Second and Below

I would not label myself a risk-taker. My philosophy is if there’s a chance an activity will kill me, I’m out. No sky diving, no bungee jumping, no hiking on the edge of a cliff just to see a nesting bird of prey I didn’t know existed. I’m a bit of a wimp but I also don’t trust many people. If I’m traveling and I don’t know you I assume you are trying to take my credit card or kidney. Though this paranoia might seem excessive, it is rooted in real life experience. Picture this: It’s 1998, NEXT has created a pop R and B song about boners on the dance floor and Backstreet was definitely back. I was 19, sitting on a Bourbon St   curb with my friend Ryan. We were watching the worst tourists stumble in and out of bars we were glad we were too young to enter. Packs of middle-aged white women in day-glo tops and white capris flirted with uninterested men. Clusters of cowboys and college bros implored and begged for anyone, anyone at all to please show them their tits.   It s...

Wanna read the funny papers with your creepy Uncle Ben? There will be no cheesesteaks in this post. There will be no Liberty Bell, no Independence Hall. I am not against any of those things but time is a real thing of which I did not have much. I was presenting at U Penn for the weekend. The journey began on a Friday as we landed late into Philadelphia International Airport. My lady had booked us an Air BNB in the Dunlap neighborhood, walking distance to U Penn. This marked my second flight in a row where my Lyft driver was a pilot. This leads me to believe that pilots are either A) not getting paid nearly enough or B) they are thirsty to transport people. Minutes after getting dropped off we finagled the lock open and entered our studio. Entering an Air BNB is always the most stressful part for me. I always assume the lock won’t work and if it does, some dude will be chilling on the couch eating chips and watching porn like, “Woah, didn’t think you’d be here yet.” We had ...

I know the traveler I want to be. I want to be the guy in a sensible sports coat, carrying a brief case that can fit easily under the chair or in the overhead compartment yet is still capable of containing a lap top, a tablet, a bottle of whiskey, a vase, and a full length mirror.   All of his devices are fully charged, his gin and tonic is always half full, and he falls asleep immediately after closing his out of print hardcover biography about the father of Romanian botany. After a trans-Atlantic flight his clothes show no sign of wrinkles, his hair not even slightly tousled. There is no panic upon his exit. He does not frantically pat himself down for his wallet or passport. He is refreshed, focused, and struts off the plane confident in his purpose. He is indeed the traveler I want to be. This, however, is who I am: I’m the guy smacking everyone sitting on the aisle in the head with my backpack and carry-on duffle bag, both filled past the point of decency be...