The Not-So-Laborious Travels of a First Class Passenger

It's a few days after the Labor Day weekend, one of the most traveled holidays, and I'm finding myself stuck on an ethical issue rather than memories of mojitos on the beach.

My best friend, who works for Delta, and I were numbers 16 and 17 on the Labor Day weekend standby list to Miami. As we waited, besides tapping my foot, I passed the eternity-of-minutes by people-watching. Time after time, a business man or well-dressed couple would walk through what was titled the "Sky Priority" line. And every time, despite the length of the economy line, those passengers had priority. "Wait a second...that isn't fair!" I thought. Why can they skip the entire line, which now stretched down to the airport Starbucks? Because they can afford it?

The flight was leaving at 7:35 and it was already 7:25 a.m. At this point, I just wanted to get to Miami, but I'd nearly given up hope. (Though, I would have gladly offered to sit in the middle of the aisle or squeeze into the porta-potty-smelling airplane bathroom, but I'm pretty sure that's against regulations.) Then, I heard it. My name followed by my friend's name. Flustered, we stood together as the attendant hand-wrote our seat assignments on the ticket stub. Seats 4B and 4C...That's right. First class.

It was my first time visiting that forbidden, curtained-off zone except for the occasional walk-by. And it was incredible. The second I sat down, the flight attendant rushed up to ask what I would like to drink, which I'll add wasn't limited to non-alcoholic drinks (but I only know that because the guy behind me had three empty bottles of beer and a very satisfied look on his face by the time we landed). Once we were in the air, the attendant swept across the floor with a basket of free Sun Chips, Biscottis and king-size Snickers telling everyone, "Please take as many as you want. We have too many and will never be able to get rid of everything."

That's odd. In the economy section, where I normally sit, not only are alcoholic beverages pricey, but I only have the option between peanuts or pretzels. And every time I see someone ask for more, they get "the look." Why is that? I thought the days of societal class were over, but it appears they're hiding in plain sight.

While I'll admit I was quite in Heaven up at the front of the plane, something inside of me felt out of place. Do you think it's fair for customers to be treated completely differently simply because they pay more?

Nocturnal Suspicions

“Did you do it for the blood or the banana?”

This was the first thought I had coming into consciousness this morning. It didn’t mean anything; it was merely the afterbirth of my sleeping state, the little last bit of dream placenta slithering out of my subconscious and into the waking world.

I repeated the phrase several times in my head as I came to; reciting it like it was some kind of epic statement.

“Did you do it for the blood or the banana?”

For a brief moment it seemed like it meant so much, as if I were a warrior-poet standing atop the corpses of my vanquished foes, asking myself what motivated me toward my ultimate and bloody goal.

In the waking morning, however, the curtain was pulled back just to reveal how absolutely random and silly it all was, but that’s how my dreams have always been, impossibly epic and uncomfortably silly.

Every night when I sleep I wake up in worlds of wonder and insanity. Worlds populated with robot panda transsexuals and fish Popes. Worlds of beautiful mountain ranges housing philosophical flowers and and ships that ferry humans from one stage of evolution to the next.

I have also seen the heart of darkness. I have wandered endlessly through underground labyrinth laboratories, each corner promising something more terrifying then the next. I have watched bombs fall turning humans into (literal) popsicles. In my dreams, I have seen Eat Pray Love….the horror.

Through it all I have been everybody. I have been standing atop a futuristic tower of Babel as aliens rained down. I have been a man-made robot-god, and a lonely man in a desert. I have been Wolverine, Solid Snake, John Constantine, Superman, a knight, a space warrior, a slut, an opera singer, a cook, both Mario and Luigi at the same time…the list goes on.

Fuck it.

When I wake, all of that slowly fades and again I am Zack Taylor. Everything else slides back into the abyss. Most of it is forgotten and what I can remember falls under the category of “just a dream.”

Sometimes, however, in my quieter moments (which are rare) I wonder, if only for a brief instant.

“Did I do it for the blood…or the banana?”

Keep Your Seats Everyone...

The game ain't over yet!

