Observations on a voyage across a continent: Newark to Houston edition

It’s a travel day, and you know what that means:

weird observations about mundane things I make into giant deals.

1) I saw the busted version of Timothee Chalamet (which is still better than most people). Curly locks. A white tank top, strategically ripped. An 8 pack? 10 pack? 12 pack? I don’t know. There were many hard lumps and I can’t be counted on to document them all. A clear fanny pick. Acid washed jeans tucked into cowboy boots. And many leather bracelets.

2) Newark Airport (also known as Liberty Airport to all those jingoistic assholes who turned 9/11 into a reason to make money) has port-a-potties instead of bathrooms, as if the indignities of American air travel are not plentiful enough. BUT, and this is the only upside I can think of, they settle the issue of trans people in bathrooms. At least for one very uncomfortable moment.

3) I’m eating breakfast at a Ruby Tuesday. I use the term “breakfast” loosely. This “restaurant” smells of ketchup and is filled with tourists who are flying through Chicago. That accent is undeniable. There is a decided truck stop feel: Farah Fawcett haircuts, men wearing blue blockers, women wearing baseball caps and flip flops. I’m not even going to get into what they call “food” here.

4) A bit of shadenfreude: everyone at the terminal who was flying to or connecting out of Chicago is in a tizzy because, get this, airports closed for weather. The curse of Chicago continúes!!! I fly through Charlotte, so I don’t care this time.

Edits and updates to follow.

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Why is this here? Who greenlit this? It’s a booth you go into to learn about the famous people of New Jersey.

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So, fun fact, airlines do not show movies that include plane crashes. But technology has progressed since the time of the shared movie experience with those weird headphones that worked with tubes and cost five dollars.

The man sitting next to me believes in freedom. And that means the unabashed and completely lacking in irony act of watching a movie called World Trade Center. While we’re at Newark. Liberty Airport. The airport where United Flight 93 was highjacked out of on that fateful day.

He’s not doing it out of honor to the victims. Sadly, this movie is porn for him. Poor, audibly breathing, beef jerky eating, fat, sclerotic bastard can only get hard to a movie where Muricans get killed and the good white men of the earth save us from doom.

I’m sitting next to the enemy on a plane. And there’s nothing he nor I can do about it.

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