Flying Coach

Wake up in Columbus, Ohio. Go to bed in Seattle, Washington. Somewhere in the middle occurs a plane ride.

Leg two of the itinerary has me clumped in an aisle seat from Chicago's O'Hare to Sea-Tac. Moments prior to boarding a slight headache worms its way into my eye sockets.

A very nice elderly couple sit next to me. He grabs the window seat. She slinks into the middle. "Are we going to Seattle?" I can't tell if she's asking me or him. I look at him. He says, "Yes, we should be."

"Oh, good. I was hoping so."

Jump ahead two minutes. "Where are we going? Is it Seattle?" I'm no expert, but I'm sensing Alzheimer's. Poor dear.

Every word the nasally flight attendant screeches into the way too loud PA system tugs at my ocular nerves through my ear drums. And she blathers a tome's worth.

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

So, taxi, slow, stop, speed up, airborne. Things are happening, I'm headed home.

One row ahead of me and across the aisle sits a young mother with two young sons. One boy must be three. The other boy is maybe 13 months. The toddler is cool as a Pacific breeze. The baby screams hot holy murder the entire flight.

The Entire Flight.

Ear buds in, volume up. Which will strengthen a headache faster, blaring Mogwai or Hollering Asshole Baby? Let's experiment.

So I'm content with the music, only halfway dampening the screaming, but dampen it does. I Love You, I'm Going To Blow Up Your School, one of my favorite tracks on the album, is just reaching its meat. Sharp fingernails dig into my ear and remove the bud from it. That lady just pulled out my ear bud. Seriously.

"What?"

"We're getting a call!"

"What?!"

"We're getting a call."

I consult her husband. He pulls out his cell phone and puts it to his ear. "Hello? Hello? Oh, I think it's off. No. Nobody's calling us, dear." We're thirty-two thousand feet in the air, mind you.

And... Ear bud in.

Headache digs sporks into my retinas at this juncture. The album ends, and I deem the pressure on my ears to be intolerable. Let's just read some Chuck Palahniuk. Not an easy task while that bastard up and over squeals horror.

"Are we going to Seattle?"

"Yes."

"I hope it's snowing. I want to go skiing."

Now she wants to get up to use the restroom. Fair enough. Upon her return she delights in telling both her husband and me that while back there she ordered a cup of black coffee, because she wants a cup of black coffee, black. Also, "Are we going to Seattle?" This is where I pinch the throbbing bridge of my nose with index finger and thumb.

Coffee arrives. She's happy. We're going to Seattle, she wants to ski, and she has a black coffee, black. Oh, and she also has a muscle spasm.

I'm wearing her black coffee, black in my blue jean, blue lap. Remember that baby? Yep. Screaming. Quick time check. Two hours to go. Fucking seriously?

The flight attendant asks my neighbor if she'd like another cup of coffee. Naturally. She has the humor to ask me, "Would you like to wear anything else?" It was funny, but I wasn't in the mood. I smile nonetheless, and decline a beverage. I did not wear the second cup of coffee, fortunately. The husband made her place it on his tray.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. That little shithead baby kept screaming. The lady next to me asked if we were going to Seattle a couple more times. My headache deepened, sharpened, and nauseated.

Yesterday was a hangover subtracting the fun of being drunk.

Los Angeles

L.A. grins wide, but its eyes deceive. Botox paralysis. There's a beauty inherent in the region, but the personality spins upon facade. Los Angeles cracks your rib while kissing your cheek. It chokes you with promise. And it lulls you with snapshot burger stands called, "Roger's Famous Grill," or, "Wanda Burger, Home of Wanda's Juicy Flipper."

Everybody hates you in L.A. Unless you are useful to them, then they just adore you. Until you are no longer useful to them, then they hate you again. People hang around to be scene/not seen.

"Look at me. Look at me. Look at me... What the fuck are you looking at?"

Sweet, bipolar Los Angeles. Stay smoggy, lover.

ATDI

At the Drive In was one bad ass band. If you don't already know, most of the members are now in The Mars Volta, some are in Sparta, both good bands.  But ATDI had an aliveness that is hard to replicate.

So, here are a couple live performances from some show somewhere featuring musicians and listeners of music.

This is how government should be assembled.

A touch of bad ass

Aggro

Some days are just made for breaking shit.

But nobody wants to clean up a mess.

Just a water, please.  And the check.

Good Morning. I Hate Your Face.

Waking up before 8:30 or 9:00 in the AM sucks cabbage.  It's not right, and to the lazily inclined, downright inhumane.  It's an assault to the senses, jarred into consciousness by some obnoxious noise generating device.  Everything was going so well.  Eyes shut tight.  Breathing pattern steady and effortless.  Scenarios of a more pleasant atmosphere playing across the IMAX screen of REM.

Twinkle-Beep-Bing, time to get up.

And what is so important and pertinent that one must crackle dormant joints out of the blessed cozy?

Ballroom dance.  Even worse, video taping ballroom dance.  So for the next several days every waking moment is dedicated to the aforementioned task.  Gross.  It's an interesting job until the novelty wears down.  The novelty definitely wore down.  Now it's just raw and bloody.

So, enough of this party.  Time to earn some rent.

Observant

It must be difficult to think of piddly crap to say throughout the duration of a sporting event.  All sorts of fun nuggets spew forth from announcers' mouths.

One of my favorites: "These guys are really athletic."

No shit.  They're professional athletes.  It's like calling a comic book store clerk nerdy.  It's his job to be a thirty-seven year old virgin.

It's Just a Phase

Bachelorhood-as-a-Source-of-Pride checklist:

-Oatmeal
-Scotch
-[adult swim]

Dignity is for the weak.