With four redeye flights under my belt since last week, I've come to a realization: time stands still on a night flight. If I only had 24 hours to live, I would book passage on a transcontinental night flight so it would seem like forever.

By not taking my own advice and booking in advance, I will see this exercise in travel torture as a lesson to be learned. What struck me (in addition to other people's unwieldy carry-on luggage) was the comatose state of both passengers and airline staff alike after the sun set.

I really tried to be empathetic, but on four separate legs I encountered (and try to avoid) pods of hapless folks in hibernative states. Flight crews were no exception. I marveled (and paid a price) for the moxie of one disinterested flight attendant. When I asked for coffee, she explained to me that they were not serving hot drinks because the flight deck expected turbulence. Oddly, the 5-hour flight was so smooth I could have performed Lasik eye surgery on my tray table to the passenger in 16B. I guess it's true; flight attendants are there primarily for our safety.

With the shroud of darkness came the dissolution of good taste and decorum. The cabin became a freshman dorm room, a mosh pit of sweat suits, flip-flops, pillows and electronic devices. It was a place where even the word "splayed" came to rest.

As a man who would find no need for a sweater on an ice flow, I was ready to storm the cockpit to commandeer the thermostat. Rivulets of perspiration transformed my pressed linen shirt into beachwear as I pleaded with the flight attendant to lower the cabin temperature at least a few degrees. She replied, "Everyone else seems comfortable."

At that moment I learned the word "comfortable" was a relative term and that Nurse Ratched had found a second career.