Journey to Phoenix
The guy beside me on the plane was interesting. He was at the all star game in Ottawa, at centre ice no less, outfitted in spiked shoes because he was thoroughly un-used to winter sports. He was photographing the crowd for ticketmaster, that is the entire crowd, three hundred and sixty degrees, every single person pictured in panoramic shots. Four rows included in about seventy two shots per swivelling circumnavigation of the arena. Resolution? About twenty two million pixels. Then he did the TFC game against the Galaxy, which featured David Beckham's beer-dodging corner-kick to tie.
Cool job, don'tcha think? Cannily adding value to events in this narcissistic digital age. Now we have the ability to build up a portfolio of images of ourselves watching other people we have paid to watch perform. Not only that but a visit to nhl.com confirms that we can inflict said images on our friends via twitter etc. A frightening thought as a brief scan of the attendees at the Middle of Nowhere Arena in Ottawa reveals legions of pasty faced drones wearing over-priced corporate jerseys. 'Cheering for laundry' as Seinfeld brilliantly put it. Progress marches on.
Our flight towards Phoenix was matchlessly turbulent. The pilot, sounding as if he had litre or two of Starbucks sloshing uncomfortably about in his lower latitudes, repeatedly came on to inform us which altitude we were going to try next to avoid the hundred and fifty mile an hour headwinds we were bucking. Finally, somewhere over Kansas, well above the wicked witch's pointy hat, we found blessed calm at 26,000 feet. As we descended for our landing, I looked out the window and beheld geography quite reminiscent of the Valley of Mordor.