They say smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. I'd say that holds up for most people, the grilled corn taking you back to the fair when you were a kid, the smell of moth balls reminding you of your grandparents' house, or a waft of the same perfume your 2nd grade teacher wore transplanting you back to the hard wooden chairs of her class. For me though, music is a much stronger nostalgia.
From cross-country road trips with my family bound for my dad's new duty stations outfitted with his CD case of Hootie and Aerosmith and the Bosstones to fill the radio silence between pee stops for the kids (and mum), to my current daunting library of tunes supplemented further still by the endless stream of internet radio, I've grown up with a steady wave of music pumped into my head, each song serving as a soundtrack for that particular moment. And as such they remain.
My family visited Disney World when I was 7 or so. It was a fun excursion to accompany a visit to the grandparents. We rode the rides, saw the characters, took the pictures, and--much to the bane of my similarly impatient dad--stood in the long lines. I'm sure we had a great time, barraged by happiness all day while mom and dad drowned us in sunscreen with great obsequiousness and carried us whenever our spoiled feet got a little tired, it must've been great! But I don't remember any of that.
What I do remember is the soundtrack. One song in particular. "All For You" by Sister Hazel. It was playing over the speakers, probably during one of our snack breaks in the shade. I didn't know the song or the band but I knew I liked it. And I remembered the words. For years. Even a decade later, once I was deep in the clutches of music's hostage, I still had the song in my head.
One day, then in my adolescence, I was spurred to find the song. So I typed those lasting lyrics of the chorus into the constant bail-out, google, and found it. There it was after 10 years of hibernation in my head. The same catchy guitar and vocal harmonies bringing me back instantly to the blissful humidity and human-herding of the happiest place on earth, hundreds of miles away and an entire childhood ago. As I listened, I could even recall details of that day that I didn't know I had noticed. I could see the part of the park we were resting by. I could remember looking up to the speaker to find the source of the wonderful new music and seeing the grey box atop a tall telephone pole, painted in bird shit. That's strong recollection. Let's see the olfactory lobe do that.
As I write this, I'm having a coffee in a cafe in Dresden after sleeping through class due to a late night of drinking in Germany's ever-open bars. (Come on, America, 2am closing time? Step it up.) The Red Hot Chili Pepper's "Scar Tissue" is playing on the radio. Everyone loves that song: the clean reverb of Johnny Frusciante's guitar, the always-bitchin bass of Flea, and Anthony Kiedis's vocals that it took you 5 listen-throughs to finally figure what the hell he was saying ("Went to bed with Janice a lonely dude," something, something "birds" and "you," what the hell?)
But once again I was taken back. This time to a park in Brisbane, Australia. I was around 10 years old and It was a Sunday and we were there for our weekly cookout with the neighbors. We had arrived early and we're waiting in the car for the others to show up and it came on the radio, still being a relatively new hit at the time. I've heard the song a thousand time since then, but that moment will always be my association with the song.
That's what music does. It makes you feel something; remember something. Maybe it's a work out mix, or the song that was playing when you finally got that girl to sleep with you, or that song that you put on repeat for your last road trip. But whatever it is, it's a soundtrack, and all the bands are playing just for you. And the exciting thing is you don't know it as it's happening. You might hate Iggy's "Fancy" now, but in 15 years when it comes on the radio of your office building on a depressingly labelled "oldies" station, I bet you'll smile. Music is a time machine. So you can keep your grilled corn, I'll be hanging out with Eddie Vedder in the Dolorian.
Commuting as a Germaphobe
I've been deemed a "Germaphobe" by many a jeering witness to my habits, but I prefer to think of it as hyperawareness. It's the ability (or curse) of seeing otherwise benign events and extrapolating them to their most detrimental. I see a classmate pick at something on the bottom of their shoe before placing their hand on the desk, and I make a mental note to never sit in that spot for the rest of the quarter; the man behind whom I'm walking on the sidewalk coughs, and I stop-short my inhalation until I pass him so as not to breathe the infectious air he released; I dedicate just one finger (the ring) all day to opening doors, refusing to submit the other 4 to the germ-ridden handles so that I may later scratch my face with them should the need arise. It's an ever-present vigilance that can't be turned off, but its potency is never higher than when I am in the convention center of all germs: the city bus.
