Rant of the moment: hot gay boys & American Airlines, seat 30F

So, first and foremost: I am not a fattie... but gauging by American Airlines seat 30F, I absolutely am. After several days of having hot boys reject me (so gay), it was an even greater blow to the ego. The only point of redemption is knowing wholeheartedly that American Airlines apparently makes its planes in Taiwan.

Seat 30F on my flight from San Francisco to Dallas/Fort Worth was equipped with a seat belt I could not buckle... not due to any malfunction of that dull pewter buckle, but because it would not fit low and tight around my hips. It would not, in fact, fit at all.

I was mortified. Considering I was on four different airplanes - three American, one Alaskan (since when are they partners?) - and I was not only able to buckle my seat belt low but tighten the slack, I'm pretty certain it's not me. In my four days in San Francisco, I'm certain I didn't gorge myself to the point of being unable to fit into a standard airplane seat. But if I had, why were things just peachy on the second leg of my trip, from DFW to Austin?

No, I'm quite sure now that American Airlines makes those final few seatbelts -way back in the back of the plane, but the rear galley and the oh-so-tiny shoebox they call a lavatory - out of dental floss and the shoestrings of young Thai boys. There is no other excuse. I now know never never to purchase a ticket higher than 24A. Bastards.

And speaking of bastards, that's pretty much what San Francisco is full of. I mean that, of course, in the best possible way. A plethora of hot, hot men reside in that city by the bay, but I'm quite certain after spending some time there that I would, at some point or another, call them all bastards... not because I want to, of course, but because I've no choice. None of them want me -- not a one. I'm used to a measure of personal rejection in my life, and that's all well and good; it's silly to think I would be every man's cup of sweat chai tea. But the latest census puts the number of gay men in San Francisco at somewhere around 80 bajillion... that's a scientific number.

Eighty bajillion dudes who would rather make seat belts for American Airlines than see me naked. Eighty bajillion guys who I can summarily dismiss from the dating pool. Without them, there are about 16 straight dudes left -- 10 of them are married, two are deployed to Iraq and four have internet girlfriends they are making plans to meet.

I took this poll myself, so I know the numbers are good.

Anyway, that leaves me with two options: procuring a socially awkward sack of skin from one of San Jose's many technology companies and convincing myself for the rest of my life that physical attaction isn't so important (and that I really do love Neil Gaiman and Star Wars); going les or whiling away the years in the abandoned woodworking shop at Alcatraz.