Flight Risk
A Gonzo Journey Through Puerto Rico & The Substack Industrial Complex
January 30, 2025—MSP Terminal 1 Gate F16—6:14 am
I’m feeling a bit of sinus pressure.
Hopefully, that turns out to be nothing.
Early morning check-ins at the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport (MSP) are usually a pain in the ass. I’ve always argued with people about the two-hour check-in before a flight. Some guys think it’s bullshit and that you can swoop in 30-40 minutes before take-off, basically when the flight starts boarding, and expect to make it onto the plane on time.
And nine times out of eleven, that’s true. But why give yourself all that stress?
Without exception, I like to eat (at a minimum) 100 milligrams of THC before any sort of air travel. This not only applies to commercial flights. I live by the same principles regarding crop dusters and helicopters, though I will say there is one exception.
I don’t eat edibles and fly drones. That’s right. I’m a responsible person.
The key to eating edibles at the airport pre-flight is to time it right. Eat the gummy too early, and you’ll be a drooling vegetable before you reach the gate, unable to comprehend even the simplest of instructions, or worse, when the TSA guy is screaming at you because you forgot to take your iPad out of your bag at the checkpoint.
Get a grip, man. It’s 5:49 am. And just an iPad.
TSA is now snapping pictures at the turnstiles, using facial recognition to verify you are who you say you are by comparing your photo to those in the database with your passport or identification photos and those family keepsakes from your DUI mugshot or time the child support police threw you in jail to “just to scare ya a little” cause the court does that to dad’s deeper than a grand in the hole on their payments … least they used to do that … couldn’t tell ya … been current ever since … kids nowadays call that an effective law enforcement tactic.
“Isn’t it great?” the blue-shirted agent squealed as she handed Sheri and me our IDs. Sheri smiled, obliging this ignorant take. See, Sheri Oteri isn’t the disagreeable type like me. Instead, she smiles when she hears somebody say something idiotic and leaves it be and gets on with her day. And maybe most people are that way.
But I’m not most people.
Most folks don’t think that even though TSA says on their signs splattered all over MSP saying, yes sirs and madams, of course, we’ll delete these photos, why on earth would we ever want those, wink wink?
My immediate guess is these photos are going into a ginormous Ai database that’ll be used when facebook or the google or whatever tech overlord convinces the government we need a camera network with facial recognition in the name of the people’s “safety.”
“Fuck sakes, that’s terrifying,” I told Bubblehead and snatched my ID back.
As I tucked my mark of the beast back in my wallet, “Oh, don’t worry. It’s not Ai or anything.”
Oh. Whew. Thank the heavens. Now I feel better about burying my head in the sand, oblivious to these Orwellian times.
“Have a nice flight!”
“You too,” my response awkwardly flopped out like a wet fish. Wait, that’s terrible.
Where was I going with this?
The Flight - MSP to San Juan - 10:42 am
“You took too much, man. You took too much.”
Dr. Gonzo - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Flight is boarding.
Gummies are kicking in.
It’s going to be close. Too close.
Goddamn things. See, that’s what happens. Sometimes you underdo it, and instead of the gummies knocking your ass out as was their intended use, they kick the anxiety machine into hyperdrive, and pretty soon, you’re convinced the plane is gonna crash.
Instead of Puerto Rican sunshine, all you see in your future is your body’s exploded bits scattered across the Pacific.
Wait.
Ignore these terrible thoughts.
My mind always goes here when I inadvertently book a hotel room without a hot tub. Depending on the hotel, either lukewarm bathwater or scalding hot noodle-cookin' water, no goddamn in between, it seems. If you find one that tickles your bits just right, you book it again for next time. But you can bet your sweet ass it’ll be down for maintenance next time.