I know that public transit is great for the environment, cuts down on traffic, and is a great way to meet new clientele for your burgeoning drug dealing business--the benefits abound--but it's also cheap, which attracts a specific kind of crowd to its seats. Setting aside us, the cleanly and presentable university students riding to campus everyday, there is a cast of characters that always seem to make an appearance on the King County Metro. Here are their credits:
Smokey Joe - You know the plethora of cigarette butts around the bench at the bus stop that you assume are an accumulation of 20 or so smokers throughout the day? They all belong to this guy. Judging by the smell emanating from him, he smokes at least 2 packs of Marlboro Reds in the 5 minutes of wait time it takes for the 75 to round the corner. Also, judging by his appearance, he's reallocated his entire clothing budget of the last 3 decades to buying more smokes. But it's okay, he's still rocking the hell out of that 1985 brown bomber jacket.
Trailer Park Queen - This beauty can count her teeth on both hands and still have 2 fingers left to hold her menthol cigarette. Usually proudly sporting some "Juicy" sweatpants and a bedazzled t-shirt that so eloquently drifts up to reveal the bottom third of her grotesque mid-section, she makes sure to position herself towards the front of the bus so that everyone can admire her demure. Cue gag. This is much to the dismay of the driver, because she takes it upon herself to engage the poor guy in conversation, rapping off tidbits of her supremely unenviable life. "Yeah, my ex-boyfriend's in prison now, but when he gets out, we're gettin' back together, buyin' a nice ol' van and travelin' down to Oregon, cuz his uncle's got a dog fightin' ring, an' we's gon' git rich!" If he wasn't the one driving the bus, he would be throwing himself under it as soon as he could.
Sleeping Beauty - I'm going to go out on a short limb and say this guy is unemployed, because evidently he has not a thing to do but hop on the bus in the morning, fall asleep, and unconsciously ride the route around the city until nightfall. From Space Needle to terminal this hefty fellow snoozes; oh the things he must've seen...if he weren't preoccupied with staining the window with his unending steak of drool.
Patient Zero - I understand that the high population and close proximity of commuters in China somewhat necessitates extra care to avoid contagion, but here in the states, wearing the surgical mask in public makes this writer a tad uneasy. I don't know if you're afraid of catching a disease or if you're the one with it, but I've seen enough zombie movies to know not to sit next to you.
Riff-Raff & Street Rats - I know I sound like an old man here, but why aren't these kids in school? It's 12-noon on a Tuesday and they're riding around Seattle without so much as a backpack on! Wielding a skateboard and a bag of McDonald's to share, these hoodlums tend to travel in packs of 6, but somehow produce 13 different arguments among one another, each trying to yell louder than the last.
Mee-maw & Paw-paw - If it weren't so sad, this might be a really endearing elderly couple. They shakily shuffle onto the bus at a rate so slow you start to get pissed-off at your route's delay, until you look up to see two 80-year-olds struggling to climb 3 steps. Then you just feel like a dick. There must be an expiration on giving-a-shit and these people have clearly passed it. These ballsy folks creak out the door in the morning and arthritically charge into the chaotic system of public transit without the slightest hint of a plan as to how to get to their destination. Most people use Google Maps or some other kind of trip-planner, but not Mee-maw and Paw-paw. No, for them a vague idea conveyed to a stranger through a confused and stinted query will suffice. And if you've ever seen one of them pull out their phone, you know there is know plan-B for them. Those relics are pre-Brick-Breaker, let alone any navigation app. I compel any reader to try that: leave your iPhone at home, walk to a random bus-stop, hop blindly on the first bus, and just ask strangers how to get to where you're going. Chances are, you would end up scared and alone in some dark corner of the city, praying for the know-how to use a pay phone and request a rescue. Good thing we pity the elderly. But it does beg the question: why can't they get a ride from someone? Surely they have a nurse/caregiver/grandson-who-got-in-trouble-with-his-parents who can be forced to take them to the doctor, park, liquor store, or wherever it is that seniors go, right? Or maybe not. Maybe they've been huge A-holes all their lives and have burned all their bridges. Either way, God bless 'em.
A handful of weeks ago, I was riding to campus for my morning classes. A few of the aforementioned cast were expectedly scattered around the seats, but sitting across from me on the front-most bench seats was a mother with her baby. A clean enough-looking commuter, she was relatively attractive, dressed presentably, and the baby looked happy and healthy. Certainly, she didn't belong to the same breed as Smokey Joe and the gang. The infant, strapped into a Baby-Bjorn, was happily gnawing on mom's bus pass, drooling all over his tiny hands, and staring wide-eyed at me across the way. It was a pretty cute scene. Then, all charm vanished.
