Where I am

This might seem a bit redundant, since "who I am and where you can find me" can be found all over this website. (If you can't find that information, I'm not doing this very well.) 

But ever since I noticed Warren Ellis (the writer, not the musician) post something like this on his website, I've wanted to do one.

It didn't make much sense while I wasn't updating this blog regularly. Now that I'm writing in a few different places, however, it seemed like a good time to try what's essentially an online business card. 

So in case you didn't know, this is where I am these days. 

My horrifying Hannibal Lecter story

With Hannibal premiering on NBC tonight, I thought it was a good time to share a story I don't believe I've ever told on this blog before. 

Years ago, when I worked at a bookstore, I was asked for help by one of my co-workers at the information desk. A customer had a question she couldn't answer.

This co-worker was a nice, sweet woman. She worked hard. But she was, how do you say, not bright. She also didn't know a damn thing about books, other than the romance novels she read. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But she was probably a representation of what happens when bookstores become big bookstore chains. It's just a retail job.

A deep knowledge of literature (or history, religion, cooking, etc.) wasn't really necessary, as it was in the days when prospective employees had to pass a book test to be hired at Borders. Just be friendly, look up a book in the computer, take the customer to the section, put the book in his or her hand and that's the job. No deep knowledge of Proust necessary.

However, a cursory understanding of the difference between fiction and reality certainly helps. 

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As I walked by the front information desk, probably on my way to goof off in the break room, this co-worker asked me to come over and help her with a customer. 

"Sure — what's up," I said.

"This woman is looking for books on Hannibal Lecter," my co-worker said.

"OK, no problem. Is there a particular book she's looking for? Silence of the Lambs? Red Dragon? That Hannibal movie just came out. Is that the one she wants?"

"No, she wants a biography on Hannibal Lecter."

At that point, I figured it was the customer who wanted a nonfiction book on a fictional character. Oh, if only that had been the case. 

"Biography? Hannibal Lecter is a fictional character. Is she serious?"

"No, I know there is one. I just can't remember the name of it and I can't find it in the system." 

I'm not sure how long I paused and stared at her. I don't remember if my jaw hung open. I have no recollection of the room beginning to sway back and forth, my vision blurring and sound being muted out with my co-worker continuing to talk to me. But there was a definite moment of silence as I tried to comprehend if I was really being asked what I was just asked. 

"[Name redacted], there's no biography or case study of Hannibal Lecter. He doesn't really exist. The books he's in are novels." 

"I know there's one, OK? I saw it. I just can't remember the name of it and I can't find it in the system." 

"All right, I'll take care of it. She's up front?"

So I walked over to the information desk at the front of the store and saw the customer waiting. Thankfully, my co-worker did not follow me. I don't remember if she was supposed to be covering the desk at the time or went to shelve books or was on a mystery quest for true crime books on Hannibal Lecter. But at least I could avoid completely embarrassing her.

However, would I end up having to embarrass the customer? This would not be the first time I had to tell a customer that a fictional character didn't exist.

I once had a heartbreaking encounter with a very nice man with whom I had a nice conversation about jazz until he wanted to find CDs by Emmit Ray. Emmit Ray was Sean Penn's character in Woody Allen's film, Sweet and Lowdown.

This gentleman was so convinced Ray was real. I just couldn't break it to him. I know I should have. But he was so nice and genuine. I ended up telling him we didn't have anything, other than the soundtrack to the movie. Hopefully, someone eventually let the guy down gently. Either that or he's still searching, wandering the land (and record stores that no longer exist) like Kwai Chang Caine from Kung Fu.

(If I ever do meet Woody Allen, you can damn well bet I'll tell him that story. If anything, it's a compliment to how effective his movie was.) 

"Hi there," I said to the customer. "You're looking for Hannibal Lecter books?"

"Yes," she said. "I want to see the books he's in." 

So I took her over to "Mysteries and Thrillers" where Thomas Harris' novels were shelved, took all three of the Hannibal Lecter novels off the shelf and handed them to her. I then waited for the awkward moment in which she said something like, "No, I know about these. I'm looking for a biography." 

But she took the books and said "OK, great — I'm gonna sit down and take a look through these. Thank you."

That was it. We were done. The customer was not looking for nonfiction books on a fictional character. 

The scary part — perhaps scary than anything Hannibal Lecter did in print or on screen — is that I believe my co-worker eventually went on to work at the corporate offices of the bookstore chain we worked for.

