrified, but the truth was, things were going quite smoothly, and I was completely relaxed…and then came our first turn.

My son executed the turn perfectly, but the thing is, when an airplane turns, it also dips. It has to in order to make the turn. When you are on a 250-foot, 400,000-pound Boeing 747, that dip is barely perceptible and you keep on eating your complimentary pretzels without batting an eye. But when you are on a 27-foot, 2,400-pound Mooney, you are fully aware that the plane has suddenly shifted in a downward direction, and you are very grateful that there are no in-flight snacks.

Once my heart came back down out of my throat and I understood what to expect when turns happened, I was much more relaxed the rest of the flight. Eventually we landed at Ak-Chin Airport, about 30 miles southwest of where we started. We got out of the plane, stretched our legs, and chatted for a bit. Soon it would be my turn to fly this bucket.

Before we climbed back in, my son mentioned that just the slightest movement of his hands on the yoke made the plane respond, so you have to be very subtle with your movements. That made me gulp. What if I sneezed while I was turning the plane and we ended up spinning like a top? That wasn’t the kind of adventure I signed up for. For a split second I debated calling an Uber and high-tailing it out of there, but I knew my son would never let me live that down, so I took a deep breath and slid into the cockpit.

Soon we took off and a few minutes later, as our pilot leveled us off, I heard him say in my headset, “I’m giving you control of the plane.” Hoo-boy, that was a lot of responsibility for a guy who didn’t learn how to ride a bike until he was 33. But miraculously, when I got control of the plane, we did not suddenly fall out of the sky like a cartoon anvil. I was actually flying a plane! I won’t lie- I was a bit tense, especially in the beginning, but I was being coached as we went and gradually became less tense. I made a few turns, straightened out the plane when it needed straightening, and didn’t hit any birds along the way. So, it was a smashing success! (Luckily, without any actual smashing.)

As with the first leg of the trip, the real pilot took over when it was time to land back at Chandler Municipal Airport and when we landed, I felt exhilarated, joyful, grateful, and proud. Not only was I proud of my teenage son for being a natural behind the yoke of the plane, but I was also proud of myself for not once having to grab the airsickness bag conveniently located in the back seat.

Once the plane parked and we climbed out, I thanked our friend profusely for taking us up in his aircraft. It was truly a once in a lifetime experience. When we got home, we excitedly told the rest of the family all about our unique adventure. Not long after that, my younger son asked me when he can go flying. Okay…maybe it will be a twice in a lifetime experience.


Saturday, September 3, 2022

Airline Quality Literature

Recently, I had occasion to travel by plane for the first time in a little over a year. The flight was to be about five hours, so, of course, I took a book with me to occupy most of my time. Generally, though, prior to opening my book, I’ll flip through the complimentary inflight magazine a bit first to see if there are any articles of interest.


On this particular flight, I had a window seat and spent the taxiing and takeoff portion of the trip gazing out the window. Then, about ten minutes after we took off, I turned my gaze to the seatback in front of me to see what magazines they had to offer. When I did that, it took a moment for me to process what I was seeing; or maybe more aptly put—what I was not seeing.

Clearly, the sign at the top of the seatback said, “literature only,” yet I did not see any magazines. All that was there was a thin pamphlet titled “A321.” I pondered this for a moment and then thought to myself, “Don’t prejudge. Just because I never heard of ‘A321’ does not mean it is not a high-quality piece of literature.” So, I opened it up and this is what I saw:

Now, I graduated from New York University with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and while I was not a straight-A student, I feel like I paid enough attention to discern what is and isn’t literature.  And I was pretty confident that what I was holding in my hands was, decidedly, not literature. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that there are some fine graphic novels out there that tell amazing stories using pictures only, so I don’t discount that medium as literature. But what I was looking at had no real plot, completely underdeveloped characters, and a total lack of creativity. It starts off with some guy in a tacky yellow shirt buckling a seatbelt, moves on to some dude figuring out how to properly store a briefcase, and follows up with an emotionless mom putting an oxygen mask on her equally emotionless kid, in a situation that would, presumably, be terrifying to them. I’ll admit that last bit piqued my interest, but this two-page piece of “literature” never went back to that storyline.

I finished this epic tome in about 35 seconds and placed it back in the “Literature Only” section of the seatback. I debated hitting the call button to get the flight attendant over so I could complain about the plane’s lack of literature, but remembered that I had my own book anyway, and decided not to make waves. I felt bad, though, for anyone on the plane who may have forgotten to bring a book or magazine with them to read. What would they do on a five-hour flight without any airline-provided literature? I glanced over at the guy in the middle seat who was looking at his phone, and then at the guy in the aisle seat who was looking at his laptop. That’s when I remembered it was 2022.