Nova is pretty much the most fabulous show on television. Especially when they show programs like "The Deadliest Plane Crash" like they did last night.
For those that missed this excellent programming, I TiVo'd it. Come over. I'll gladly watch it again and feed you peanuts and vodka in mini-bottles.
Anyway, it basically comes down to cocky cockpit error and it's got me thinking.
Come November, yours truly will be flying quite a bit in countries whose aeronautical history is less than Quantas-esque. And while my gorgeous blog readers will get to read bitchy posts about my family driving me nuts and illegal knockoff purchases, I'll apparently be putting my life in extreme danger. After all, according to Nova, it's only a matter of time until the next DEADLIER plane crash.
You know who this will suck for the most?
The first leg of our trip, he and I will spend 15 glorious hours together, travelling from SFO to LAX to Hong Kong, where we'll meet up with our benefactors, the parents.
Poor Alex. He's the only one who's allowed to sit next to me on airplanes anyway. Apparently, he's the only one who knows how to "handle" me. I have to sit my the window, so I can sleep on the airplane wall. And as Alex is even freakishly taller than myself, his shoulder is the perfect height for switching my head rest. My dad's tall too, but he tends to sleep too much, making my need to talk and/or pee nearly impossible. Alex also lets me wake him up when I'm bored and will willingly beg the flight crew to give me more booze.
I'm fun to fly with until about hour 2. Then I get antsy. Alex is the only one who will develop wacky in-flight games with me and spy on other passengers. Well, actually my mom will too. But only after half a Valium and a cocktail. By hour 7, I turn into a psychopath. And by hour 10, I'm willing to force others to suffer with me.
I hate to say it, but after last night's revelation that I will probably die when our huge jetliner collides with a 747 on a remote runway, I think I'll be even tenser than normal.
Usually, take-offs and landings are my favorite parts of flying, which is stupid because those are the most dangerous times of an air journey. Not only are take-offs and landings far more prone to disaster, but apparently, terrorists usually try and take over planes within like, half an hour. Big deal. I just smile at anyone suspicious looking anyway, thwarting any terror plots with my pearly, American whites.
None the less, odds wise, you'd think, the beginning and the end of the flight would freak me out. Nope.
Turbulence. I fucking hate turbulence. I grip Alex's arms and whisper prayers and quietly weep, confident that at any minute, our tin can will fall from the sky into a mountain or ocean.
Highly unlikely, I know.
I've got a feeling that'll all change on our upcoming adventure.
After all, as I learned last night, statistically there's about to be another huge plane crash on a runway and it'll probably happen just about the time I touch down somewhere dicey...