About three summers ago I was on a Manhattan-bound L train, itchy and irritated in the way that all New Yorkers are when they’re ready to get back to the city, when we pulled up at the Bedford Avenue stop and, among the throngs of other people desperate to escape Brooklyn, an extremely white woman stepped into my car. I don’t mean “extremely white” in the sense of “loves ‘Girls’ and artisanal lavender bitter chocolate with hot peppers in it,” although, this being Williamsburg, I cannot rule that out either, but that not only was her entire outfit, down to the boots, completely white, her face and body were sprayed with white paint as well. It was a ridiculously hot day and the car’s cooling system was unreliable, and as White Woman approached the pole I was holding on to, my first thought was, “Oh, fuck, is this lady gonna sweat white paint on me?” My second thought, much later, after I was safely back in town and in a comfortable, air-conditioned environment, was, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU that you can see a woman completely bedecked in ivory and it registers as so unremarkable to you that your only concern is whether or not it will inconvenience your person?” But I suppose that is part of living in this town. Nothing really surprises you, because you’ve seen it all and your focus is on getting where you need to go as quickly and efficiently as possible. Still, I’ve gotta say, I would probably be a little put off by a dead shark on the subway. On the other hand, I’m just as likely to think, “Ugh, another viral marketing campaign,” and head to the other end of the car, so I guess I can’t really assess my possible reaction with any degree of certainty. That’s what New York does to you, I guess.

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Today is a terrible day to get stabbed in Britain. I mean, assuming you want to live. Which, if you’re in Britain, may not be the correct assumption. Actually, I can understand the upside to suddenly seeing the quick glint of a blade and then a fade to black, with the comforting realization that you no longer need to waste time in that gray, vomit-encrusted hellhole they pretend is a civilized country. Plus, you know how the whole baby thing turned out, so, really, you’re not waiting around for anything else now. Come to think of it, you’re probably better off going out there to get stabbed today. The best part is, it won’t be very hard.

I find that with increasing frequency I all too quickly become That Guy who bitches about going to see a movie with subtitles because “if I wanna read I’ve got a bunch of fucking books at home,” (God, I’m such a tiresome asshole sometimes. You’re much better off seeing the movie without me. I’ll just spend the whole time sighing heavy sighs, audible with derision, and then waste hours afterward complaining about how European films are so reliant on gesture that it is almost as if they take a perverse pleasure in neglecting the viewer’s need for competent storytelling. Next I’ll whine about how, for the price of that ticket, I could get two drinks at the bar we’re at or a decent enough bottle to drink alone at home, which I will eventually be doing considerably more of as I chase away the last few friends I have with left my sour spirit and ungenerous disposition and general lack of receptiveness to anything new or even enjoyable. I don’t know why anyone even bothers with me. I’m no fucking good) and if you’re similarly inclined you will not be interested in following all the very enjoyable writing that happens in this video, but that’s fine: The song is enjoyable enough on its own. It sounds a lot like Lambchop. I mean, to me, at least. Anyway, here ya go. [Via]

“Researchers have reported the first case of human-to-human transmission of the new strain of bird flu that has emerged in China.”

Apparently all the Next Big Things are now hitting 50, and today it’s jazz pianist Marcus Roberts’ turn. Here’s a take on Monk, and below there’s an interpretation of “Maple Leaf Rag” that is really something to hear.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlw-YWl6OsQ

I worked for a brief time for a lawyer in London named Randolph Fields, who was co-founder of what became Virgin Airlines, among a lot of other things. (He died aged just 44, I was sad to learn, in 1997.) He was a guy simply busting with life, when I knew him; a very smart and I think a kind man underneath all the rich-guy mucho-macho posturing, fond of fast living and poker.

As they designed their new airline, Fields and Richard Branson worked through zillions of maddening details, from buying their first plane (a complicated affair) to applying for routes to developing all the new amenities they’d be offering. Fields was very pleased with the name they’d chosen for their First Class service: Upper Class. At one point he asked us minions what we thought the name of the Economy service should be. I piped up immediately: Working Class.

Fields was just appalled. I insisted: “What?! Come on. It’s Class, and it is Working, that is the perfect name!” I couldn’t imagine why they thought it would be okay to have Upper Class without Working Class, as if one didn’t require the other. I suppose in their minds it was amusing and flip to have Upper Class: a lark, whereas to point out explicitly that Economy fliers were Non-U would be calling too much attention to the weird divide between First Class and Economy, a chasm that has only grown deeper since those days: the real-world illustration of inequality that takes place in the narrow walkways of airplanes hundreds of thousands of times every day.