The hot tub gods have a warped sense of humor.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this far across the Atlantic. Yes, I realize I said Pacific earlier. Part of this new deal I’ve got going for myself, something that seems like dyslexia, but I can’t entirely be sure. The shadow is convinced it’s a cocktail of tumors, brain bleeds, and aneurysms, all desperately wanting to blow, leaving me in a sacked heap, a grease spot splattered across the pavement, baking in the hot sun.
See? No hot tub equals Adam guzzling the crazy sauce and talking the crazy talk.
My sinuses are so goddamn tight in this plane feels like I’m in too deep at a roulette table, family farm on the line, and I’ve got it all plus the kids and the combine on black and surrounding 18 when odd hits.
Son of a … no, no … this is okay … maybe there’s something to learn here.
Woosah.
Woosah, indeed.
You know … I think this whole stinking thing comes back to two things:
Learning to love oneself and external validation, which in all reality is one goddamned thing. Once you not only accept yourself and your fears and your flaws and moles and zits and all the shits, that craving for external validation falls away.
I learned this the hard way, and truth be told, I probably still haven’t learned the goddamn shit. It’ll keep comin' up and comin' up until I master whatever the fuck it is I’m supposed to master. I don’t think that stuff is up to us. See, that’s the thing. You aren’t going to find it outside yourself.
Too bad I hadn’t realized that before, probably shaving three years off my life’s top end. It’s like any well-built engine. Don’t matter how well built or how much you spent on parts or whatever gods of the engine blueprint designed and slapped it together, if you stand on that pedal revving the cocksucker, things are gonna wear out … a real shelf-life-limiter … camshaft bits all over your living room … or something.
It all started back in November with a few innocent notes.
Substack notes is Twitter’s ginger stepchild who’d do anything for just a teaspoon of self-esteem but can’t find it in herself to make it happen.
Huh. Sounds goddamn familiar.
Anway, where the hell was i?
Damn gummies.
Right. Substack Notes, think Twitter but for people with brains but no more above anybody else when it comes to emotional intelligence or human decency.
Like most social media platforms, Substack Notes turns us all into attention-seeking-slut-bags (ASSB).
Monsters screaming pick me the loudest.
Best part is I’ve done this shit for years so I can say this with the confidence of twenty-something year old Mark Manson after a couple three four shots of tequila or brandy or mint juleps idk how am i supposed to know what he drinks? Hopefully, it wasn’t in his books cause I really did read them, I swear.
But anyway … Tell me I’m wrong. I belly-flopped through the Notes shit swamp for a year before finally seeing traction. And once I did, I turned into a goddamn mutant ogre shit for brains, ignoring my family and my priorities and whatever else to gobble down another dopamine hit.
A typical day’s timeline involved checking substack notes, responding to comments and shares, thinking of new notes, checking for new likes,
Rinse and repeat.
Shit turns you into a lunatic-assed-crazy person—no different from any of the other social media platforms that people are leaving in fucking droves—and Substack is falling right into the son of a bitchin’ trap, all in the name of growth.
Stupay.
A couple of weeks ago, when it was looking like the Gubbermint’s TikTok ban would be more than a goddamn hoax that the American people fell for showed our true colors.
We care about 8 seconds of distraction more than our fucking decency idk where I’m going with this, but I’ll need to sort out these thoughts at some point.
The point is this: Why does Substack think it needs to dip its hands in everything? I remember listening to (I believe) Hamish McKenzie in like 2017 or 2018 on the Joe Rogan Experience (hopefully I didn’t dream or hallucinate this whole scenario). Back then, all Hamish talked about was how it was all about the writers and the writing.
The writing … E. Gad! Blessed breakthroughs.
That’s what mattered. Writing. Not videos. Not imitation retweets, even though those do help a lot of people. I just don’t think we should hang our whole hat on it. Writing is the rock, the foundation. And yes, I’ll be the first to admit that this platform that I hate (Substack Notes) is responsible for much of my growth on this godforsaken platform.
But was it worth all the social media-like-seeking look-at-me business?
