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A veeeeeerrrrrrrry long day. We are reclining in blue leather seats in a glass encased holding area, during an 8 hour layover in the Delhi airport. Our bodies aren’t sure what time it is at this point, but our boots lie neatly next to our chairs and we are sleeping off yesterday’s samosas, remaining vigilant and close to our dreams thanks to the ceaseless procession of personal announcements, time-to-wake-ups, and sometimes merely the names of countries, announced over the loudspeaker, which sound like our names through Hindi english and the veil of the possible ever end of our 28 hour flight to Shangrilah. Copper men in khakis slide in and out of the glass, ocasionally pushing brooms. Everyone who works for Jet airways is gorgeous and successful. On the plane, there are many bbies. Extracting smiles from stewardesses and babies is a very rewarding long term project. Since we live in the future, we are allowed to each watch Terminator Salvation, play tetris, learn Hindi numbers, and browse summaries of popular business books. No one will switch to let 3 brothers from America sit next to eachother. They know what we’re up to, and it looks like for some, there is no eachother anyway.

We are kept full of delicious, spicy chickpeas and kept quite drunk. There is always the game “guess what caste” best played to oneself without the use of the index finger. For a believer in the inevitable failure of the airline industry in particular, and petroleum based high capital culture in general, I sure fly a lot. Usually my mood follows this pattern: Late, Smirky, Overly Friendly, Crossword Puzzle, Look out the window with no glasses for a while, Consumer alienation as my blood sugar drops and experiments with friendliness give way to “hell is percieving other people”, Freakout in the bathroom, Eat some snacks from my bag, Trip on the landscape as we land, Run right out of that fucking airport.

It gets to me, you know, like, the economy, or whatever. With this flight, I feel merely impressed, thus far no hints of either sophomoric consumer contempt, or the fellow that sits opposite it on the seesaw, the Bodhisattva on Pan Am, smiling at everyone, in a last ditch attempt at unconditional human connection. Where I am going, there will no room for that kind of bullshit. I submit to entertainment. Christian Bale fighting a naked Governor of California to save the human race.