Perhaps that provides at least some explanation as to why this particular chain is no longer in business. 

Happy birthday, Dad

Happy birthday to my father, Dennis Casselberry. He would have been 69 years old today. 

Until doing the math and typing it out just now, I'd forgotten how old he would be this year. He's frozen at 61 for me. 

Last year at this time, I wrote about all of the things that my father would've enjoyed if he were still with us today. Being a grandfather would have been foremost among those.

This week, my Little Niece is on spring break and we're getting to spend a lot more time with her than we usually would. We could use Grandpa for an extra set of hands and legs to keep up with that little road-runner right now.

I especially think about how much he would've enjoyed reading to his granddaughter, how much he would've enjoyed singing and dancing with her. 

What I was recently wondering, however, is what Little Niece would have called her Grandpa. 

My mother just wanted to be called Grandma when her granddaughter was born. Nothing like "Nana" or anything like that. But since Little Niece can't pronounce "Grandma" yet, she calls my mother "Ahma."

The beauty here is that "Ahma" or "Ama" is actually Chinese (Hokkien dialect) for grandmother. The kid had it right all along. 

"Ah Kong" is Chinese for grandfather in Chinese. Little Niece probably wouldn't have called Grandpa that. I'm guessing she would've said something like "Ah-Pa." 

Happy Birthday, Ahpa. You would love this kid. But I'm guessing you already know how great she is, and how much joy she brings to our lives.

The restatement of purpose

Since the beginning of the year, I've been meaning to ramp up some new content on this blog.

That's a sentence and sentiment that I've expressed too many times before without following through — or following through on briefly before conceding to other commitments, time and probably a good share of laziness.

But the past year has made it clear what's important to me. And though it may seem trivial to some, this blog is important to me — and I should treat it that way.

Writing something for myself is something I need to do, even if it's a response to a movie trailer, an article I've read or some goofy meme that's developed online. It's what keeps this feeling like a hobby, something I truly enjoy, instead of feeling entirely like work. 

Finding your passion and being able to make a living from it is the dream for most of us. But when a hobby becomes work, that becomes a tricky situation. It makes you think about how much you truly love that endeavor, and how much of your life it should occupy. 

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Maybe some are ready to say "Oh, boo-hoo!" as they read this. (Thank you for reading, by the way.) I realize plenty of people don't like their jobs. And there are many others who are yearning for full-time work, never mind whether or not it's in something they enjoy. 

Yet people tough out their jobs because they need to provide for themselves and their family. But there's something to be said for a job just being a job, getting to leave it at the office and having a life outside of your work. Very few people are defined by their work. 

Over the past year, however, I felt like something was getting away from me. I was becoming so consumed with the job at hand that it overcame everything else in my life. There was no healthy balance, perhaps most typified by how little sleep I'd been getting. (That became something of an obsession for me.) There was no joy. 

So this is part of me trying to get that back, to find what I feel like I lost over the past year. I just hope I'm not coming off as a whiner as I write about this stuff. 

But maybe there's a reason you lose certain things from your life as you get older. Maybe you outgrow certain interests. Of course, taking on new responsibilities leaves less time for other pursuits too. 

However, I can't shake the feeling that... geez, I used to be a lot more interesting. Or at least I used to find myself more interesting. I used to read a hell of a lot more. I used to be far more informed. I could hold a conversation or write a blog post on just about anything relating to current events, pop culture, TV, movies or sports. 

Then I remember that I'm not in school anymore. 

I'm not riding the bus to and from campus, giving me a solid half-hour to an hour during which I could read a bunch of articles printed up from the New York Times, Washington Post, Salon and Slate. I had a university library system — including LexisNexis — available to give me anything and everything I wanted and needed to read. There was no such thing as an obscure article or work of literature. 

I had the time and ambition to write anything I wanted to. I was writing short stories and nonfiction essays. I had time between classes — along with late nights and early mornings fueled by a younger me — to post stuff on my blog.

Perhaps most importantly, I could crank it out too. Sometimes, the words just flowed from my fingertips to the keyboard. 

But it recently occurred to me that this was also nearly 10 years ago. Who's the same as he or she was 10 years ago? (Other than, like, Jay Leno.) 

So maybe what I'm really looking for is a time machine. Unfortunately, I don't know the guy from Safety Not Guaranteed, so that's probably not an option. 