The baby, hands frictionless from the amassed saliva, dropped the bus pass on the floor of the bus. I, expecting a wailing eruption of displeasure from the kid, was just as crestfallen as he. But no, instead of the predicted welling of tears, the mom picked up the bus pass, gave it a cursory one-two wipe on her jeans, and returned it to the baby who then proceeded to shove it back in his mouth, masticating as gleefully as ever. I nearly vomited.
The mind of a child is pure. This kid doesn't know that the floor upon which his sucking toy had been retrieved had also been the host of dirt, dog hair, homeless people's spit, chewed and discarded gum, human hair, dust, sticky spilled drinks, nail clippings (yes, to my repulsion, I once saw someone clip their toenails on the bus), mucus, coins that have their own germ-infested histories, and the soles of shoes of thousands of riders (which should alone be enough to induce regurgitation). The kid didn't know any better, he just kept biting at the card, staring at me with the same dumb look on his face. But shame on mom! She had to know! Maybe it's my own germaphobia/hyperawareness, and I assume everyone has at least a modicum of an idea as to what is all around them, but two wipes on your Levis? Really, lady? Quite the sterilization; fit for your own flesh and blood.
But I'm no parent, so perhaps I can't rightly speak to this. Maybe she knew the wails that would ensue if she hadn't returned the toy, and decided to put his happiness above my appetite. Maybe being awoken 6 times in a night by a screaming ball-of-joy is enough to devalue the wellbeing of the adorable little attention-hound. I don't know. What I do know is that this instance was enough for me to not want to spawn one of these germ-factories for a very long time.
A Note on Bucket Lists
I love the idea of a bucket list. From doing chores as a boy to knocking out my final university assignments, I’ve always worked better with a list. It’s the only way I get things done (my mum learned that early on and used the technique often, much to our home’s improvement on Saturday mornings). The satisfaction of checking off a completed task is all the validating motivation it takes for me to obsess myself over its demise. In that way, having a bucket list turns life itself into a game. How many of these things can I do this year? Hey, while I’m on this trip, I can knock that one out! The items excite by pushing you out of your comfort zone. Why else would someone eat a scorpion unless they had a little voice in their head holding them accountable? You have to, dude, you put it on the list! (That’s a real one of mine by the way folks, so if anyone knows a scorpion guy…)
But beyond that, I love the idea of legacy. Barring any future medical advancements, I only have 100 or so years on Earth, so I want get the most out of it. I want to leave a mark. I want to have a kid (maybe named Mark, just for humor’s sake) who will take as much advantage of his time here as I plan on taking of mine. I want to be able to hand off to him my (hopefully completed) list so he can experience all the fun, scary stuff in life, and add his own to the mix. Or if nothing else, he’ll be able to say, “Wow, my dad really experienced zero-gravity AND he had sex on a yacht in the Caribbean?! That guy was awesome!”
For most, bucket lists are this abstract pseudo-endeavor that will somehow give their lives more purpose, teach them to appreciate their mortality, and make them better people. They serve as motivation to see the world, to forgive whomever so-and-so did me wrong, or any other form of sentimental crap they put on them. The list then becomes sort of a nagging reminder in the back of people’s heads to be a more exciting and worldly version of themself, but that voice is nearly always discarded into the bin of wishful thinking and never realized; then they return to their boring jobs and decay purposelessly.
No thanks. I would much rather make it a physical list and hold myself accountable to it. Why not take the boredom and repetition out of life? Why not turn it into a game with like-minded friends of who can do the most things? Why not legally change your middle name to “Danger” just to be able to tick a box and laugh at yourself? You’ll have great stories, you’ll look back proudly when you’re grey, and you’ll inspire others—probably not to be so daring as to visit Antarctica, but I’d bet they’ll spend less free time behind a computer screen, and more time doing life. In the words of the great and manly Nick Offerman, “Damn it all, you have been given a life on this beautiful planet. Get off your ass and do something!”