I'm one of those girls who is obsessed with football. I know as much about the sport as a guy (or so I'd like to think), and I wait on pins and needles every year for the season to start.

And this weekend, it happened. The Georgia football season finally started. The Bulldogs traveled to Atlanta to play in annual the Chick-Fil-A Kickoff game against the Boise State Broncos. To say I was excited about this game would be a huge understatement. Boise State, for those of you who don't pay attention to football, has been a powerhouse in the Western Athletic Conference. They went undefeated a couple of seasons in a row, but they were never invited to the BCS Championship game because their schedule wasn't considered as "difficult" as say the schedule for any SEC team.

We had a huge opportunity to prove that the SEC was the best conference in the nation and that the Broncos really weren't as good as everyone thought. Well, we failed to say the least. Honestly, by the scoreboard, I'd say we did pretty well. I mean at least it wasn't a shutout. There were some poor play-calling (ahem, Mike Bobo) and some key errors made on both defense and offense. I, however, was more disappointed by the performance of the Bulldog Nation rather than the team.

I wanted to scream at all of OUR fans who were booing OUR team. Really? You're seriously going to kick your team when they're already down? To boo them in a stadium that was clearly one-sided was embarrassing for our team. The Dawgs worked hard all summer for this game, and hey, no one is perfect.

The one thing that upset me the most was when people left the stadium early. I NEVER leave a game early. I don't care if we are up 50-7 or down 7-50; I never, ever leave a game early. I was there to cheer on my team. To support them no matter what. Whether you believe it or not, the team needs us. They need to know that we are behind them for better or worse, for richer or poorer, for winning or losing. Walking out on your team is like walking out on a friend or a significant other. You're telling that person that you've given up on them.

I will never give up on my Dawgs.

This Saturday is another chance for Georgia to step it up and show the nation that we've still got it. But what I want to see is better sportsmanship from our fans. I agree with Jeremy Dailey and what he said in the Red & Black. I'd rather see Sanford Stadium half-full with true Bulldog fans then have the stadium packed with fair-weather fans who are going to boo my beloved Dawgs and walk out early.

Get Off the Road (Please?)

Excuse me, UGA bus drivers, but can you please stop yelling at pedestrians while you’re speeding down Broad Street with an over-packed bus? That’d be awesome.

Lately it seems that the bus drivers have very little patience for people on the sidewalks. Or crossing the street. Or driving in the lane next to them. Or doing anything that contributes to traffic at all.

And I get it. I mean, if it were me behind the wheel, the horn would go off like "Little Miss Sunshine" and every bright-eyed bushy-tailed smile that rode would hear a string of curse words that slowly faded only with their exit of the bus.

Which is why I’m not employed by Campus Transit. My road rage really squashes any chance I might have had (as does my driving record). In fact, I’m that bright-eyed bushy-tailed smile that endures the yelling and fist shaking of the driver at 9 in the morning, and it’s a little unsettling.

Slamming your foot on the gas to get a 40 foot bus through the yellow light does not start the day off on a high note. Neither does coming inches from hitting a group of girls crossing the street, all the while yelling obscenities at them for walking too slowly. And every time I start to think my doctor should be on speed dial, the bus comes to a graceless break-squealing stop, and wide-eyed students are lost in a sea of flailing arms and airborne legs.

I suspect many a bruise has been contracted on the UGA buses, and I’m willing to bet that most of them could have easily been prevented with a little patience from the driver. Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way.

Oh thank doG

When the Super Bowl ended early in the year, I hardly thought twice about it. I’d had half a year of football to sate my hunger. Surely, I’d had my fill.

How wrong I was. I barely lasted through March Madness before I started getting the shakes. By the time summer rolled around, I was on full-out football withdrawl.

I don’t know what happened--I wasn’t always this way. Once, I was a reasonable, sane football fan who’d casually follow a few teams and enjoy watching most games when it was convenient.

Sometime within the past two years, something snapped deep inside me. I went from observing the sport to obsessing, from casually commenting to making lewd remarks about the referee’s mother.