Apparently, I want to be who I was 10 years ago. Or at the very least, I want my life to be as simple as it was 10 years ago. That's surely not realistic. Does coming to that realization mean I've grown up? Who the hell knows? I certainly can't say. 

This is all a long way — 750 words, approximately — way of saying that I'd really like to write some stuff for myself and get a damn good blog going again. (The "damn good" part is subjective to opinion, of course.) 

But does blogging as we once knew it exist anymore?

You know, with the blogroll in the sidebar and the link culture that fostered? Is there a community among like-minded bloggers — whether the subject is sports, music, movies or just local culture — anymore or is everyone just out there fending for him or herself, hoping to latch on with a larger outlet (one that hopefully pays relatively well)? 

Blogging certainly isn't dead, despite the hobbyists who once did it now sharing their opinions and life moments on Facebook and Twitter. Many of those who still do it well are linked in my blogroll. The form has changed, but it's probably grown up as well. (Well... unless your blog is stocked full of GIFs and memes, maybe.) 

So here it is. I intend to write regularly here and not veer off track as I have in the past. There's been something of a "soft opening" over the past couple of months as I joined the rest of the world and started a Tumblr site, repurposing some of that content here. But this is going to be a "real" blog, man. 

(Naturally, if a great full-time writing job comes along, I reserve the right to walk back from that statement. But I don't think that's happening anytime soon.)

I certainly hope that the friends I always meant to entertain and inform with my blog are still checking in, along with other friends and fans I picked up along the way. Thank you for reading and I'll try my best to give you a reason to keep coming back. 

Pat Neshek's poignant playoff appearance

It's long overdue to blow the dust off this blog and put some fresh content here again.

Unfortunately, the full-time gig at Bleacher Report takes up all of my writing time. I could—and would love to—take more time to write here, but I'm tapped out by the end of the day and want to just stare at a TV, read something unrelated to baseball or just sleep.

I'm certainly hoping that will change once the playoffs end by November. 

In the meantime, here's a post I wrote that I wasn't sure fit into our MLB postseason coverage at B/R (though I published it there anyway), but felt the need to write. I didn't get it done before Game 2 of the Tigers-Athletics series on Sunday, but with Monday being a day off in the series, I thought I could post it here. 

If you've stuck with me, thank you. I hope to keep some stuff coming here in the weeks and months to come.

Most of my time as a sports blogger has been spent writing about the Detroit Tigers. During that time, there were few relievers I feared pitching against Detroit more than Pat Neshek in 2006 and 2007.

In five appearances vs. the Tigers in 2006, Neshek allowed one run over 6.1 innings for a 1.42 ERA. He struck out 10 batters while walking none. Overall, Neshek had a 2.19 ERA in 32 appearances with a rate of 12.9 strikeouts per nine innings.

In 2007, Neshek emerged as one of the best relievers in MLB. He compiled a 2.94 ERA in 74 appearances, striking out 74 batters in 70.1 innings. Against the Tigers, he pitched nine times, allowing three runs with 10 strikeouts in nine innings.

But nothing Neshek did in the first two years of his career—against the Tigers or MLB at large—was as impressive as what he did while pitching in Game 1 of the ALDS for the Oakland Athletics on Saturday (Oct. 6).

You very likely know the story by now of what Neshek and his wife went through last week.

Less than 24 hours after giving birth to their first child—one of the most special moments in the life of any couple—Pat and Stephanee Neshek lost their newborn son. No cause of death was known, no explanation given for the Nesheks' happiest moment soon being followed by the most tragic.

The world must have made very little sense to Neshek on Wednesday. Presumably, that's why he was back with his teammates and ready to pitch for the A's on Saturday in Game 1 of their ALDS against the Tigers. Both Neshek and his wife needed something to make sense again, something to hang on to when the world must have seemed indescribably cruel.

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In the previous paragraph, I said Neshek was "ready to pitch" for the A's. That's impossible to know, of course. He probably wasn't ready to pitch. Who could be ready to do anything in light of experiencing such a tragedy?

I can only imagine Neshek sometimes felt like the world needed to stop for him and acknowledge what he'd been through. Or perhaps he needed the world around him to just keep going on as usual so he could try to find a semblance of normalcy just three days after nothing could have felt normal for him.

Anyone who saw Neshek warming up during the seventh inning of Saturday's game likely felt something for him, a twinge of sympathy or a jolt of empathy. How could Neshek possibly pitch after what he's been through?