There is something inherently degrading about the existence of first class air travel, whether you are sitting in it or having to walk through the rows of plush well-appointed seats to the more-cramped, less-reclining ones behind. Once in a while, in passing through to your own humble seat you might catch the eye of one of the Upper Class. More often, they avoid looking at you. Or when you yourself are occupying a First or Business seat through luck or extravagance, that is uncomfortable in a different way; maybe you don’t look up from your mimosa, either.

Unless you are fairly wide and/or fairly tall, those few inches of extra room won’t make much difference, you’re going to be stuck there and uncomfortable no matter what; why pay hundreds or thousands of dollars more simply to emerge five minutes earlier from an airplane that is, with any luck, landing at the same time for every passenger? Not that I’m opposed to luxury, in its place. But when what’s on offer appears largely to be Superiority For Hire, it seems ridiculous, contemptible even, like the privilege queues on offer these days at theme parks. Contrary to what the marketing juggernaut would like us to believe, you can buy superior things, but you can’t buy superiority for yourself, not with any amount of dough, and the more you spend the less you will succeed.

The silliest part of the whole business is that those who habitually fly first class are liable to be far more concerned with their own low status relative to those who wouldn’t be caught dead flying commercial than they are with the fate of the Economy traveler. The system, like the larger one enclosing it, seems designed to promote aggrieved and uncomfortable feelings.

First class has always been absurdly expensive, but before the advent of frequent-flier programs, it was far more common for the average person to be bumped up, and therefore it seemed less immediately “exclusive.” If the plane was overbooked, for example, you might easily score a first class seat, particularly if traveling alone. Certain airlines were more lenient about this, and there were also a lot of wheezes for standby tickets at cut prices and whatnot. If the ride was very bumpy the “stewardesses” as they were then known would bust out the booze and give everyone free drinks. Air travel was just goofier, and messier, and seemed quite a bit less Us and Them.

From time to time there have been attempts made to provide reasonably more egalitarian, comfortable, cost-effective air travel — some of them very successful. I am still mourning People Express, a most efficient and pleasant means of getting from Los Angeles to Newark in the 1980s that was run roughly on the Freddie Laker model. You paid for a ticket in cash, on the plane; they’d come around with a little cart and collect your dough after takeoff. There was no first class, and they didn’t serve food. The cheapest flight on that route was a red-eye jammed with mostly young people and it was cool as anything. This, too, was capitalism, just practiced in a very different way. People Express died because they diversified into separate classes. It started with their flights to London. They jettisoned their pricing model — which was very reminiscent of Jet Blue’s — to chase greater fares, then had to sell, merge or face bankruptcy.

And now we learn that today’s best airline, the once-invincible JetBlue, whose equal seating was to my mind the best feature of a generally excellent product, will be offering first class service beginning late next year. JetBlue believes it can beat other first-class coast-to-coast prices. Well, certainly they can. But then what?

I went along to Twitter to say how disquieting I found this news — but @JetBlue’s response was even more so.

@mariabustillos Customers love our core product, and that’s not going away. We like to add to the options, not take them away.

— JetBlue Airways (@JetBlue) August 4, 2013

O RLY.

@JetBlue, so far, has had nothing to say in response to the following:

For me, equal seating IS core product, a real draw. MT @JetBlue: @mariabustillos Customers love our core product, & that’s not going away.

— Maria Bustillos (@mariabustillos) August 4, 2013

In happier news, I’ve just learned that the newly resuscitated People Express is starting up again, perhaps as early as next summer — with no first class.

Maria Bustillos is a journalist and critic in Los Angeles.

★★★★★ How was this August? This was a crisp, newly laundered bed sheet where the calendar promised a stretched-out, sweaty sock. Cool air flowed through the doors and wandered through the lobby and on into the halls. Deep blue sky glowed between the honey locust leaves. The shade was blue too, and the sunny parts sterling, and neither was the less preferable. The air jangled around. Light rode the curve of the cornices as Mott bent below Grand, like an elevated train. The streets were unfrenzied, even there. Day’s end came on as an understatement, tasteful metallic tones above a blurry angled zone of peach — only to erupt into hot bright patterns and patterns of patterns, sweeping back and forth down the sky like the Mercator-projected Atlantic, a spray of pink dots across the Canadian prairie. And then it contracted, still phantasmagoric, into a compact little window, lingering while all the rest of the sky and the river went serene indigo.

“Skipping breakfast and overeating in the evening have been shown to play a significant role in weight gain and obesity. A study in the journal Obesity found that consuming the heaviest meal of the day at breakfast and the lightest at dinner can lead to significant weight loss.”
 — Again, if this comes as news to you you are probably not able to read this post since your head is currently stuck in the armhole of your shirt.

I guess we always knew that this was the headline we were all eventually going to end up with, but I don’t think any of us thought it would happen so quickly.