There is a particular serenity in knowing you are flying through the stratosphere in a metal tube propelled by fiery engines, traveling faster than sound, and yet still feeling indignant that your Wi-Fi connection is unstable. I boarded this flight—seat 11A, if you must know—ready to maintain my digital footprint. I had preloaded two Kindle books, planned to finally binge-watch Castle Rock, and preemptively downloaded three podcasts (as backup, naturally). I even skimmed the in-flight magazine, a literary masterpiece offering the latest update on duty-free perfumes.

I knew that the in-flight Wi-Fi was advertised as “high-speed.” As a seasoned traveler, I didn’t expect NASA-level bandwidth, but something reasonably equivalent to the Wi-Fi I enjoy in cafes that charge $7 for a turmeric latte. The stewardess’ gentle reminder that “streaming may be limited” was a minor footnote in my otherwise technologically luxurious existence. A shrug, a smile. What did she know about my prowess with virtual private networks and throttling workarounds? I was practically a digital ninja.

I reclined in my seat, awaiting the announcement that we had hit cruising altitude, and I could finally connect to the invisible, magic web that would allow me to stay in touch with my very important digital self. Oh, the dopamine rush of those first few seconds when my phone latched onto the “SkyLink_Fast” network. My icons lit up like Christmas—emails, Instagram likes, news alerts. I was a god among mortals, hovering at 42,000 feet with all of humanity’s knowledge just a fingertip away. I was calm, confident, connected.

First Signs of Trouble

The momentary thrill of connection was almost euphoric, like the first time you successfully swiped your credit card through one of those archaic parking meters without having to call a helpline. But much like parking meters and the fickle laws of physics that govern connectivity at nearly 600 miles per hour, it didn’t last.

It began with a spinning wheel—a harbinger of doom I had seen before, but which I now ignored with hubris. The wheel spun lazily, mocking my attempts to open my email. No problem, I thought. Let’s try Instagram instead. What harm could a few selfies and cat videos cause the delicate network floating between the firmament and space? Surely not enough to slow the mighty SkyLink.

Instagram, too, refused to obey. The wheel spun faster, then stopped, and then a crushing message appeared: Cannot refresh feed.

My heart sank. I had 14 new DMs to respond to and a meme draft to perfect. Surely, this was a temporary setback—a mere bump in the celestial highway that would smooth itself out once the plane found its “true” cruising altitude. I clung to the seatback in front of me, refusing to accept the horror unfolding before me.

The Anxiety Builds

At 42,000 feet, there are few things more tragic than realizing your in-flight Wi-Fi isn’t working as advertised. Wars have been fought for less, civilizations crumbled under the weight of broken promises. Yet here I was, hurtling through the atmosphere, disconnected, and on the verge of what can only be described as an identity crisis.

Denial was my first refuge. Maybe the plane was simply adjusting its satellite connection. I mean, the logistics of bouncing Wi-Fi off satellites while traveling at near supersonic speeds couldn’t be that complicated, right? This was 2024—anything less than high-speed connectivity was practically uncivilized. I refreshed my Gmail for the eighth time. Surely, a world where I couldn’t access my work emails, while floating over the Atlantic Ocean, was a world teetering on the edge of barbarism.

Bargaining followed swiftly. If I could just get enough bandwidth to check my Slack notifications, I would be at peace. I didn’t need to reply to every message—just a few strategic ones, to remind the world that I, too, was a cog in the grand machine of productivity. I closed every app, opened just Slack. One icon. One little ping.

Nothing.

Panic set in.

I looked around at my fellow passengers. Surely, they were experiencing the same existential despair, though most appeared to be engaged in more primitive forms of in-flight entertainment—reading hardcover books, watching in-flight movies, or simply staring into the void, their Wi-Fi icons dark. The fool next to me, seat 11B, even had the audacity to be sleeping. Was he unaware of the magnitude of what was at stake?

By the time we crossed the first timezone, I had already transitioned from mild irritation to full-blown Wi-Fi mania. It wasn’t just the unresponsive Slack messages. It was the principle. I mean, how had humanity gotten so far, yet fallen so short? We put a man on the moon. We invented peanut butter and jelly in one convenient jar. But here, aboard a marvel of modern aviation, I was left to twiddle my thumbs while waiting for a connection slower than dial-up.

In fact, I began to wonder if I’d accidentally wandered into some retro-themed, low-bandwidth, vintage-plane experience without realizing it. Did I miss the stewardess saying, “And welcome aboard Flight 972, our Heritage Edition—where we bring you the authentic 1990s flying experience, including spotty Wi-Fi, flip phones in the emergency seatbacks, and a once-a-decade view of someone turning off their Discman?”

The plane’s gentle hum, once soothing, became an ominous drone. I could feel every fluctuation in the altitude like some kind of cursed barometer for connectivity. At 42,100 feet, maybe—just maybe—the signal would find its strength. At 42,000 feet flat? Nope, you’re back to staring at an endless loading screen.

Oh, sure, Louis C.K. once quipped, "Could you give it a second? It's going to space." But guess what? I'm already there—in space. And no, I’m not inclined to give it another second. Every nanosecond of this cosmic journey has been meticulously choreographed, every moment accounted for, each involving—of course—my relentless tether to the digital world. Because apparently, that’s what the stars really demand. For the love of Wi-Fi!

The stewardess passed by with a cart of drinks, unaware that she was witnessing the unraveling of a human psyche before her very eyes. I tried to make eye contact, but it was impossible to convey with a single glance, “Excuse me, ma’am, but I am currently trapped in a dystopian nightmare where my work emails refuse to load despite being hurtled through the atmosphere at near-supersonic speeds—could I perhaps trouble you for an additional packet of peanuts as I descend into a Wi-Fi-induced existential spiral?”