It wasn't a question of whether or not Neshek should pitch. He should do whatever he wanted or needed to do to cope with the loss of his son. It was a question of whether or not anyone could do the same thing if confronted with such circumstances.

I suppose I shouldn't attempt to speak for everyone, however. I'm speaking for myself. That's what was going through my mind. That's why my stomach seized when I saw Neshek on my television screen. I'm presuming many of you had similar feelings.

Neshek came in for the A's with one out and two runners on in the seventh inning. The Tigers had a 3-1 lead and could have padded that lead with a base hit. Oakland manager Bob Melvin wasn't just putting Neshek into the game during a meaningless situation (if there's such a thing during a playoff game) to let him settle in and clear his mind.

As he revealed after the game, however, Neshek's mind was anything but clear. Really, how could it be?

"It was definitely tough down there," Neshek said, as quoted by USA Today's Bob Nightengale. "I was thinking about him the whole time.

"It sounds so cliché, but it felt like he was looking down on me, helping me."

Neshek got Oakland out of its seventh-inning jam, getting Omar Infante and Austin Jackson out on eight pitches. He did exactly what he was supposed to do, what he's done all season, as his 1.37 ERA in 24 appearances demonstrates: He kept the A's in the game.

For at least a moment, maybe the world made some sense again for Neshek and his wife. He tapped the special patch on his right arm that the team wore on its jerseys in tribute to his son. I can't imagine there's anyone who watched that moment and wasn't affected somehow.

Maybe you thought about what Neshek had endured. Perhaps you looked at your child and imagined what it would have been like to lose him or her. Maybe you thought about loss you've experienced in your own life.

Again, I can't speak for you. I'm speaking for myself here.

In that moment, I thought about the baby niece that's become such a significant part of my life over the past 20 months. I thought about my sister and how such a tragedy would have affected her.

I remembered losing my father and sitting in a dark room with my family the day after it happened, much like Neshek described doing with his wife in the hours after they lost their baby. I remembered how family and friends have never been more important.Almost involuntarily, I clapped for Neshek in my living room—even though he was pitching against the team I grew up watching, the team I've covered as a sportswriter for years.

It was one of the most courageous pitching performances I've ever seen as a sports fan. No matter what happens, Neshek has already made this ALDS between the Tigers and Athletics extremely memorable.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today is my father's birthday. He would've been 68 years old today.

On my recent trip to Malaysia, I was frequently reminded of his younger days, when he met my mother while serving a term with the Peace Corps.

I enjoyed hearing stories of what he was like back then. One of the great regrets of my life is that I never took the time to talk to him about those days. What was his courtship and early relationship with my mother like? What was his daily routine and lifestyle in Malaysia? What was his favorite food there? How did he deal with using those squat toilets?

I'm having trouble believing that it's been seven years since he's been gone. So much has happened in that time.

I look at things like iPods, DVRs, cheaper broadband internet and wi-fi, and think it's a shame that he wasn't able to enjoy these luxuries that would've made his life easier and more enjoyable. If you'd have told him he'd be able to download NPR's Fresh Air or find various jazz and classical podcasts that he could listen to on his own time and take anywhere with him, he would shake his head and smile.

Though I would've had to walk him through them constantly, he would've loved connecting with old friends and meeting with like-minded people. He would've enjoyed following the writers and journalists he admired on Twitter.

He would've loved it here in Asheville, with its mountains, trees, pleasant climate, laid-back lifestyle and nice people. He should have been able to enjoy retirement with my mother and make new friends.

Selfishly, I wish he was here to see me achieve some success as a sportswriter. If for no other reason than he would know that something finally worked out after all my years of lost, unfocused slacking.

I wish he was here to enjoy his granddaughter, to read to her, to feed her, to change her diapers, to sing and dance with her, to help her learn to walk. He would've been a wonderful grandpa.

Happy Birthday, Dad. You are missed tremendously. We love you.

Malaysia Diaries: In search of kimchee and a nap

So maybe you're thinking, "Ian, are you ever going to actually write about Malaysia?"

You could also be thinking, "Dude, it's been two weeks since you've written anything on your blog, let alone anything on your Malaysia trip. I don't care what you do anymore; I have an NCAA Tournament bracket to fill out." 

OK, that's fair. I'm not happy about it, either. I was kind of hoping to be done — or near done — with The Malaysia Diaries by now. But I've been preoccupied with some stuff, which I'll probably be writing about in one form or another. 

