Niles Crane

The Thing I’m Doing This Year #25

Sometimes I feel like I’m Niles Crane.

Niles Crane is the finicky, fussbudgety, younger brother of Frazier Crane from the old NBC sitcom, “Frazier.”

I’m on the plane and the earnest, young man to my left has his backpack on the floor underneath the seat in front of him. Naturally, I suggest that he could move the bag to the overhead bin.

“There’s room.”

“No, I like keeping it here,” he says earnestly because he really meant that.

What difference does it make to me, you might wonder. Why make the suggestion? Because I know.

Right from the get-go his right leg is violating my internationally-recognized leg space. With the bag underneath the seat in front of him, my well-meaning, but addled-minded travel mate, cannot stretch out his legs. Instead, his legs splay open like a harlot or clam. His smelly leg lays on my leg, making contact. And I only say smelly thigh, because the dude did just fart.

That’s right. I’m writing this story in real time. It’s about to get real.

Heat is building between us and the closer-than-close proximity. Do I tell him to move his fucking leg? No. I do one better. I shoot him several perturbed glances both at him and his offending leg.

Oh, and he has something in his pants pocket that is jabbing me.

For a moment I find respite from the thigh crisis, when the gentleman sitting across the aisle from me snaps his gum loudly.

You did not just do that, you open-mouthed gum chewer. And by that I mean he is chewing his gum like a cow, but with his mouth open more. Noisy, disgusting gum chewing. Just so you know, I see or hear someone chewing gum with their mouth open, I judge them harshly and personally.

Oh dear God! He has got to be doing that on purpose just to fuck with me. No one chews gum like that. Seriously, I think my brain might explode!

Stop chewing your gum like that!

Jesus Christ, you are on a tiny, crowded plane. Were you raised by cattle? Fuck me … I can’t take this … WAIT! I’ve got my iPod in my bag, which is in the overhead bin, because I’m not a moron. I get up to get the iPod, turn it on, check the battery … SHIT!

No battery.

“Chompy, chomp, chomy, snap, pop. I’m an idiot.”

WAIT! My phone. I got songs on there. Thank the Lord and Jesus his only begotten son. My phone has about 500 songs on it. That should take care of the open-mouthed gum chewer.

We haven’t even left the ground yet!

I push shuffle. Ahh, music … sweet, sweet music. What’s this? My phone says it is only shuffling eight songs … eight out of 500 … I don’t care. I will listen to these songs until the end of time or until the moron chokes on his Hubba Bubba.

Playing right now … Bob Dylan’s “Ain’t Talkin’ … song 383 of 540 … I’ve heard it twice already. Now Ed Sheeran’s “The A Team.” Two talented guys.

Still on the ground … the woman sitting in front of the open-mouthed gum chewer pulls out a foot-long Subway sandwich. Must have requested extra onions.

The Avett Brothers’ “I and Love and You” … God, I love this song. It should be our new national anthem.

Thigh boy just hit his forehead on the back of the seat in front of him. He is sleepy.

Eurythmics’ “Jennifer” off of their landmark CD, “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).” Annie is a favorite of mine.

Baby or toddler two rows back and to the right is baby talking loudly. It is not adorable.

Foo Fighters’ “The Pretender.” Love this song. It starts out slow, then goes fast, then back to slow, then finishes strong, going fast again. Franz Ferdinand learning from their predecessors, starting slowly, then builds, than cranks … “Jacqueline.”

Too hot to handle, too cold to hold
They called the Ghostbusters and they’re in control.
Had ‘em throwing parties for a bunch of children,
while all the while slime was under the building.
So they packed up their crew, got a grip, came equipped,
grabbed their proton packs off their backs and they split.
Found out about Vigo, the master of evil, try to battle my boys …
that’s not legal.

The greatest rap of all-time.

From the song, “On Our Own,” downloaded off the aptly named CD, “The Best of Bobby Brown, 20th Century Masters, The Millennium Collection.”