Instead, I asked for a Sprite.

I returned my gaze to my phone, certain that, like Schroedinger’s Cat (google it’!), my emails both existed and did not exist until I could force this cursed Wi-Fi to reveal its secrets. Perhaps—no, certainly—there were important messages I was missing. A new meme template that required my immediate reaction. A project deadline moved forward that would derail my entire week. Or, worse, someone could be tagging me in unflattering Instagram photos, and I wouldn’t even know it until we landed. What horrors awaited me on the other side of this bandwidth black hole?

I refreshed my screen again. Spinning. The wheel spun in tandem with my growing anxiety, a hypnotic reminder of my lack of control in this digital purgatory.

I toggled airplane mode on and off, as if somehow I could will the connection into existence. My rational brain understood the mechanics—flicking a switch wasn’t going to magically awaken the satellites. But in moments like this, when you’re trapped thousands of feet above the Earth, cut off from the digital ether, irrationality takes the wheel.

Surely, it wasn’t just me. No, I couldn’t be the only one suffering in this digital wasteland. My thoughts turned dark. Paranoid. Perhaps… perhaps the other passengers were siphoning my bandwidth. The kid across the aisle with an iPad: could his mindless, repetitive game of Candy Crush be the reason I couldn’t access my Google Docs? Was 11C hoarding all the Wi-Fi for their Spotify playlist? It wasn’t out of the question.

I leaned forward, trying to get a glance at their screens, but everyone was maddeningly serene. Some didn’t even have devices in front of them. Luddites. Asleep. Asleep, at a time like this? As if there weren’t entire oceans of untapped Wi-Fi to plunder? Monsters.

The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and my frustration began to metastasize into something darker—rage. I fumed at the mere existence of turbulence itself. How dare this plane shake? Surely, with all the advancements in flight technology, they could have found a way to smooth out these bumps in the road. Why hadn’t we invested more in anti-turbulence technology? Where were our priorities as a species?

If they could invent a jet engine powerful enough to get me to the other side of the world in a matter of hours, surely they could spare a little extra juice for uninterrupted Wi-Fi. But no. Apparently, my discomfort and lack of connectivity were acceptable sacrifices in the pursuit of “safety.”

As the plane shuddered again, I began to reconsider my life choices. Here I was, thousands of feet in the air, in a state of pure luxury—my seat gently reclined, my Sprite freshly poured—and yet I was on the verge of a breakdown because I couldn’t access a cloud-based file. What had happened to me? How had my priorities gotten so grotesquely warped?

The question didn’t linger long. I needed distraction. Perhaps I could take solace in my saved media. I turned to my Kindle app—if I couldn’t connect to the internet, I could at least engage in the simple pleasure of reading.

But it was too late. The rot had set in. The notion of offline reading now seemed quaint, old-fashioned—like churning your own butter or starting a fire with sticks. Without the option to Google a word or fact-check a reference, what even was reading? My Kindle felt like a relic of a simpler time, when people had the patience to sit for hours without the temptation of constant digital stimulation. I resented it now, a brick of antiquated content that couldn’t so much as send me a push notification.

And so, I did the only thing left to do in my rapidly crumbling state of mind: I opened the in-flight entertainment system. I had reached a new low. I had become one of them.

The screen was, of course, comically tiny—like a relic of the early aughts, when airlines apparently believed we wanted to watch blockbuster films on screens smaller than a cereal box. I fumbled through the options, already bracing myself for disappointment.

But what fresh indignity was this? The airline’s movie selection was outdated, filled with films that had been in theaters six months ago. What was the point of watching something everyone had already forgotten about? I scrolled furiously, trying to find anything remotely current, but the best they had to offer was Knives Out. Which, I mean, sure, great movie, but didn’t everyone and their grandmother already know how it ended? And the TV shows? I was subjected to a parade of once-popular sitcoms that had been wrung out of the public consciousness, recycled endlessly on streaming platforms until even their laugh tracks had grown tired.

My mood darkened further. The screen flickered. The Wi-Fi icon at the corner of my seat display flashed a mocking red symbol. I could feel the walls of the plane closing in.

I made one final attempt to reconnect. I toggled back to my phone, opened the Wi-Fi settings with trembling fingers, and—hallelujah—a single bar of connectivity. The wheel stopped spinning. A new message appeared on Slack.

Could it be? Was my suffering finally over? Could I once again ascend to my rightful place in the digital pantheon?

I clicked the message.

Nothing. The plane hit turbulence again. My screen went dark.

Descent Into Madness

As the plane shuddered once more, my screen flickering between life and digital oblivion, I felt something inside me crack—a splintering of resolve, a shattering of my previously held belief that I was a reasonable, level-headed individual. Gone was the person who entered the plane, basking in the glory of modernity. In its place was a feral creature, clutching an outdated iPhone like it was a life raft, my sanity tethered to a bar of Wi-Fi that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

The airplane's mechanical drone, once a neutral background sound, now grew ominous, oppressive—like the universe itself was conspiring against me. The very air felt thicker. I could hear every click of a seatbelt buckle, every murmur from the passengers, every rustling of a snack bag. All of it grated against my senses, mocking me with their simplicity. These people were happy in their analog existence. Content to flip through a paperback novel, sip a cocktail, and stare at the map of our flight path as if it were entertainment. But not me. No. I had been cursed with awareness, with a need for speed, and I would not be undone by this digital desert without a fight.

