Flying without having slept the night before isn’t such a great idea.

Not sleeping in general is a pretty poor idea; it messes up your insides.

Somewhere over Alaska I began feeling a bit sick to my stomach—if I were a woman I would say that the pain struck in my uterine region—that spot sort of near the small intestine and sort of near the bladder that doesn’t like to identify itself with the digestive system or, in my case (being male), the reproductive system either.

But I can only assume what I felt was something akin to PMS. Every step around the 747 indicated to me that I had managed to lodge some broken glass deep in my bowels. So girls, I can sympathize with you now; though the ordeal didn’t seem to make me bitchy, just vomit-y.

It’s not that I hate to puke, I would just prefer to avoid it on a plane—which I did. I made it to the bathroom and was just fine. But I think I’ll try and sleep a bit next time around.

During the flight to Chicago, things seemed to go much better. I sat next to a beautiful African-American mother-daughter duo, they were also destined for a layover in Chicago. The daughter was on her way back to her job at the Pentagon.

She was proud of her job.

“I took September 11th off, I just didn’t want to be there,” Lily told me.

She was so professional.

She produced a Pentagon badge and security card, and described all the procedures for entering the place. She told me about getting hired. She told me about her 8 year tenure. Did you know the Pentagon has 35,000 employees? She really liked to talk, which was good, I suppose.

“It’s such a funny thing,” she responded to one of my questions, “I was there, but I was late. I got a phone call from someone and he made me late, and when I was getting off the Interstate I saw the plane fly right over my car and crash into it.”

“I lost seven co-workers.”

(I’m making this sound much more dramatic than it really was. Lily didn’t dwell on this, or really sound upset at all, and she described it to me with the same enthusiasm that she told me about her love for art and computer animation—an enthusiasm represented by a wide-eyed, focused gaze and huge smile. She was just brimming. She had nice hair. She had perfect teeth. She was a fun girl.)

Oh, and her mother was there, too. Gladys. She was quite old, and very terse but she embodied a beauty that I think only old black women who lived through the civil rights movement seem to posses. She had a visible firmness to her, yet her eyes revealed a much kinder, gentler person beneath. I just wanted to stare and stare at her, she really seemed like some kind of painting to me, some kind of rare masterpiece soon to be extinct and relegated to the domain museums and books.

But that was back on the first flight.

I’m still on this 747 now, and I have much, much father to go. Six hours, maybe? I’m sandwiched between two Japanese youth, who I’ve avoided speaking to thus far due to my lack of confidence, and one of my flight buddies, Franc, is a row back getting drunk of some yellow Vodka drink. (He currently has two lined up ready to go after he finishes the one in his hand.)

I should be in Tokyo by 3:30 p.m., Tokyo time. (Lincoln time is 14 hours difference, I believe).

I’m going to be pretty fucked up. (Remember, I haven’t slept much in the past 4 days.)