Was it worth all the anxiety and not paying attention when the dog learned to jump the fence? Didn’t even realize he was gone until I found myself driving around the neighborhood trying to spot him so I could get him home to walk him so he’ll calm down enough for me to check Substack notes again—a man wrapped in the pathetic shambles of external validation—hopelessly trapped in the maze.
It got to the point where my gas got so bombastic that each morning when I wake up, it’s like I have to sit on the toilet for twenty minutes just releasing the blowby so I don’t float away with the french fry factory smoke tootling down Demers avenue.
Notes almost fucking broke my brain—nearly led me straight to early retirement.
After the big ass growth spurt (BAGS) I went through, things eventually leveled off (they always do) for a few weeks, and then pretty soon, I found myself chasing it, doubling my efforts to force clever notes or cute pictures or maybe even sell a little of my own personal trauma bullshit for clicks. (hey, I’d be a lying ratbag if I said there wasn’t some underlying motive, even if I can’t directly see it or call it what it is) cause the truth is, I’m a goddamn attention whore.
Anybody who puts their creative or personal or art or knick-knacks or music or video or whatever the thing is, the reason above all others why we do it is that we NEED it to be seen.
We must know that the thing we’re doing matters to somebody somewhere.
It validates us. Gives us worth in the universe, the country, the community, and the family. And let me tell you something, just like an elevated and unpredictable gummy tolerance, that shit builds quickly, and you’ll find yourself chasing it like a junkie or a gambler or whatever … all one in the goddamn same.
Jesus, heavy extractions on this trip.
No more than an hour before landing now.
What surprises await us in Puerto Rico?
Will haciendas and bioluminescent bays light the way for my confused soul?
By the way, last week I wrote some pretty heavy shit, lost in the goddamn maze of it all. You know, the one that shows up in the putrid depths of January, a darkness that takes you so deep you’ll do anything, pay any toll not to go back to that godforsaken miserable place, and all the while not realize you’re stuck into the maze where every thought, every inkling, every goddamn thing leads you straight back to the beginning.
Until something comes along and knocks you out of it, it doesn’t matter if you know it’s coming.
No matter what, it blindsides the shit out of you when it finally comes.
Am I ready?
Is Sheri ready?
How bout Puerto Rico and the coffee farmers? What secrets do these magic beans hold? These guys bounced back from devastating hurricanes … maybe guiding lights and clues to the mystery will show itself before this whole thing is over.
What does it all mean?
What happens next?
“If there’s a doctor on board, please come to the back of the plane.”
From the plane’s rear, a flight attendant flies in with the confidence of Lieutenant Frank Drebin, and phones all around us fly out like six-shooters in an old western.
Ruckus.
Everybody wants to capture the next viral TikTok, hoping this woman morphs into a mutant beast who needs shackles and chains to keep from eliminating every last passenger in this bloody tube.
Two flight attendants begin googling CPR and how to administer it while flying their freak-out flags high when, all of a sudden, this calm wave washes over the veteran, and he puts an arm on his coworker and whispers in her ear, “you really should think about downloading Perplexity. Way better than Google.”
He then realizes the 60-something passed out in the aisle is choking on the dried cinnamon cookie they’d administered only minutes earlier.
With one authoritative fist thump in her back squares, a schpeck of grizzled ginger splatters against a leg in the seat next to me. It takes everything I have not to fall into an exaggerated gag spell, creating a spectacle far more sinister than what’s happening before me.
I look up.
Holy shit, we’re almost there.
Something's brewing in the tropical air ahead, and it ain't just coffee.
Between the TSA's hungry cameras and my gummy-addled brain, I can't shake the feeling that Puerto Rico's got plans for us that no algorithm could predict.
The question isn't whether we're ready—it's whether the island is prepared for whatever brand of agricultural chaos we're about to unleash.
Hahahaha. This was great. Loved the stream of consciousness. Let it fly man, who gives a shit.
Loved a good laugh while eating breakfast this morning!