I opened my phone again, frantic now, as if by sheer willpower I could force the Wi-Fi gods to acknowledge me. I toggled between apps—Slack, Instagram, my email inbox—hoping that one of them, any of them, would load. The seconds dragged on, each as interminable as the last. Nothing. Nothing but spinning wheels and error messages. My head swam. Was it hot in here? Were we losing altitude? Surely this must be some kind of atmospheric interference, because why else would the technology of the future fail so spectacularly?

My desperation grew. I leaned forward, eyeing the small crack between the window and the edge of the seat in front of me. I could see clouds. Clouds taunting me with their leisurely pace, drifting along without a care. I envied those clouds, floating freely in the upper troposphere without the slightest need for connectivity.

In my mind, I could hear the gentle ping of Slack notifications—just out of reach, like sirens calling me from the rocks. Ding. Another deadline missed. Ding. A colleague asking for a quick update. Ding. Someone in the group chat, reacting with a flame emoji to a meme I hadn’t even seen yet. I imagined my inbox filling up, swelling like a dam about to burst, and all of it happening without me, the rightful emperor of my own digital realm.

The plane hit another small patch of turbulence, and I gripped the armrest. Was this turbulence, or was it merely the manifestation of my own unease, my body's way of translating my mental breakdown into physical reality? Was the plane itself growing more erratic in response to my rapidly deteriorating mental state? Perhaps the captain could sense my frustration and was toying with me, slowing the plane down, inching us closer to the sweet spot where Wi-Fi is weakest, just to see how much I could take before I snapped.

I glared at the small monitor embedded in the seatback in front of me. "In-Flight Wi-Fi: $14.99." The words felt like a personal affront. Fourteen ninety-nine for this? For the privilege of being tortured by the ever-dangling carrot of digital connectivity? I had been a fool to trust these marketing ploys, these so-called “fast” internet speeds. What was I even paying for? To be strung along by a feeble connection that barely functioned? To suffer the indignity of watching pixelated videos and half-loaded social media feeds?

I ripped the airplane headphones from my ears in a fit of irrational anger. Was it the headphones' fault? No. Of course not. But at this point, I needed a target for my rage. The headphones, with their flimsy plastic and single-use durability, were the nearest scapegoat. I tossed them onto the tray table with the kind of theatrical flourish normally reserved for Shakespearean actors in the throes of betrayal.

To my right, the woman in 11C stirred from her slumber, blinking blearily at me as if to say, “What’s your problem?” But I couldn’t explain it to her. How could I convey the sheer magnitude of what I was going through? To her, this was a relaxing transatlantic flight, a chance to catch up on sleep and arrive refreshed at her destination. She probably hadn’t even bothered to check the Wi-Fi. Maybe she was one of those people who actually enjoyed being offline, relishing in the digital detox as if it were some form of enlightenment. The nerve.

Meanwhile, I was a man on the edge, crumbling under the weight of unrealized expectations and technological failure. The disparity between us was too great. I could never explain my suffering to someone who willingly chose to remain disconnected. It would be like explaining color to a person who had only ever seen in grayscale.

She gave me a sleepy half-smile, probably mistaking my agitated demeanor for some kind of nervousness about flying. She had no idea. No idea of the depth of my existential crisis, the dark and winding corridors my mind had begun to traverse.

I turned my attention back to the screen. There, frozen in time, was the last thing I had managed to load before the Wi-Fi betrayed me: an article on the rise of minimalist Scandinavian home decor trends. It wasn’t even a good article, just one of those fluff pieces designed to fill space between actual content. And yet, I found myself scrolling it mindlessly, over and over, the pictures of perfectly arranged neutral-tone living rooms becoming increasingly absurd to me. Why did these people need so many throw pillows? Who actually lived in these pristine, monochrome homes? It was all a conspiracy, wasn’t it? A way to sell us more things we didn’t need while tricking us into thinking we were simplifying our lives.

The irony was too much. Here I was, a victim of my own digital addiction, trapped in a flying metal tube, frantically searching for Wi-Fi while reading an article about the virtues of simplicity. A simpler time, where people didn't rely on in-flight internet to maintain their sanity. The hypocrisy of it all stung like a fresh slap to the face. The article’s advice—“Declutter your space, declutter your mind”—seemed like a sick joke at this point. If anything, I needed more clutter, more noise, more digital distractions to keep me from completely losing it.

I stared blankly at the words on the screen, my mind spiraling deeper into a vortex of frustration and despair. Was this how it all ended? Not with a grand revelation, but with a buffering symbol, spinning endlessly in the corner of my screen, taunting me with its unfulfilled promise of connectivity? Was I doomed to spend the next five hours in this purgatory, cut off from the world, my social media notifications piling up like unanswered voicemails from the digital underworld?

I could see it now: my life post-flight, ruined by this one tragic experience. I'd step off the plane, disoriented and disconnected, fumbling to catch up on messages and emails like a man re-entering society after years in isolation. People would talk about things I hadn't seen, share memes I hadn't laughed at, discuss breaking news I hadn’t had the chance to form an opinion on. I would be out of sync, behind the curve—a relic from the pre-landing era. My entire social standing would be shattered, my once-pristine digital presence reduced to rubble.

No. I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't go down without a fight.

I leaned forward again, fingers trembling as I attempted to restart the in-flight Wi-Fi system. My vision tunneled. The seatbelt sign dinged on. The plane was preparing to descend, but in my mind, I was still hurtling upwards, deeper into madness. I tapped furiously, as if the sheer velocity of my actions would force the universe to respond. Spinning, spinning, spinning. The wheel kept mocking me. And then, just as I felt I was about to slip into full-blown hysteria, a faint signal.

