Airplanes and Carl Hiaasen


Like many of the nation’s optimistic dreams of the 20th century, air travel has been degraded from a bright vision of comfort and luxury to a micro-commodified soul-sucking experience to be endured. The distressing monotony of the airport itself does little to improve one’s mood, with a headache-inducing glare throughout the terminals as you face the monotony of the boarding line. Once upon the plane the lucky passenger has the privilege of experiencing what life is like as a canned sardine. Or tubed, if you wish to be technical.

What is the respite in such a state of affairs? Conversation with your fellow passengers? The same people who have been herded into this little tube with you like so many ruffled cattle? Not a great idea. For many, the answer apparently lies with one of those beat-em-up, shoot-em-up flicks with one of those tough bald guys. You know the ones. As a man of considerable class and refinement, I prefer to venture into the realm of high literature as the tube ascends. In my experience, no other author is as worthy of these heights as American journalist and novelist Carl Hiaasen. It should be noted that I have never visited the noble and infamous state of Florida, so any commentaries I give about the state are probably tempered at least in part by the books of this illustrious individual. 

What lends such a special quality to novels such as Double Whammy, Strip Tease, Skinny Dip, and Bad Monkey? Perhaps there isn’t any particular thing. For gratuity, one need not look far. My dad is partial to Jack Reacher novels for one. What these books offer is a balanced mix of all the gratuities. Everything is amplified to the max: sadistic rich dudes in suits, down-at-heels and down-to-earth heroes and heroines, the Everglades, clueless conmen, sexually frustrated dolphins, they’ve got it all. All the proper story beats are followed, everything resolves itself with the graphic satisfaction that it deserves; after all, who really wants that many surprises while in a metal tube 30,000 feet above the ground?

I first picked up a book by Mr. Hiaasen at the age of 10, on a flight to… I don’t really remember. What I do remember is enduring the ear-ringing, middle-seat-positioned, 7-hour monotony thanks to the probably-too-salacious-for-a-10-year-old yarns of Skin Tight. Every time I fly it feels like I’m being dehumanized just a little bit more by the airline (especially you, United). The spaces under the seat in front of me keep getting smaller, the in-flight snacks don’t satisfy as much, the in-flight entertainment is increasingly pitiful. With such a state of affairs, why should I attempt to treat a flight as anything classy. So, keeping that in mind, I shall stick to my trash about some tycoon serial adulterer getting eaten alive by gators or some such thing. However, I shall still give an embarrassed furtive glance towards my seatmates before breaking it out.

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