I don’t like what I’ve become, but I’m not sure that I can change it. I feel like the Hulk. Normally I’m an easygoing, fairly timid and, I like to think. reasonable person.

But when Mark watch football, Mark SMASH!

I’m so desperate, I’ve lowered myself to watching preseason NFL games, like an addict licking coke residue off a toilet seat. This is truly the lowest of the low.

Luckily, my salvation is closing in fast. Saturday, I head for Atlanta for the UGA season opener against Boise State. We’re going to stomp them into the ground.

I’m going to be like a kid in a candy store. Or like the Hulk on crack in an antique china shop.

I’m going to scare small children, make a scene, get my fix, and probably drool a little. The nice thing is, that’s all I ever really do in Atlanta anyway. I can’t wait.

Suck it Broncos, and GO DAWGS!

I've Got a Fever

I'm infected. It's consuming me. I can't think about anything else. Any second outside of class is spent satiating the desires of my sickness.

Diagnosis? It's football season. 

The weather is starting to cool down--outside of the southeast--and the excitement in the air is palpable. Fans everywhere are booking hotels, planning tailgates, and buying lots of beer in preparation of America's favorite sport.

Fantasy football is a symptom of football fever. This year, it's so bad that I'm doing two leagues after going 12-0 in the only league I played in last year. I'm addicted, just one league won't satisfy my cravings anymore.

I'm always experiencing withdrawals because I rarely get to see the Denver Broncos play. I'll admit, they're not good so they're never on prime time television but they're my team. My withdrawals have gotten so bad that I spend way more time on The Denver Post website than planted in my textbooks.

During Broncos games, I listen to the radio play-by-play online while watching the gamecast on NFL.com, and simultaneously monitoring my fantasy team. Never mind that there's homework to be done. It can wait, and it will.

For Georgia games, I carefully contemplate the outfit that will get us the win. Has to be the right hat, right shirt, right pants, right belt, right boxers, right socks, right shoes. Or else. If Georgia loses, one or more articles of the outfit change. Generally the offending article will not be worn to another game.

Fantasy, professional, and college football all at my disposal yet the abundance is never enough. I've got a fever, and the only prescription is more football.

Dress it Up Between the Hedges

Tee it up between the hedges?  No way. If you know anything about

Collegiate Code

I.                 Article: Female

          A.      Section: Social Acceptance

         i.         Sub-Heading: Cute

you will not be caught dead in a T-shirt on Saturday.

Football-where fashion forgoes function every time, right?

Take the Gameday Dress.

The University girl’s wardrobe staple(s) for every fall. We have to celebrate our fashion-conscientious individuality-just like everyone else.

Look how great she looks. I’ll bet she’s rocking some red heels too. Don’t you want to be her? I do.

So, I’ve got my dresses and my shoes. Let’s go over my

It’s Saturday in Athens Agenda

• Get ready!!!
• I'm attempting to look as much like the Entourage models as time, products and God’s grace and mercy will allow.
• Tailgate!
• Wait, it’s 97 degrees out here? My dress is already sticking to my butt and I don’t dare raise my arms for fear of releasing a fetor potent enough to make Pig-Pen plug his schnoz. The humidity is ravishing my hair and I’m starting to resemble Beyoncé in Austin Powers in Goldmember.  
• Game time.
• Hold on. Bleachers? I wore heels and we’re sitting on the top row.  At least now I get to stand still...for three hours under direct sunlight? I’m exposing as much skin as possible. I’ve been here half an hour and my nose is peeling.  
• Fourth Quarter Salute...my hair is in a crazy bun on top of my head, my shoes are in hand, and my forehead is dripping enough salt for a McDonald’s fry order-Supersized.  

I can’t be the only one this uncomfortable. So why do we try so hard? Why does such a vast feminine majority dress themselves up for failure?

Do we just want to take advantage of any opportunity to wear a pretty dress? Are we trying to fit in or impress our friends? Are we paying some sort of homage to the sanctity of Sanford?

Thoughts or potential outfit ideas below. But please, no cut-off tanks or belly paint. The Code dictates I draw the line somewhere.