It was back.

Philosophical Reflection

As the faint signal flickered on my screen, an unexpected stillness crept over me. For a brief moment, the spinning wheel halted, and my screen gave a tentative shudder as if it, too, had reached its limit. And there it was: a single email, lonely and pixelated, but a sign of life nonetheless. The message, from my boss, was predictably underwhelming: “Just checking in—no rush.”

No rush. Two words that should have brought me relief, and yet, at this altitude, after what I’d been through, it only deepened my sense of existential despair. I had become a slave to this endless loop of connection and disconnection, chasing fleeting signals like a madman in search of the Holy Grail. But for what? To read an email that could have waited? To be reminded that, at the end of it all, no one was waiting for my urgent reply with bated breath? Was this the pinnacle of modern existence? Hurtling through the sky, obsessing over Wi-Fi that I didn't really need, only to receive validation that was utterly meaningless?

I reclined back, suddenly overcome by a strange, weary clarity. Here I was, flying at 42,000 feet above the earth, nestled safely in a mechanical marvel that had more technology in its autopilot system than the Apollo missions to the moon. I was a speck in the sky, a tiny human being in the vast, unfeeling expanse of the troposphere, yet I had somehow convinced myself that accessing Instagram DMs and responding to Slack threads was an essential task worthy of my complete mental breakdown. Had I always been this way? Or had modernity slowly, imperceptibly warped my priorities to the point where buffering was my greatest enemy?

The reflection came slowly at first, then all at once. I was no different than the passengers beside me—no better, no worse. The woman in 11C, sleeping peacefully, was wise beyond her years. She had transcended the need for constant digital validation. Perhaps she had learned, long ago, that nothing good comes from trying to wrangle Wi-Fi at 42,000 feet. I looked around at the other passengers again with new eyes. The old man quietly reading his paperback? A scholar. The woman watching an in-flight movie from 2015? A sage. Even the child with the iPad, though he was undoubtedly doing something ridiculous like playing Minecraft in airplane mode, was enlightened by his ability to create his own digital world without the need for constant connection.

And yet, there I was, still clutching my phone, my mind clouded by the demands of a digital age. I had become a caricature of myself, a man in the thrall of 21st-century conveniences that, in the grand scheme of things, meant very little. I was at 42,000 feet—closer to the heavens than any of my ancestors—and yet I was worried about a network that, let’s be honest, had no obligation to be functioning up here in the first place. The absurdity of it hit me like a gut punch. We, as a species, had created the ability to fly at the speed of sound, break the barriers of distance, and yet I—we—were never satisfied. We could always find something to complain about. A slow network. A lukewarm coffee. A seat that reclined too far or not enough.

How had we become so ungrateful? Wasn’t it miraculous that we could even attempt to connect to the internet while moving across continents at 600 miles per hour? Did anyone in the early days of air travel sit in their little propeller planes, marveling at their ability to cross vast oceans, only to complain that they couldn’t send a fax? Probably not. Those were simpler times, where the wonder of flight alone was enough.

I took a deep breath, slowly closing my phone, folding it like a prayer book. Maybe it was time to find peace in the simpler things. Maybe the secret to modern happiness was accepting that not everything needed to be instant, that not every message required a prompt reply, and that not every social media feed had to be checked from the sky. After all, once we landed, the internet would be waiting for me. It always was. It always would be.

Epiphany, or Is It?

With the plane now beginning its gradual descent, the clouds parted below, revealing the distant specks of cities, towns, and rivers, weaving together a landscape of life that had been largely invisible for the last few hours. I watched the scenery unfold, wondering if maybe this was what I had been missing. The quiet beauty of simply being present, in the moment, instead of constantly trying to escape into the digital ether.

I felt a sense of calm begin to take over. Maybe this was the answer—to let go, to embrace the limitations, to accept the gift of disconnection as a rare opportunity for peace. Yes, I thought, maybe this was my true epiphany. The slow Wi-Fi wasn’t a curse; it was a blessing in disguise. It was the universe’s way of telling me to stop, to breathe, to recognize the majesty of flying across the world without needing to prove my existence with every passing notification.

I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes, imagining what life could be like if I maintained this newfound sense of perspective. I could walk off the plane with a clear head, spend my next few hours reading an actual book, maybe even meditating on the meaning of it all. I could reclaim the lost art of patience, rediscover the simple joy of being unreachable for a few hours.

But just as I was about to fully embrace this inner tranquility, I felt a vibration in my pocket. My phone lit up. The screen, once so unreliable, now gleamed with a new message. And not just any message—an Instagram notification.

I hesitated. Surely, I had just promised myself that I would transcend this need for digital connection. But then again… What harm could one little peek do? After all, if someone had tagged me in something, maybe it was important. Maybe I needed to see it, if only for a moment. You know, just to stay in the loop.

Before I knew it, I had unlocked my phone. There it was—a new post, a new comment, a new thread that demanded my attention. And just like that, I was pulled back in, back into the endless whirlpool of notifications, messages, and the dopamine-driven rush of modern life.

As the plane landed with a gentle bump and the wheels screeched against the tarmac, I laughed quietly to myself. So much for enlightenment.

I guess there are some things you can’t escape, even at 42,000 feet.

With the plane now taxiing to the gate, the seatbelt signs flickered off, and passengers began to stand, collecting their bags, stretching their legs, and checking their phones. I joined them, the spell of philosophical reflection broken by the ding of a fully connected phone. My Wi-Fi, at last, was working perfectly.

