Less Than Angels

Bryan Johnson has this theory about long-distance air travel. It is designed to kill you. Think about it: When you fly overseas, what happens? Almost as soon as you sit down, you are offered an alcoholic drink. Then, right after takeoff, you are given a hot meal, that thick salty airplane sludge intended only to be enjoyed at thirty thousand feet. And this is just the beginning. All throughout your journey, as you fly across time zones and high cirrus and deep night, your face is blasted with zombifying blue light blaring forth from the headrest movie screens. By the time you reach your destination, you are a wreck. You haven’t slept, and your body is pumped full of substances which ensure that when you finally do collapse, you won’t rest—your circadian rhythm is out of whack. Unless you are taking an extended trip, you won’t even have time to recuperate before doing it all over again on the return journey. You feel like death because you are an agent of death. And you know that with each assault on your body you bring it closer to the final end.