The trip of 1000 miles begins in the martini monkey bar, at
least at San Jose International airport. And I didn’t take my anti-psychotic
drugs so my stomach should be in a fine acid-fueled frenzy by the time I hit
Houston, much less land 4 hours later in Harlingen (completely non)
International airport.
I went and found my gate.. passed the security check without
a hitch.. and discovered that there was no bar once you passed security. So I
had to pass back out of the secured area in search of a drink. No doubt this will
ensure that I will have to undergo a complete cavity search on the way back in.
While I will enjoy this to the fullest, I think it is also proof that the
terrorists have already won.
The martini monkey (monkey martini? I’m too lazy to stagger outside and check)
bar features an odd combination of reggae tunes and truly bizarre retro covers
of classic rock – think The Doors covered by a cocktail lounge band and you’re
getting close. “Come on baby light my fire” just doesn’t sound as convincing
coming out over the desultory tinkling of a melody-murderess playing a thin
piano.
Or perhaps I have expectations that can’t be met. And maybe
that is what this particular trip is about. Escape from work as it just seems
completely wrong to give a flying fuck if the incompetent can teach the
ineducable the idiotic. Why should I care if more morons flock to De Anza to
sooth their fever dreams of success through education? It’s all the same
system, and I suppose it keeps a few people out of jail.. god knows it is much
cheaper than our jail system.. anyway, this kind of existential navel-gazing
can, I know, be destroyed by alcohol, so I think I will have me another beer.
Gack! Now we have a reggae-based cover of a classic tune. I
can recognize the tune but can’t even begin to name it. Sounds like a drum-beat
ripped from “Little Drummer Boy”..
Aah.. “All I need is the air that I breathe.” A terrible enough song when it was performed
the first time (I have a hard time giving it the credit that saying it was
“written” would confer).
To add to the unreality, there’s a tv in the corner with the
sound turned off and a dyslexic in charge of the captioning… they just referred to someone’s bout with
cancer as “a testicular Kansaser.” Glad
now that I’m not traveling to Kansas.
And a news flash from the war on people.. Minnesota reports
that corporate profits have hit an all-time high while corporate tax receipts
are declining. Bush’s work is done, I suppose… Minnesotans in positions of
authority are “confused” by this news, since to understand it would be to admit
that they have sold their constituents down the dirty river with a combination
of tax-cuts, relaxations of protective regulations, and the slow gutting of
unions…
Anyway, that’s merely a diversion from the “what the heck am
I doing?” question. Closely related to the “what’s wrong with drinking and
reading your life away?” question. And
the “why work?” question which flows naturally from the previous two questions.
And then… then.. while in the bathroom I hear the
redoubtable bass line to “Watching the Detectives” and it’s also coated in a
nasty piano and string treatments. My
world has ended.
And even almost 3 hours of napping on the flight to Houston
could not bring it back. This may be because I woke up in the land of the
processed hair and twang. Maybe, maybe not. It could just be me. I sit here in the margarita bar at Chili’s
trying not to drink another damned beer, but probably certain to do it.
And now the flight to Harlingen. Did get to observe a bunch
of angry people, pissed off about previous flights and taking it out on current
airline employees, or heating up on big old plates of nachos and bitching about
their close personal friends and relatives…
Ya gotta love people, as some 1970s song once posited. Or
negatived.
I can’t be certain.