As I stepped off the plane, back into the world of endless Wi-Fi, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was it really so bad to crave connection, even if it drove me mad? Or had I, in some strange, absurd way, found my place in the chaotic, wonderful, tech-dependent world?

Either way, one thing was certain: I needed to reply to my emails.

Written by Dan van Moll | Narrated by Chris Costner
For more rants check out CrankyDan.com

Let’s start with politics, where the main attraction is less a debate of ideas and more an episode of *Wipeout*. It’s a place where, somehow, shouting at each other on Twitter passes for discourse, and legislation seems to be made via the world’s least funny improv session. Both parties have become like those relatives at Thanksgiving—one drunk on the Kool-Aid of capitalism, the other yelling through a mouthful of stuffing about equity, and neither is capable of discussing dessert without a fight breaking out over how much sugar is too much sugar.

We’ve got politicians who still believe climate change is a hoax. (I’m sorry, are you sweating in December? Yeah, me too.) Meanwhile, the rest of us are drowning in student debt, praying that avocado toast isn’t what’s keeping us from owning a house. The system is rigged, but hey, at least we’re given the illusion of choice between two senile men who think TikTok is something your grandfather’s pacemaker does when it’s running low on batteries.

But perhaps the most mind-boggling thing is that, in the midst of this slow-motion car crash of governance, many Americans seem to have happily traded in their thinking caps for a shiny new conspiracy theory. We live in a time where people will refuse to get vaccinated but will absolutely take medical advice from someone on Facebook whose avatar is a picture of a golden retriever. Apparently, some folks are now using “research” as a euphemism for “I saw a meme about it once.”

And don’t even get me started on the whole “personal freedom” argument. There is a certain subset of Americans who seem to believe that freedom means having the right to make their neighbors miserable. A mask mandate? “Government tyranny!” Seatbelts? “I’ll die like a true patriot!” Don’t ask them to recycle; they’re too busy Googling how fluoride in the water is turning frogs into socialists.

Of course, convenience has also played a role in the lobotomy of the American public. It’s become shockingly easy to order things online without thinking. Why bother going to a store and interacting with another human when you can simply bark orders at Alexa, like some kind of entitled Roman emperor? Amazon Prime has essentially become a new religion. There are people who genuinely seem to believe that two-day shipping is a human right. Who needs patience or planning when you can have an inflatable hot tub at your door in 48 hours?

And let’s talk about the way our brains have been rewired by tech. There’s no need to remember anything anymore—our phones will do it for us. How many phone numbers do you know by heart? What day is it? Does it even matter when time is a flat circle that you can scroll past on your news feed? We're all just data junkies, our dopamine hits coming in the form of likes, retweets, and that sweet, sweet feeling when the UPS guy finally delivers the standing desk you ordered while working from your couch.

The dumbing down of America is no accident, of course. The more distracted we are by TikTok dance trends and debates about pineapple on pizza, the less likely we are to notice the money being funneled out of our paychecks into the bottomless pockets of billionaires. We’re like magpies, dazzled by the shiny objects dangled in front of us—look! A celebrity meltdown! A new iPhone! Meanwhile, the rich are busy building rocket ships to escape to Mars, leaving the rest of us to fight over the last can of LaCroix.

But perhaps this is all by design. A population more concerned with canceling people over decade-old tweets than with holding anyone accountable for actual governance is easier to control. Why would we question the powers that be when we’re too busy debating whether or not we need to cut back on gluten?

In the end, the great American experiment seems to have devolved into a bizarre reality show, where logic and reason are voted off the island in favor of sound bites and hot takes. We’ve become a nation of convenience, where thinking critically is as obsolete as the fax machine, and every problem can be solved with a new app or a strongly worded comment section diatribe.

So here we are, America: fat, happy, and mildly infuriated, scrolling endlessly on our phones while the world burns around us. We may be brain-dead, but at least we have free two-day shipping.

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It’s an obsession that’s long been documented, from the now-infamous inaugural crowd size dispute—where the White House press secretary was forced to make the ludicrous claim that Trump’s inauguration crowd was the “largest in history”—to every subsequent rally in every obscure corner of America. There’s a deep, primal need for Trump to have the biggest crowd, and by “biggest,” we mean a crowd so immense it defies the laws of physics, like trying to stuff the entire state of Texas into a Costco parking lot.

But Trump’s obsession with crowd sizes is not just a quirk. It’s a religion. There’s no end to the sermon about the throngs of people who flock to bask in the glow of his orange-hued aura. This, after all, is a man who famously told his supporters during the 2016 campaign: “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters.” A bold claim, yes, but also an astounding one when you consider that the image of a bullet-riddled bystander doesn’t even phase his followers, who are more focused on ensuring that they, too, are part of the *biggest* crowd Fifth Avenue has ever seen.

The longer his tie, the bigger his lie.

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The moment Trump steps onto that stage—be it in Tulsa or some forgotten middle-of-nowhere cornfield in Iowa—his internal calculator starts whirring. “Thousands and thousands,” he’ll say, waving a hand vaguely over the crowd as if there’s a sea of humanity stretching all the way to the horizon. Never mind that the press photos might show some gaps big enough to hold a few NFL stadiums. Trump has already decided: this is *the* event. The biggest. Historic. Tremendous. A crowd so immense that you’ll be talking about it for generations, passing the tale down to your grandchildren as if it were Woodstock. Just... with fewer good vibes and a lot more red hats.