Anyway, I'm getting to Malaysia. But first, I have to get there, if you know what I mean. And I can't let our 10-hour layover in Seoul go without writing a little bit about it. 

We arrived in Seoul at about 5:30 a.m. local time. The airport was quiet and virtually deserted that early, which suited our dazed state of mind following a 14-hour flight from the States pretty well. (Although finding a place that was open to serve some coffee wouldn't have been bad.) 

With the sleek white-and-silver motif of the terminal, it felt sort of like being in a science fiction movie. If only we were floating. Physically, I mean. Mentally, we were totally floating. 

Going in, we knew a 10-hour layover would be rough. I would've loved to write about a food-hopping, booze-soaked trek through Seoul, like the ones Anthony Bourdain does on his new show. But the idea of going through immigration to leave the airport, trying to navigate a completely foreign city (which is who knows how far from the airport), getting back, going through security (and probably immigration) again, all while completely zombified from lack of sleep, held little appeal. 

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Besides, it was also really cold in Seoul. Like 24 degrees. There was snow on the ground and ice on the windows. I never knew it got that cold in Korea. I guess it stands to reason, given where South Korea is located in the hemisphere. But I was surprised (and surely naive), nonetheless. 

Knowing we would have 10 hours with not a lot to do, and preferring not to try and sleep on the rows of seats at the gate, we reserved a room at the airport transit hotel. (Although if we'd opted for sleeping on seats, Seoul's airport apparently expects this, because the seats don't have armrests. You can actually stretch out, if you prefer to piss off your fellow travelers by taking up three seats while they're looking for a place to sit.) This might be one of the best decisions we've ever made.

We reserved a six-hour stay at the transit hotel (12 and 24 hours are your other options), but if we checked in before 7:30 a.m., we'd have to buy a 12-hour stay. So we had about an hour to kill. 

If there was anything reassuring about our layover in Seoul, it's that many travelers were in the same circumstance. Maybe that's a slogan Seoul can use: "Asia's transit stop." At least one area is devoted entirely to people who need to take a load off and rest during a layover. As we walked down the concourse adjacent to the hotel, we saw several people sleeping (or trying to sleep) on the ledges of flower beds. If not for the sleek interior design, you might think this was a homeless shelter.

I wonder if those people were just so tired that they flopped down on the first bed-like surface they could find. Perhaps they couldn't take about 20 more steps. If they had, they would've found what we found. A cafe! (Coffee! Water! Diet Coke! Pastries!) And next to the cafe was a lounge. With lounge chairs. At least I think that's what you'd call these. 

There was only one chair open, so I let Mom have it. Besides, I wasn't exactly comfortable sleeping around a bunch of strangers. Also, I was afraid that if I went to sleep there, I wouldn't wake up. So I opted for checking e-mail, sucking down coffee and water, typing journal entries, and taking unsolicited snapshots of my sleeping mother. It's OK, Mom — you look fine. And you weren't snoring. Much.

Finally, we got our room. I wish I had a picture for you, but the space was so small that when I raised my camera, I was practically hitting the other wall. There were two single beds in the room, but close enough together that Mom and I were almost sharing a bed. Honestly, I didn't care — so long as I could sleep. Any time I tried to roll over, I almost fell off the bed. But I got five good hours of slumber. 

The room had a TV on the wall, upon which I could not find the Super Bowl. However, as cool as it would've been to watch the Super Bowl on an international channel, I wouldn't have stayed awake for the game. Also included were a small desk in front of a mirror and a mini-fridge. Oh, and a bathroom, of course. And after 14 hours on a plane, a hot shower was extremely welcome. 

It was kind of a letdown that the Seoul airport didn't include many restaurants with the native cuisine. But that might be for the best. Do you really want to sit next to someone on an airplane who's just eaten a spicy stew with kimchee? Or do you want to be trapped on a plane for seven hours after eating spicy stew with kimchee?

There was one place that sold fried rice and noodles, but when we stopped there at 6:30 a.m., it was sold out of seven of the 10 dishes on the menu. Seriously. Maybe they just hadn't been prepared yet. So as disappointing as it was, we had Smoothie King. In South Korea. But I ordered a red ginseng smoothie to give it an international feel. Take that, Bourdain. 

OK, we're going to Malaysia in the next post. I promise. 

Malaysia Diaries: Dramamine wishes and murderous dreams

One of the first questions friends have asked me when talking about traveling to Malaysia is the length of the flight. Yeah, it's a doozy. About 24 hours on an airplane. That doesn't include the layovers and transfers, either.

