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What comes as a surprise to nobody, I’m on another flight. Ben and I are en route to the East Coast via Virgin America, which is always interesting because it feels like I’m in a bad ’70s porno on these planes, what with the purple haze and typecast stewardesses. It helps that (1) John Legend is on our flight and (2) there’s inflight internet. So before I lose all sensation in my extremities from Virgin’s tight seats (literally TIGHT, not in a cool way), I thought I’d break down what it takes to handle a cross-country plane flight.

So while you’re waiting for take-off, it’s a good idea to have an iPod touch. First of all, the old lady next to you won’t strike up a nauseating conversation about her cocker spaniel’s birthday party if you’re cranking the new Meth/Red on your headphones. Plus, you can watch ripped movies or skate vids, like I’m watching TWS’ “And Now” here:

At some point, they (“they” meaning the aforementioned ’70s porn stewardesses) tell you to turn off all electronic devices. Usually I leave my Blackberry running in my pocket just to prove to myself that I’m a rebel. So anyways, it’s about that time to get scholastic and read a book. “The God of War” is a good one so far, a coming-of-age story based in the California desert. Or you can read Goodnight Moon. Your pick.

We’re going through some gnar turbulence right now. Supposedly it’s thunderstorming outside. Generally, my coping mechanism in the face of imminent death is to fall asleep. It’s like Darwinism in reverse.

Perfect. Neck-pillow time. If you’re not apt to traveling much, you’ve probably never seen this contraption before, it totally wouldn’t make sense anywhere else in the world. Imagine the looks you’d get if you broke out a neck-pillow while driving in heavy traffic, or eating a sandwich at the deli. This fuzzy creature provides the luxury of sleeping upright. If you get a punk-rock leopard-print one like me, then it also looks like a baby Jaguar is mauling your neck.

You need to bring your business card. The one time you forget, you’ll end up sitting between Richard Branson and Oprah and they’ll point fingers at you and laugh if you write your email on a cocktail napkin. This goes double for you single guys who wanna impress the svelte brunette in the window seat who’s on her way to a modeling gig. Or that grandma with the cocker spaniel. Whatever floats your boat.

by bobbyhundreds

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