Of course, his need to out-crowd himself comes at a cost. Poor aides must scramble to find venues, sometimes squeezing into undersized airport hangars or oversized fields, because Trump’s rallies aren’t about convenience—they’re about mythology. These venues become his Colosseum, the rallygoers his adoring gladiators, and above it all, he stands like some orange-crowned Caesar demanding we measure his greatness not by trivial matters like political achievements but by the simple headcount of who showed up. If a venue can only hold 10,000 people? Fear not. For in the great numerical fantasy land of Trump’s mind, that venue will always have 50,000, no, make it 100,000. And throw in a few more zeros for good luck.

And therein lies the genius (or madness) of it all. Trump knows the true key to immortality isn’t policy or public service—it’s spectacle. Why fret over something as tedious as a COVID response or foreign policy when you can conjure an army of adoring fans with a wave of your hand? So what if those fans don’t really exist, or if they happened to be home watching reruns of *The Apprentice* instead of standing in a packed arena? Numbers are elastic in Trumpworld. Who’s to say what reality even is anymore?

As he looks out over his not-so-gargantuan sea of supporters, you can almost imagine Trump envisioning them as stars in the night sky: countless, unquantifiable, and twinkling just for him. And even if reality—pesky, tedious reality—says otherwise, the legend of Trump's never-ending crowds will continue to grow. Every rally will be the biggest, most “unbelievable” turnout ever seen. And in the end, that’s all that really matters: the illusion of size, the fantasy of grandeur.

And who are we to argue with that? After all, he’s only measuring his worth the way we all do in the digital age—by metrics, likes, and retweets. Except, instead of Instagram followers, he’s counting flesh-and-blood bodies, and instead of “influencer,” he prefers the title of “the most tremendous crowd magnet of all time.” So let the numbers roll in. Let the spreadsheets overflow with imaginary masses. Because if there’s one thing Trump has made crystal clear, it’s this: a crowd, like truth, is whatever you want it to be.

And Trump’s obsession with size doesn’t stop at the magnitude of his crowds—it extends right down to the very length of his tie. The longer, the better, in true Trumpian fashion. Much like his rallies and crowd estimates, his ties are another symbol of overcompensation, designed to stretch the truth as far as the fabric will allow. The classic Trump tie, notoriously long and often dangling well past his belt line, is more than just a questionable fashion choice; it’s a statement. In Trump’s world, bigger is always better, and what better way to signal that than with a tie that seems to defy traditional proportions?

In many ways, the tie acts as a metaphor for his entire persona: an outward symbol of excess, of never settling for anything less than the most. It’s no secret that Trump views life through a lens of grandiosity, and his tie reflects that same ethos. Where other men would wear a tie to complement an outfit, Trump’s tie practically demands to be the centerpiece, a beacon of his philosophy of bigger, louder, and longer. Just as his speeches and claims stretch reality, his ties stretch down his torso, creating a physical manifestation of his fixation on size.

But the tie’s length also speaks to a deeper insecurity, much like his endless boasts about the number of people who attend his rallies. It’s as if the tie, like the crowds, must be longer, must exceed expectations, because anything less would signal weakness, a chink in the armor of his image. The length of his tie mirrors the inflation of his crowd numbers—a visual reinforcement of the idea that Trump needs to be seen as larger-than-life, towering above any and all competition.

At the core of it, Trump’s obsession with size, whether in crowds or ties, serves the same purpose: it’s about power, control, and projecting an image of dominance. He can’t afford to be average, so everything—every number, every piece of clothing—must be exaggerated, elongated, made to feel more significant than it really is. Just like the packed arenas he imagines, Trump’s extra-long ties are part of the spectacle, an extension of the myth that bigger always means better.

To be totally honest, I hate flying—or rather, I hate being flown. That's the crux of my particular strain of aerophobia, which I’ve lovingly dubbed “acute mistrust.”

Some random person I don’t know—who’s undoubtedly just as exhausted as I am at this ungodly hour—is about 8 meters away from me, quite literally controlling my life. And all I know about this person is their name. Why? So I can break the news to his mother when he screws up? If I were flying the plane, that’d be a whole different story. But the closest I’ve ever come to piloting anything is crashing a Learjet into the ocean—on my laptop, in Microsoft Flight Simulator, a game that promises would-be pilots they’ll “soar through the skies.” Sure.

Notice how I’m avoiding the topic? Maybe it’s because I’ve realized that writing this is basically free therapy. My coffee is wobbling a little in its cup, likely due to the turbulence shaking the entire plane. Nothing to worry about. Except the flight attendants have vanished to their seats in seconds, which—again—apparently isn’t cause for concern.

The very thought that I’m floating 36,000 feet—nearly 12 kilometers, which is twice as far as my morning commute—above anything that could stop me from plummeting back to Earth makes me… a bit uneasy. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not the kind of guy who grabs a passing stewardess with a sweaty, crazed grip and begs for Valium. But I’ve never quite gotten used to the whole “let’s put our lives in the hands of a stranger and hope for the best” scenario.

The irony? I used to *love* flying as a kid. Sitting by the window was a dream come true. Now, I’d die a slow, painful death before even glancing out one of those tiny windows. You know the ones—the kind that look like they might pop out any minute, sucking us into the sky like in every disaster movie ever made. Speaking of which, disaster movies are probably why I have trust issues with pilots. Take *Cast Away* for instance—Tom Hanks survives the crash, sure, but the next several years he spends as a disheveled, volleyball-befriending Robinson Crusoe kind of ruin the whole “surviving” part for me. These days, anything more than 10 meters off the ground makes me nervous.

51 minutes in.

So far, no crash. The flight attendants are back, rolling their little beverage carts down the aisle. Now, if you’re an aisle-seater like me, you know the real danger isn’t turbulence—it’s dozing off only to have your arm crushed by one of those mini-bars. It’s a special kind of pain, waking up because your pinky got smashed by a coffee cart.

