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FRIDAY, 16 JUNE, 2000, SOMEWHERE OVER WEST VIRGINIA |
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Remind me not to fucking ever fly in June again. And never American Airlines, ever. I should have been plunked down in merry ole Tinsel Town yesterday afternoon, but two canceled flights later, I am just now finally getting in the air. I must say this laptop on the airplane thing is a neat trick. Infinitely more useful than a cell phone and far less obnoxious. I especially like sitting down with all these awful Los Anguhleez types with their maroon loafers and blue socks like the guy sitting next to me (it’s okay, he can’t read this; he’s asleep — or doing a fair impersonation of it), and the looks of askance I get when I saunter onto the plane with my battered jeans and wifebeater and black leather jacket and all the other standard punkypooh fixin’s, and then, once the plane is aloft, I pull out a kick ass G3 PowerBook that’s about as thin as a sitcom plot and as powerful as a fart in an elevator and start typing away and the looks from the beloafered ones says, “What the hell!? Him? With that?” and — good gawd, I feel like such an organised little career girl with this damn thing… Anyway, the last 24 hours have been hell, culminating with this morning’s travails. Like I said, canceled flights, weird re-routing schemes. (I almost got to see Boston today! But it just doesn’t make sense if I’m going southwest why I need to fly northeast first.) I’m carrying a shitload of stuff. Large glass painting excrutiatingly well packed in an oversized, extra-super-padded box. And quite impossible to move. Plus laptop bag. Plus regular duffle bag. Plus my “impulse item” bag which contains a sixer of Yuengling lager because dad likes good beers and probably hasn’t had this kind, and a paper bag filled with assorted Tastykakes because Tastykakes are tasty and you can’t really get them outside Philly very easily. I am well aware of the fact that listening to people griping about traveling woes is just below the dreaded family album viewing on the interest-topic scale, so I will instead be absolutely arty and use my bag of Tastykakes as a metaphor for myself, for we are both undergoing similar fates: Yesterday, the Tastykakes were sproingy and fresh as the Marquis peddled away from the 7-11 on Lombard and 22nd. “What lovely and ridiculous treats they will make for my friends and family on the Wrong Coast!” thought the Marquis merrily. Once home, they were placed carefully on the sofa and it was soonafter that the Tastykakes’ flight was canceled. They remained on the sofa the remainder of Thursday, not getting any fresher, but not too unhappy with the circumstances. What’s a day, here and there, when you contain preservatives? This morning, the Tastykakes are put into a sack with the 6 of Yuengling. They feel a bit cramped, but they should be okay. The Marquis taxis to the æreoport with his duffle, laptop, huge painting box and Tastykake bag. He notices that in the cab, the Butterscotch Krimpet looks a big dinged. “Some settling may occur,” he thinks, and doesn’t sweat it. At the American Airlines check-in, the Tastykakes (and the Marquis, for they are a metaphor, don’t forget) are swiftly run over by a mad-dashing suburbanite with really flat vowel sounds pushing an overloaded cart. (“Oooh mahee gaad! Weil miss our flieeght!”) Poor coffeecake Tastykake is a bit wounded, but still edible. American bumps the Marquis to USAir, two terminals away. “Just a quick two minute jog,” the lady says. Yah. Y’ever try to fuckin’ “jog” carrying 800 kilos of awkward-shaped shit? The trip to concourse ‘C’ was harrowing and the Marquis was afeared for the fate of the Tastykakes. The USAir line wrapped around and around and zigged and zagged and the Marquis waiting in it for over an hour, kicking his luggage and Tastykakes around the 8 1/2 mile queue with rapidly diminishing patience. After ticket was secured, I checked the Tastykake status. Gettin’ pretty sad. The chocolate krimpets are destroyed. No one will want to suck out their creamy filling because it looks like Tastykaka now (metaphor in full effect). Their is a distinct creamy smell coming from the bag, which means to me that not only was some other member of the Tastykake Klan squashed, but with so much force that it popped open the bag. I’m scared to excavate further. They’re currently jostling about over my head crammed in among other passengers’ undeniably more sturdy luggage. I believe I will have to take a picture of the carnage of the Tastykakes when I land, and I’ll betcha a nickel that their status will match my own. Bruised, condemned, and thoroughly unattractive. At the behest of Loyal Ready #8, Mr. Tamale who is so kindly picking me up at the airport when this bird lands, I herewith list “Silly Plane Stories”.
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