I can't help but wonder as i jump on the shuttle United flight, maybe it is Carl's universe. I'm sitting window seat on this flight; I like it cause I'm small and can stretch out anyway while still hogging the view. Beside me is- I swear- A maytag repairman. He's wearing a polo shirt that says "Priority One Service" and "Maytag" in a friendly green against a neutral blue. I am managing through sheer force of will not to make boredom jokes he's heard a thousand times before. He is an older salt and pepper guy (but still with a full head of hair) with a red face and a blunt, round nose, to go with his blunt, round fingers. When he pulls out his laptop I peer over to see how those thick fingers can manage to only hit one key at a time. Carefully, apparently. He isn't making the transition easily, either. He has dragged out a folder stuffed with printouts marked "email". He has taken one out, folded it open carefully and appears to be typing a reply on his laptop. There is no consciousness of irony coming from him at all.

I am loving this.

Right now he is an archetypal creature to me, and I won't risk that by talking to him. I am terribly interested in not letting him be an individual. He is a perfect American, rarely votes, never cheated on his wife. Was in his day a bit of a rabble rouser, but now he has responsibilities to attend to, I'll understand when I get to be his age.

I lean in and he looks at me. I grin and look back at my notes. His name is Rick. I swear to god, right there on the printouts, Rick. He is a SAM, a title I really like for him. I don't know what SAM stands for, but I'll bet my vanity domain the M is for Manager. He's just the sort of person I would have done my "Internet proof by intimidation" bit for before I burned out. (Right now I'm practicing the New Media version of existencial angst and working as a nighttime UNIX system admin. Actually it has uncomfortably more in common with being a Goth than with Sartre or Kirkegaard.) I peg him for a bit scared of computers, but I bet I could startle the hell out of him with a modem and could have him crying for mommy with ADSL or even ISDN. My job was to talk people like him into allocating truly rediculous amount of their operational budget into creating a web presence before their smallest competitor put them out of business with online customer service or even, dare I say e-commerce.

I suppose I am catering to my inner asshole. This sort of thing is, afterall, why I left. I suppose for the sake of my own mental health I should stop now... Carl's universe has proven bad for me.

But it's so tempting to think this way sometimes!