I don't remember exactly how much layover time we had four years ago, which probably means it wasn't much of an issue. (I do remember having some time to hang out in Los Angeles International Airport, where I watched the Pistons lose to the Celtics in the NBA playoffs. Wasn't that a long time ago, Pistons fans?) Transferring flights wasn't a problem either. We just got off the plane in Taiwan while it refueled and cleaned up (aired out).

Yeah, not so much this time.

The trip began with a 5 1/2-hour layover in Atlanta, an airport that charges for wi-fi. (I know; most of them do.) Food courts and newsstands are only so interesting, so if not for the wi-fi provided by Sojourner's Cafe, I probably would've gone nuts. However, that's not exactly free, either. You have to order some food and drinks when hunkering down at a table for a couple of hours.

From there, the trip really got started with a 14-hour flight to Seoul, South Korea and a 10-hour layover awaiting us. Thinking about that much time ahead, during which it feels like you're not really doing anything, plays with your mind a bit. At home, with 24 hours to kill, you could clean the house, watch TV, run errands, cook dinner, get some work done or whatever else you might find to occupy yourself before going to sleep.

But what about when you're trapped on a plane? And later, in an airport terminal? Sure, you brought books and magazines to read, music to listen to, movies or TV shows to watch. But can you really lose yourself in those distractions and not think about how much more time you have to get through?

Of course, there's also sleep. I looked to that as my anchor, the thing that would get me through this long passage. My ability to sleep on an airplane is always something I've relied on. Four-hour flight to Seattle? No problem; I'll snooze through most of it. Just give me a window and a pillow to lean my head on.

Four years ago, I slept through a big chunk of the flight from Los Angeles to Taiwan (much to the envy of others in our travel group). I even slept through caffeine withdrawal, though I do remember waking up in a clammy sweat with a dull headache at one point. But even when I'd look at the flight path on the monitor and see that we had, say, six hours to go, I just thought, "Okay, I'll go back to sleep" and off I went.

Oh, it all sounded so easy. But apparently, my body had other ideas.

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I should've followed my mother's lead, popped a Dramamine and fallen into a drug-induced slumber. But I didn't take a Dramamine because I don't get motion sickness. Yet there was Mom, enjoying the side effects of drowsiness. God, I wanted those side effects.

Especially because I had an aisle seat. Nothing to lean my head against. And if I dared lean out a little bit, someone would walk by and jostle my head. Even if it was a petite Asian flight attendant, it was enough to wake me up. Also, for reasons I can't even comprehend, the guy sitting across the aisle from me felt the need to frequently stand up and get something from his carry-on bag in the overhead bin. Oh, and when he sifted through that bag, he'd stoop over and bump into me, waking me up again.

I truly came to hate this man. The fifth or sixth time he woke me up, I wanted to shove him into the closet-size bathroom and give him one of those quick neck-breaks, like they do in the movies. That's happened in a movie, right? Or was it just the one I was making in my mind?

Also, if you are sitting in front of me on a plane, I hate you too. Mr. or Ms. Lean Your Fucking Seat Back all the time. The damn thing only reclines two inches, but it's enough to lean down on my iPad while I'm trying to watch a movie. Or trying to eat. Oh, and does it bug you when I lean forward and rest my forehead on the back of your seat because it's the only comfortable position I can manage? Really, you can feel that? And it makes you want to move your seat back up? Give me at least 10 minutes of comfort, you sack of shit.

But back to having to the aisle seat. I always want the window, but I'm not sure how I feel about that anymore. Yes, I can lean against something and that will probably help me sleep. But in the four years since my last overseas flight, I've developed the need to pee more frequently. Hey, I'm trying to stay hydrated.

Not to mention that it's just healthy to get up every couple of hours and walk around to stretch your legs and get the blood flowing. And I sure as hell wasn't going to develop Deep Vein Thrombosis or a blood clot that could eventually travel to my lungs and cause a pulmonary embolism.

Although if I did have to die, at least it might be in the arms of one of the cute Asian flight attendants. Please bring me another hot towel, too. Just give me enough strength to kill the guy across the aisle before I leave this mortal coil.

So yes, I think I now prefer the aisle seat on any flight longer than seven hours. At least if I won't be taking any drugs. (Over-the-counter medications, of course. Well, maybe some of the good stuff only a doctor can prescribe.)