My brother and I got to talking a while back and decided to start our own lists, and try to check off some stuff together. So we each put our imaginations to paper, deciding early on the activities that would dictate our collected vacation days from then until death. I felt pretty good about mine. A bit unoriginal, but it had the staples: go skydiving, go to Mardi Gras, fly on a private jet, etc. Then my brother showed me his. Ever the thorough nerd, his list dwarfed mine. It went on for pages, each with multiple categories, some even having sub-checklists within. I had to step it up.
So I dove into this new obsession, emulating my older, smarter brother, writing down the standard stuff (i.e. go to a café in Amsterdam) as well as adding some weird fantasies of my own unique taste (i.e. wrestle an adult alligator) until mine could compete with his. Here are some highlights that I’m looking forward to completing:
Spend a night in Tunisia listening to "A Night In Tunisia".
Crash a stranger’s wedding and give a toast.
Ride a motorcycle across a former-communist country.
Experience a sensory deprivation tank.
Ride a camel.
Attend a Victoria’s Secret fashion show.
See one of the 7 Ancient Wonders of the World.
As I’ve matured (albeit slightly), some of the more novel things have been dropped (I mean, who really needs to “Visit Area 51”, anyway?) and many more important ones have been added (“Find and visit the town in which a long-dead, European ancestor was born”), but the goal has remained consistent: to make myself do things I otherwise wouldn’t have done. (I will, before I die, conquer my crippling fear of spiders, unpleasant though it will be.) I’ve already checked off many items, from the sentimental “Buy an old man you don’t know a drink and discuss life with him” to the more juvenile “Get Tased,” and each checkmark is just as satisfying as the last. Each “Drink a Scotch older than me” and “Swim with sharks” is a modicum closer to having lived a fulfilled life. It may not mean much in the grand scheme of things, but at least I’m not decaying.
The 10 Commandments of The Bar
Well Spring Break is over and we're back to school with about 10% functionality of our brains and livers. After 3 gallons of tequila, 2 cases of Coronas, and the most nauseous flight back from Cabo in history, we have sworn off drinking for the rest of our lives... Now we all know we're not sticking to that, so when you do hit the bar this weekend, make sure to act right. The amnesty of Spring Break is over, so no more dancing on the bar and chugging out of the bottles (unless its a special occasion like a birthday. Or graduation. Or flag day.) But how do I know how to I go out and not act the fool, you ask? Well lucky for you boys and girls, I have published here in these pages of this wonderful blog, your comportment guide to bar-time bliss.
In 1300 B.C. God bestowed upon Moses the 10 Commandments in order to teach His children how to live a good life in His eyes. What isn't laid out in the Bible though, is what happened after that. In 1299 B.C. God called upon Moses's younger brother, Broses, to fill in the gaps that the first 10 missed. What follows is what Broses brought to the drunks of Egypt's pubs. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The 10 Commandments of The Bar.
I. Thou shalt not start your drink order by asking, "How much is...?" It makes you look cheap, and the girls as well as the bartender will avoid you.
II. Thou shalt not take a picture of your drink. EXCEPTION: It's on fire.
III. Thou shalt not wave your credit card to get the attention of the bartender. Be-eth not a douche.
IV. Thou shall refrain from texting, unless arranging to meet a friend out later that night.
V. Thou shalt not proclaim to the whole bar that your group is taking shots. It's really not that cool.
VI. Thou shalt not sing the following songs at karaoke: "Bohemian Rhapsody," "Baby Got Back," and "Fuck Her Gently."
VII. Thou shall immediately get the hell away from the bar after ordering your drink if there is a line behind you.
VIII. Thou shall abide by the following formula when tipping:
$ = 1 + (.50n)^c - 1x
(where "n" is the number of ingredients in the cocktail)
(where "c" is the bartender's "cool factor" 0 = dude is a dick. 1 = average. 2 = pored extra booze in the glass. 3 = Tom Cruise in Cocktail.)
(where "x" is the number of times the bartender made eye-contact with you but then ignored you to serve the hot girl first.)
IX. Thou shalt not ask the bartender to take you and your friends' picture. EXCEPTION: Someone famous walked in and you don't have the arm-length for a "selfie-style" shot. COROLLARY: Said celebrity must be on a level of Zach Galifinakis or higher.
X. Thou shalt not wear a flat-brim hat. Sorry dude, but I'm sure there is a frat party somewhere that is a better fit for you.
