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Friday, February 21, 2003
DATELINE LOS ANGELES: THURSDAY FEB 20 2003
Knew I had to get up and make a plane today, so naturally I could not sleep last night. Kee-rist! So I watched "ESPN Classic" for a few hours: "Football's greatest games." Having less than no interest in the game of football, I view old NFL highlights films as abstract, mind-numbing entertainments akin to staring at a lava lite. The narration - always supplied by some husky William Conrad type of voice - groans about mysteries like "the line of scrimmage"and "roll out" ...names like Johnny Unitas and Joe Namath are invoked as nostalgic callbacks to earlier, equally football-oblivious times in my life ...macho production music blasts heroically as these guys run and knock each other down for reasons unknown. It's really good. It held my bleary attention until sleep eventually triumphed.
Before hitting the airport, Shelley picked up The New York Daily News, which I gave the once over before satisfying myself that there did, indeed, seem to be no article about me. So it goes. Hung out at the airport almost 2 hours before getting on the plane.
The flight seemed endless, but was relatively uneventful. First leg went from Long Island to Nashville, where I had to kill two hours before making the connection to LA. Spent those 2 hours in a bar, since that's the only place you can smoke. So I did, and drank a few glasses of wine, figuring it a light enough potable for afternoon swilling. Then the longer leg of the trip commenced, during wich I was treated to the shenanigans of some goateed douchebag and his frail, carrying on behind me like pair of 3 year olds. The jerk's voice was reedy and piercing, like a toy megaphone broadcasting some of the most inane chatter I've heard this side of "Def Poetry Jam." Dunno what he was doing to her, but she kept making with remarks like "Stop it! That hurts! Sto-hop! Sto-hop Tha-hat!!" To which he just chortled and, i guess, writhed ...enough to continually jostle and kick the back of my seat. Everytime I shot an irked look back in their direction, they apologized and stared as vacantly as a pair of bobble-head puppies. I had some more wine and napped whenever possible.
The flight itself was pretty bumpy (which I kind of like), so the pilot chose to remain rather low in the sky. This made for some nice aerial-relief-map vistas of the mountainous terrain, especially when night fell and the random cities and roadways below shined like gold jewelry strewn across a black blanket. All the while, these 2 carried on behind me.
When the trip was over, I commented to the guy beside me "what assholes!" (he agreed) and some southern nerd-daddy told me "ah got kids he-yur; watch yuh languitge." A burgeoning wine hangover already exacerbated my bitter animosity toward those other two jackasses, and I was in no mood. "Yeah... just what I need right now... bullshit from YOU!" He took umbrage at my ungallant tone and further vulgarity, and made as mean a nerd-daddy face as he could muster. "Go home... keep walking" I advised. He did, still shooting me that pissy-lemur look as he led his two fine young, heretofore innocent sons out of the airport. "Fuckin' prick" I snarled. Fuck him. Prick.
How very nice it was to step out into Los Angeles and have a smoke. Room temperature, just like I figured. Claudia greeted me and we drove to Tarzana, where they're putting me up in a small house all to myself. Here I am, then: a bit fried, sipping just enough Jagermeister to forestall the wine headache until it's slept away and I can begin my adventures, if any.
Knew I had to get up and make a plane today, so naturally I could not sleep last night. Kee-rist! So I watched "ESPN Classic" for a few hours: "Football's greatest games." Having less than no interest in the game of football, I view old NFL highlights films as abstract, mind-numbing entertainments akin to staring at a lava lite. The narration - always supplied by some husky William Conrad type of voice - groans about mysteries like "the line of scrimmage"and "roll out" ...names like Johnny Unitas and Joe Namath are invoked as nostalgic callbacks to earlier, equally football-oblivious times in my life ...macho production music blasts heroically as these guys run and knock each other down for reasons unknown. It's really good. It held my bleary attention until sleep eventually triumphed.
Before hitting the airport, Shelley picked up The New York Daily News, which I gave the once over before satisfying myself that there did, indeed, seem to be no article about me. So it goes. Hung out at the airport almost 2 hours before getting on the plane.
The flight seemed endless, but was relatively uneventful. First leg went from Long Island to Nashville, where I had to kill two hours before making the connection to LA. Spent those 2 hours in a bar, since that's the only place you can smoke. So I did, and drank a few glasses of wine, figuring it a light enough potable for afternoon swilling. Then the longer leg of the trip commenced, during wich I was treated to the shenanigans of some goateed douchebag and his frail, carrying on behind me like pair of 3 year olds. The jerk's voice was reedy and piercing, like a toy megaphone broadcasting some of the most inane chatter I've heard this side of "Def Poetry Jam." Dunno what he was doing to her, but she kept making with remarks like "Stop it! That hurts! Sto-hop! Sto-hop Tha-hat!!" To which he just chortled and, i guess, writhed ...enough to continually jostle and kick the back of my seat. Everytime I shot an irked look back in their direction, they apologized and stared as vacantly as a pair of bobble-head puppies. I had some more wine and napped whenever possible.
The flight itself was pretty bumpy (which I kind of like), so the pilot chose to remain rather low in the sky. This made for some nice aerial-relief-map vistas of the mountainous terrain, especially when night fell and the random cities and roadways below shined like gold jewelry strewn across a black blanket. All the while, these 2 carried on behind me.
When the trip was over, I commented to the guy beside me "what assholes!" (he agreed) and some southern nerd-daddy told me "ah got kids he-yur; watch yuh languitge." A burgeoning wine hangover already exacerbated my bitter animosity toward those other two jackasses, and I was in no mood. "Yeah... just what I need right now... bullshit from YOU!" He took umbrage at my ungallant tone and further vulgarity, and made as mean a nerd-daddy face as he could muster. "Go home... keep walking" I advised. He did, still shooting me that pissy-lemur look as he led his two fine young, heretofore innocent sons out of the airport. "Fuckin' prick" I snarled. Fuck him. Prick.
How very nice it was to step out into Los Angeles and have a smoke. Room temperature, just like I figured. Claudia greeted me and we drove to Tarzana, where they're putting me up in a small house all to myself. Here I am, then: a bit fried, sipping just enough Jagermeister to forestall the wine headache until it's slept away and I can begin my adventures, if any.
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