Flying is for the Birds.

Your loyal narrator is already sweating like a pig. Okay...like a steer because he's just been loaded onto a cattle car named Continental Flight 42. Holy shit on a stick air travel is horrible. No insights there, but when you're in the middle of it...what an undeniably miserable way to get around.

My cousin, Walker Roosevelt-Higgins once let me join him on a jaunt to London from JFK via his father's Gulfstream G450.

We drove right out to the tarmac. No security. No lines. (aside from those done in the car by Walker - the insidious degenerite. Wanted to make the flight a party. How exhausting.) Smitty, the porter, took our bags and in five minutes I had a full glass of scotch rocks in my hand.

Walker's an ass, of course. His father was the first Brit to build a pool of assets avaliable for bundled purchase for the middle class investor back in the 1960's. (In the states we call them mutual funds.) Made a killing. Guess what Walker does. He skis. And 'shags' titled 'birds' with herion problems. We had a bit of a falling out after he caught me doing an impression of him in front of several of his London society people. (Dead on, by the way.) Also, I was sort of accused of stealing the last remains of his coke stash. Anyway. That was it for private jets in Old Chas's life.

Now it's just me and the great obese, tasteless mob, dragging huge rolling bags filled with Old Navy sweats and horrible sneakers, pushing screaming babies and speaking at high volumes. I do love my fellow citizens. We're like a horde of retarded toddlers. Unsettling, but inspiring great pity. Gosh, I'm a shit.

I bought the first class or business first or elite business especiale or whatever absurd branding machination it is these days, and still feel fairly uncomfortable. My notebook, an awful glass of cheap champagne and this attractive girl in the window seat (Candy) are my only concillation.

A thing about kids. Not having any, and not really having parents I have some trouble seeing the point.

These little monsters may be cute, when they're not spilling on you and filling their little pants with various wastes, but how often is that? There is an issue of screaming. How can such small mouths make such an incredible racket? And then sustain it for so very long.

And today, there are children in first class. The little shits can't even vote. Plus, they're smaller. They should be in coach. At least for the sanity of customers like myself shelling out $4000 a pop for a ticket. How John Q. Fannypack up there is affording an entire row for all of his horrid offspring is beyond me. God bless the frequent flier upgrade I guess.

We are in the two right hand seats of a 2-1-2 row structure. In front of us are two adorable little demons who will not shut the fuck up. I assumed they would fall asleep. No such luck. The mother has her hands full with an infant in her lap in the middle row. The father is with a teenage son on the left two and these girls, plugged into the headphone movie remote control contraption matrix are looking for questions to ask. How do I change the channel mommy? Did you see Sharon Stone get naked in that scene mommy? Can you believe she went through with this movie in the first place mommy? Mommy, can I buy a Rolex on duty free? I may have made some of those up. I did my best to get exceptionally drunk.

The flight attendants looked a little appalled. Luckily for me, Candy was not. She took an Ambien and had been out since we took off. I wonder if she'll be upset if I root through her bag to find her stash. Not that I would do such a thing.

This trip is off to a troubling start.