The Land Of The Literal
There is a place where words mean what they mean. It is a secret place where only an overly colloquial few go. It's inhabited by 20-something, sorority girls, reality show stars, and impatient pre-teens who, trying desperately to force maturity, imitate the vernaculars of 20-something, sorority girls and reality show starts. In this place, simile and metaphors yield to unrestrained hyperbole, and everything is exactly as it is described. This, is the Land Of The Literal.
Citizens hereof have astounding eating and sleeping habits. They will often eat entire horses for lunch after skipping breakfast, and may sleep for 1,000 hours in a single night. Further, they'll keel over dead upon hearing some unpleasant news. Literally. Not unlike us, the citizens of the Land Of The Literal have jobs and go to school, but every class they take is literally the hardest class anyone has ever taken. Ever. Likewise, it is not uncommon for a single work week of theirs to last for 3 years. It's a tough life for these folks. If one should be unlucky enough to stub their toe on their bedpost on their way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, it will be undisputedly the worst pain of their entire life. Then they'll awake to an actual mountain of dirty dishes in their kitchen sink. (They have bigger sinks there.)
But this land of extremity is not all bad. Many of their pleasures are described as much better than any of us normal people could ever hope to experience. The dogs in the parks there are the cutest things that have ever been born in history, and each cupcake they eat is the best cupcake in the whole, wide world--which is good because if they didn't eat something soon, they would've literally starved to death. But a warning to any who might wish to immigrate to The Land Of The Literal: you have to be careful in your indulgence, for after eating birthday cake and a hamburger in the same night, you could gain, literally, 100 pounds, which you will proclaim the next day along with your newly appointed title of "Most Bloated Girl on the Face of the Earth."
These people live among us--we hear them brag and complain everyday--but they experience things at such extremes that they're really in a different world altogether. How else could two people see the same movie as one another, but one is literally the funniest movie that anyone has ever seen? Unless there is a gross, daily misuse of the word... But that can't be the case, right?
This Spring, In Alcohol
Drinking has a certain seasonality to it. Whether that's in quantity (the layered clothing of autumn means an allowance for tons of beer), chosen type of cordial (winter and whiskey may be the best pairing since cigars and whiskey), or drinking schedule (summertime means cracking the first can at 10am), we change our drinking habits with the time of the year. Well spring has sprung, and with the reluctant sun starting to emerge and more hours of daylight per diem, drinking becomes the perfect past time. With that in mind, here are my endorsements for springtime drinking.
The Beer: Sneak Attack Saison by 21st Amendment Brewery. Typically when the sun comes out beer drinkers will reach for the old standards, Blue Moon, Shock Top, or a litany of flavorless light beers. I implore you to try something new. This refreshing saison, out of the San Fran brewery that is fast becoming a favorite of mine, is worth stepping out of your comfort zone for. It's brewed with cardamom, a South Asian plant in the same family as ginger, with notes of grapefruit that combine for the perfect crispness, but balanced with a strong hoppiness that give it the 6.2% alc./vol. that we all love. Slightly bitter but all fresh, Sneak Attack is fit to drink all day, from morning brunch to grilling out in the evening. But act fast--21st Amendment releases it as a winter seasonal, so buy it up now while you still can.
The Cocktail: Old Fashioned. Some of you are still in the mindset of winter (and with Seattle's lagging weather, no one can blame you), so I suggest this old favorite of mine. With a strong bourbon base for warmth, but fruit garnishes and a sugar cube for sweetness, it's the perfect transition into the warmer months. If you're making it at home, it's made by muddling a sugar cube and 3 dashes of Angostura Aromatic Bitters in a rocks glass before adding 2 parts bourbon (Maker's Mark is best) and soda over ice, and garnishing with orange and a maraschino cherry. If bourbon isn't your cup of alcoholic tea, consider substituting for a different whiskey--Old Overholt Rye is my favorite--but please, no scotch. You'll need to find a good bar to make it though. Some places don't have the right bitters or they'll muddle in the cherry, which makes it too sweet for my taste. I recommend...
