I’m on the Porter flight to Beantown. Plane’s a little small for my tastes. I’m in the 10th row. I kept my head down when I got on the plane. Then I kept my head down as I walked down the center aisle to my seat so I wouldn’t have to see the length of the plane. I try to fool myself, y’see, into thinking the plane is bigger than it actually is. In my mind I envision that just in behind seat 10B is a double-decker rock star Hef-style jumbo jet. In my mind I’m on like the Hindenberg (OK maybe bad example), in my mind I’m on some gravity defying luxury cruise ship and there’s a waterslide on the Lido deck and Gopher is up there ready to start a game of beach volleyball that – if I ‘m in the mood – I’m liable to jump right into. Or if I prefer I might get Isaac to pour me a stiff drink. Perhaps the comely Lauren Tewes is up for a massage. (Giving or receiving – in my mind I don’t care which). If I feel up to it I might do some roller skating, perhaps bowl a few games and see if they’ve cooked the bison meat in the buffet. Last time, in my mind, it was a bit bloody. I need to rely on my mind in these situations because if I peer behind me and find that this tiny hunk of steel and loosened bolts has 11 rows and only seats 44 people, I may feel the kind of claustrophobic panic that’ll send me shouting down the aisle “Gadaffi Has Rights, Too!!!!!!” while I bang on the air-locked door “LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE OR I’M GOING TO SING “WHEN YOU’RE A JET YOU’RE A JET ALL THE WAY” AT AN OCTAVE OVER THE TOP OF MY RANGE, AND TAP-DANCE ALL OVER YOUR HEADS UNTIL ALL THAT’S LEFT IS A PULPY BLOODY MESS!!!” I’d get arrested, of course which would definitely put a damper on the poker festivities planned for this weekend. But a claustrophobic man has to do what he’s got to do. So I’m much safer here in my mind. And we’re descending. And I haven’t panicked. I did it again, fooled myself. I’m so freakin’ gullible.

Play tomorrow at noon.