kanye ft. weezy & busta - can't tell me nothing remix

i am cursed with the cruel talent of being unable to sleep in moving vehicles, especially planes. unless i knock myself out during takeoff (the brief moment where the plane is going upward diagonally, therefore helping me simulate laying on my back) i'm doomed to fill the following hours with flipping through bad television (when i'm only so lucky) and doing jumping jacks to make sure i don't get bloodclots in my lungs. as a result, i spend the entire flight as a sky-zombie, only able to engage in a few life-decaying forms of "work":

a) organize my itunes (you know, like, make sure the genres are consistent)
b) delete emails in my inbox
c) organize my itunes (you know, like, make sure i don't have doubles in my playlists)
d) stare at nico until he wakes up
e) write bad blogs
f) read

i'd like to say that my countless sleepless flight hours are spent reading pedagogy of the oppressed and the autobiography of malcom x, but alas, in my human vegetable state i'm unable to swallow the often jagged red pill of social justice (see that?? that was an alanis morissette AND matrix reference rolled into one! what are we, in the late 90's again??)

as you can see, deliriousness.

anyway, as often as i fly, i always forget to bring reading material, so amidst sprinting to my flight (which i'm usually late for) it clicks while i run past the duty-free store, dammit, i don't have anything to read on the flight! consequently, the last few months i've grown accustomed to reading magazines, and of the sparse selection offered at airports, i've become a regular reader of GQ and rolling stone.

GQ?? i know, i know, pretty shallow. i feel you--prior to becoming a GQ'er i also imagined that the magazine was reserved for white 50-year-olds in birkenstocks and burgundy robes. but those of you who have picked it up from time to time know how addictive it can be. after all, who wouldn't want to learn which argyle socks will match with their french cufflinks??

but i feel i need to back off a bit. all those "how to tip your golf cap" articles are getting to my head (get it?) and i've found myself hankering for things that i don't really need...like...sock suspenders...besides, i had a slightly awkward moment earlier when i caught myself spending too much time deciding over the cover with johnny depp or robert redford (i chose johnny).

and rolling stone is poison as well. i blame much of my recent longings to be a rock star on that, and watching too much fade to black. despite its legendary reputation as being the standard music mag (besides hiphop weekly, that is), and the fact that it does have some really insightful articles, the random mentions of britney are a total buzzkill and a bitter reminder that even the better magazines would rather dedicate a quarter page to a lip-syncing walmart queen than real artists who haven't made it to her "level."

anyway, i'm glad i was out of the country and not flying around last month, because how awkward would it be to explain sticking my nose in this cover to the guy sitting next to me?

but in the end, i can't complain. when my computer's run out of batteries, the rest of the crew has fallen asleep, and the stewardess has stopped passing out roasted peanuts (or started CHARGING for them...united airlines assholes...), these are the mags that keep me soft and warm all the way to the runway.