“No breakfast for me, thanks,” I tell the attendant, who looks at me like I just confessed to a major crime. “No breakfast?” she repeats, as if checking that I’m truly committed to this life-altering decision. Did I mention it’s barely 7 a.m.? Even the idea of eating breakfast, let alone the sad, mass-produced excuse for food they serve on planes, feels like a distant fantasy. Nepal to Chicago distant. But I’ll take coffee, thanks—and, in a thrilling plot twist, I’m asked if I want a cold beverage to go with it. Unbelievable! For once, I don’t feel like a national moocher for politely begging the airline for a sip of water.

74 minutes in.

The overhead TV is playing some old Disney cartoons—naturally, without sound. And no, I’m not going to buy those awful in-flight headphones. I’ve already got a collection of them at home, and nobody in the history of flying has ever reused their in-flight headphones. No one.

Meanwhile, my nasal passages are being dried to the consistency of the Sahara Desert by the vent above me, which hisses just enough to remind me it’s working. My seatmate is restless, probably gearing up to ask me to get up so he can enjoy the luxurious facilities that are the airplane bathroom.

I’ve just done the uncoolest thing a frequent flyer can do: I glanced at the safety card. Have you noticed how the people on those emergency diagrams always look like they’re commuting to work on the subway? Their expressions are so dead, “apathetic” seems too emotional a description. Let’s be real—if this plane nosedives, I’m not crawling down the aisle with a calm, blank face like it’s another Tuesday. Also, why do we get life vests under every seat but not a single parachute onboard? Is that some kind of weird nautical tradition? And what good is a life vest going to do me on a flight from Hamburg to Munich? Will it save me from drowning in one of Germany’s famous inland seas?

97 minutes in.

The passenger in front of me has discovered the recline button and, predictably, immediately used it. All the way back, of course. I get it, you paid good money for this flight, so you want to be comfy. Guess I’ll just give up my legroom for the remainder of this journey. No big deal.

My seatmate returns, looking victorious. We execute the awkward seat shuffle with all the grace of synchronized hippos. And now, a flight attendant hands out chocolate—finally, something that makes sense. Just as I’m losing hope, I hear the sound of the seatbelt sign pinging on. Thank God, we’re not about to plunge into the ocean or anything. It’s just that magical moment when the plane starts descending and the flight is almost over.

Thank you, Peter Schuster—our pilot. I made sure to remember his name, just in case I survive and need to find his mom.

This is what I came up with by feeding MidJourney with the following prompt:

"Artistic portrait of <celebrity name> at the age of <age>. Photorealistic, photographed on a Fuji vintage camera with open aperture. Black background. looking into the camera."

Hover the images below to show the celebrity's name and age if they would live today.

Watch this for even more AI-reanimated celebrities:

"The Macintosh SE/30 embodies the same "user-friendly" philosophy as the original Macintosh, while providing more memory, faster performance, and greater expandibility. The Macintosh is still easy to learn, and now it's more powerful than ever." (Macintosh Owner's Guide, 1989)

Now - pretty much 33 years after being released on January 19th in 1989 - I'm sitting in front of this beautiful chunk of plastic (while other vintage Macs tend to turn yellow mine remains almost pristine gray-white'ish). The SE and SE/30 were designed by Frog Design, a design agency used by Apple from 1984 to 1990. Hartmut Esslinger created the Snow White design language, used across Apple's product range during this period. Apple spent the latter part of the 90s attempting to move on from the Snow White design language.

Flipping the power switch responds with a mechanical "clunk" - a sound people born in the 90s or later can hardly imagine. You can feel the power running through the Macintosh before its display comes to life flickering. Everything about the Macintosh feels clunky and loud. It is a dinosaur, a behemoth from "back then". And everything about it has a charm no modern tech will ever have. People tend to think that our modern tech will receive the same aura 30+ years from now - believe me, it won't. I am actually typing these lines on the original Macintosh keyboard - each key-stroke takes some effort and it feels really exhausting in the beginning - like writing on a typewriter. But the sound and mechanical feedback is so rewarding - I am instantly falling in love with the Macintosh (again). The Macintosh SE/30 is not only a 30+ years old home computer it is a remnant of a whole era I am thankful to have lived in. Everything took long back then. Booting up the operating system (especially from a disk) took minutes! People would think twice before shutting it down because booting it up again would cost time.

But why are so many people nowadays seeking refuge in memories from the very first days of home-computing? Why are people like me investing money and time on a plastic cube which lacks all technical standards modern-time computers have? The SE/30 I am typing this on is not even connected to the internet means I am using an external floppy USB-drive to exchange files. And because the drive would not be supported on my M1-Mac I am using an old 2002 iBook to relay files between my very first and latest Mac. One of the reasons why people may be drawn to vintage computers is the nostalgia they evoke. These machines can remind us of our own childhood and the early days of home computing. For example, using a Macintosh SE/30 as an 11-year-old and experiencing the novelty of using a mouse for the first time. It is a reminder of a time when technology was less commonplace and new experiences were exciting. The simplicity of using a mouse to move a cursor on a screen, which is now second nature, was once an amazing discovery which required introduction by my dad. Perhaps these computers are also a reminder of how ephemeral we are. After all, it's not uncommon for people to cling more and more to things that surrounded them during their childhood and adolescence. I would have run out of the room screaming at the thought of watching old commercials from decades past. Today these old videos elicit a pleasant sigh from me.