The Bar: Cannon Whiskey and Bitters Emporium. Nowhere is more deserving but less evident of pretension. On the street, hybrids hum by as pristine pomeranians take their owners for walks, but within the stained, brick walls and thick wooden doors of this sanctuary, the busy sounds of the city yield to Ray Charles riffs and the lively rumble of genuine conversation--the kind that is all but extinct at lesser bars. This is a place where weary guests, fatigued by their nine-to-fives, come not to relax but to recharge for their night out. Sitting at the bar, your eyes can't help but to climb the ceiling-high shelves of spirits that necessitate a wheeled track-ladder and a 77-page iPad menu to navigate. Too overwhelmed to make a decision? Tell the bartender your favorite liquor and what kind of mood you're in, and they'll make the perfect cocktail you didn't even know you wanted. These aren't just connoisseurs, they're alchemist. Everything about Cannon goes the extra mile, whether it's the cloth hand towels in the bathroom or the fresh cucumber water in your glass--even in the bathroom, speakers play old radio shows from the 1930's. It's a cut above the rest. Every tattooed, bearded local and pocket square-donning entrepreneur at the bar may seem as different as...well, a tattooed, bearded local and a pocket square-donning entrepreneur, but they all share a deep appreciation for the art of drinking.
Airplane Law
Well folks, Spring Break is nearly upon us and travel is in the air. However, too many people are unfamiliar with the appropriate conduct of air travel. Sure there are air marshals that ensure the safety of the passengers from terrorist attacks, but far too often occur attacks against our personal riding experience; and who is there to bring to light those offenses? Luckily, Air Marshal Hyneman is looking out for you. Follow these 12 rules and make your next flight much more enjoyable...for those around you.
1. Apparel. There was a time when flying was an adventure. People would dress to the nines to fly across the country. Now we share our cabin with grown men in sandals, and mothers in sweat pants. This isn't your living room, folks. Have some decency.
2. Bare feet. If it's not bad enough that I have to see your thick, yellow toenails growing far past your sweaty, cracked feet in the security line, please don't display them to the world by putting them up on the seat back in front of you. I know you're accustomed to the stench, but you're making rows 17-24 smell like a rock climbing gym.
3. Arm rests. They should be surrendered to the passenger in the middle seat. Window guy, you have the wall. Aisle guy, you have your own too. Don't be greedy. Middle guy got screwed on his seat choice--he needs a consolation. And don't attempt to share the arm rest either. What starts as a nudge of the elbow or waiting until the neighbor lifts his arm to scratch his nose and quickly assuming the vacated strip, will escalate into a bare-knucle boxing match in the aisle every time.
4. Movies. Unless you're deaf or an audiologist, chances are you can't read lips, so don't look over at the movie on my laptop. And while we're on the subject, why is it that without fail, my seat neighbor always looks over right at the sex scene? They're probably assuming I'm killing time from Seattle to Phoenix by watching porn. I'm not that guy, I promise.
5. Babies. Do they make children's Ambien? Okay, well at least have some Tylenol PM on the drink cart then. I can't hear the person in the seat next to me through the muffling engine noise, but somehow the shrieks of the kid 12 rows back can pierce through my $200 noise-cancelling headphones.
6. Pets. Do they make Beano for dogs? Your Chihuahua can ride in your lap, but the second it farts, its going below deck. (On second thought, the same goes for the big dude sitting next to me.)
7. Lavatories. Unless your captain is Michael J. Fox, I don't think there's any amount of turbulence in the world that is grounds for the amount of urine that somehow always finds its way onto the toilet seat. Control yourself, guys.
8. Illnesses. This may be against the Geneva Convention, but can we quarantine all the sickies to the back of the plane? If I wanted to spend my vacation with a virus, I'd be flying to Tijuana.
9. B.Y.O.F. TSA prohibits me from bringing my shaving cream aboard, but you can bring on all the acrid food that you're able to stuff in your purse. I don't know if there is a meter somewhere that measures the potency of a smell, but could we please keep the snacks somewhere below "3-day old egg salad sandwich?"
10. Chit chat. The same rules that apply to a men's bathroom apply to an airplane: keep it quiet and mind your own. We're here because we have to be. There's no need to talk about the predicted weather at our destination--riveting though that discussion may be.
11. Debarking. This isn't the Titanic, lady. Women and children can wait their turn like everyone else. Unless you have a connecting flight leaving in the next 5 minutes, I'm gonna be throwing 'bows like Anderson Silva.
12. Drinking. Drink up. Flying sucks and scotch makes it suck less. So throw back those 4 Glenlivets, but unless you have the aisle seat, you get one bathroom break per 2 hours of flight time. I don't want to have to get up every 2 minutes--this isn't Mass.