I believe that the attraction to vintage computers and software is rooted in their simplicity and accessibility. It was relatively easy to learn how to program on a Sinclair Spectrum, as the knowledge required was manageable. This simplicity also extended to the industrial and commercial sectors, where software and peripheral devices may have been more complex but still functioned within a well-documented and stable environment. In the pre-internet era, comprehensive manuals were provided with mini-computers, and if additional information was needed, one could contact the designers directly.

The resurgence of interest in nostalgic technology, such as vinyl records and instant cameras, has demonstrated a strong desire for vintage technology. Personal computers are no exception. As personal computing reaches its middle age, some people are drawn to revisiting the early days of the technology by restoring and using machines like the iconic Commodore PET from the 1970s. A fascination with early computing equipment and software however is hardly a new thing, but retro-computing seems to be undergoing a real renaissance these days. There are various resources available, such as publications, online marketplaces, and physical stores catering to the demand. Many enthusiasts are restoring and repurposing old devices, as well as emulating or integrating them with newer technology. Examples include using a Raspberry Pi to enhance a Commodore Vic 20. Additionally, there are communities dedicated to playing vintage video games and using "wayback" word processing software.

And? Also infected with Nostalgia? A good point to deep-dive into this would be Retro Battlestations on Reddit and Tinker Different a vintage community focusing on Apple computers.

The 80s was a time of great cultural significance, with a plethora of iconic movies, music, and video games that continue to captivate audiences to this day. From the advent of the personal computer to the rise of synth-pop, the 80s were a time of great innovation and creativity. In the realm of cinema, the 80s saw the release of numerous now-classic films. From the epic space opera of Star Wars and the time-traveling adventures of Back to the Future, to the dystopian future of Blade Runner and the coming-of-age tale of The Breakfast Club, the 80s were a golden age of storytelling. And let's not forget the horror genre, which was dominated by the likes of A Nightmare on Elm Street, The Evil Dead, and Friday the 13th.

The 80s were also a time of great musical innovation, with the emergence of new genres like synth-pop and hip hop. Bands like Depeche Mode, The Smiths, and New Order took the world by storm with their catchy melodies and electronic beats, while artists like Run-DMC, LL Cool J, and Public Enemy helped pave the way for the rise of hip hop. The 80s also saw the rise of the music video, with iconic clips like Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" becoming instant classics.

And of course they were a time of great technological advancement, with the personal computer revolutionizing the way we live and work. The first Apple Macintosh was released in 1984, and the advent of the World Wide Web in 1989 laid the groundwork for the internet as we know it today.

But perhaps the most enduring legacy of the 80s is the explosion of video games. The release of the Atari 2600 in 1977 kicked off the golden age of arcade gaming, and by the 80s, the industry was booming. Games like Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, and Space Invaders became cultural phenomena, while the emergence of home consoles like the Commodore 64 and the Nintendo Entertainment System brought gaming into the living room.

Growing up in the 80s, I was surrounded by the magic of Lucasfilm. The first time I played Maniac Mansion on my Commodore 64, I was hooked. The clever puzzles, the quirky characters, and the hilarious dialogue – it was like nothing I had ever seen before. And when I discovered Zak McKracken and the Alien Mindbenders, I was equally enthralled. The interdimensional travel, the ancient alien artifacts – it was the stuff of pure geeky bliss.

All in all, the 80s were a time of great fascination and nostalgia for many people. From the epic sci-fi movies to the catchy synth-pop tunes, the 80s were a truly unique and unforgettable decade. And with the continued popularity of retro gaming and the resurgence of 80s-inspired music and fashion, it's clear that the fascination with the 80s will never truly fade.

As a geek dad, I am grateful to have grown up in the 80s, surrounded by the amazing creations of Lucasfilm and the talents of Spielberg and Lucas. And now, as I share these beloved adventures with my own kid, I am constantly reminded of the timeless appeal of the 80s and the power of imagination. Long live the geeky goodness of the 80s!

I'm putting another resolution into action right now with brave keystrokes: I'm blogging again. I can't really say why I chose Substack. I've had blogs on Medium, an old one on WordPress, and even on my own website. But somehow, most people whose articles I'm interested in seem to hang out on Substack anyway, and maybe I just want to "fit in."

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Perhaps this resolution also has something to do with a new chapter in my life. I quit my job as a producer in the newsroom of a major cable network and am starting these days as an executive producer at Axel Springer, where I'll be heading the Wars and Conflicts depart

ment. It might sound like a pretty dark subject at first glance, but it's actually not far from my background. As a photojournalist, I documented major crises and armed conflicts worldwide between 2014 and 2018. From the annexation of Crimea by Russia to the revolution in Cairo or the Gaza war in 2014. Eventually, I hung up the life of living out of a suitcase between trenches and check-ins for the sake of my family. I'm excited to be able to take over the editorial leadership of the department from my office in Munich.

And now we're already getting into the topics that the avid reader can expect in this blog. I edit all the posts myself, including After Effects and Color Correction. Video and image editing on Macs are some of the subjects I'll be writing about here. But also, workflow and home office optimizations; after all, I'm quite a stickler when it comes to the perfect workspace or maximizing process efficiency. You wouldn't believe how many apps on this topic were installed on my various devices. Getting Things Done – I love it!

However, technical excursions into the world of multimedia production will surely also give the usual suspects like Trump and Musk a run for their money here and there. Simply because I want to be able to say, at least in retrospect, that I was part of the resistance back then. And as a proud Geek Dad, many of my interests revolve around nerd topics, so there will be plenty of that too.

As Bill Watterson once said, "God put me on this earth to accomplish a certain number of things. Right now, I am so far behind that I will never die," and he was probably right.