I don’t know what all the hullabaloo is about. Anytime I say I’m going to the airport, somebody always proclaims “Ooohhhh, I love to fly!” To those people, I say “I think you’ve eaten too many complimentary peanuts.” I hate it. I mean, I really hate it. If I had John Madden’s bus, I would be taking that monstrosity to Fort Lauderdale instead of this death rocket.
Let’s go over what a typical flight day entails, shall we? Wake up at the asscrack of dawn because you want to beat the crowds (dipshit, if everyone wants to beat the crowd, then you ARE the crowd), get to the airport in record time in order to stand in line.
“How many are you checking in, sir?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s too big to carry on.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s too small to check in.”
“You’re in the wrong line.”
“Lois, come here. Have you ever seen this before.”
“Please check the board. I know they were working on the engine.”
But you go through another snake like maze to the next checkpoint, and after walking through a number of times, are greeted by a good rodgering because you left your belt on and the buckle’s too big. Once you finally abscond your national-security compromising hand lotion, you wait for an absorbitant amount of time for the plane, which you can clearly see through the window, but just isn’t ready for you to sit on.
And now to the flight. Isn’t this fun? Find whatever seat’s available. At this point, it’s probably next to the unshowered fella with the breathing problem and no reading material. He’s taking the outer seat because the view through the window makes him feel like shipping a used Soft Baked Apple Bar your way. You graciously take the inner seat (what choice do you have?) and squeeze past him, even though he’s unwilling to compromise his current position, so you have to pull a Retton and somersault into your 18 inch wide home.
Waiting…waiting…waiting…
OK, it’s time to take off. This is where it really gets enjoyable. The plane sits on the runway behind 22 other vehicles with the same idea. Finally, your plane’s number is called and you’re ready to take off. The man in the snazzy coat up front steps on it and nearly shoots you into the back wall. I hope you brought your gum,. You’re gonna need it. Oh, and some aspirin wouldn’t hurt, either.
You’ve made it in to the air. You’re plateauing. With the exception of the continual fear that if something goes awry, there’s not an airbag big enough to save you, you’re in pretty good shape…
And then…turbulence. You’re bumping around, you’re bouncing, you’re nauseous. You’re praying for a Gawddamn refill of ginger ale, but none are available because the Captain has asked even the flight attendants to buckle up (not a good sign, by the way). There will be no stomach settling pretzels or ginger ale until after you actually need them.
But the turbulence subsides, and the flight takes on an ordinary path. You get the next few hours to look out the window and envision what it would be like to land on this patch of land and that building. You realize how expansive the land is and recognize that you’re life is more nondescript and unfulfilled than it was before you boarded. You’re depressed now.
Did you like the ascension? Oh, that’s good, because you’re gonna get another hefty dose of it on the way down, but with a hint of “he’s going down a little fast, isn’t he?” thrown in for posterity. Then the death rocket’s 6 tires land on Earth, bounce the rocket a couple of times, then goes from a million to 6 MPH in a matter of seconds. You put your head down, and color yourself lucky and thankful that you weren’t going to be the lead story tonight.
Waiting…waiting…waiting…
Time passes and it’s OK for you to stand, but I’m not sure why you would, because you’re not leaving until everyone else has gone, it seems. But they’re officially in vacation mode. Plus, they’re at the endo f an article and they’re not yet ready to leave. After all, they’ve paid $469 for a ticket on the rocket and they’re sucking the nickels out. So, you stand and wait, patiently, but what you really want to do? What you really want to do is let out a barbaric yawp. Unfortunately, the airline frowns on that.
You make your way through the lingerers and get out of the plane. The next piece of travelling pleasure is baggage claim. Aaahhhh, baggage claim. Just follow the signs. Take this left, then another left, then another left, then another left, take a right, go down the stairs, head out the door, go across the parking lot, grab the shuttle, make your way into town, take a right at the retard selling fireworks, and you should see the baggage claim about a ¼ mile up on the right. Credit to the airlines, as 90% of the time, your bags are there.
Have a great vacation. Can’t wait until it’s over so we can do this again.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Awakening
Leaving flowers on your grave
Show that I still care
But black roses and hail mary’s
Can’t bring back what’s taken from me
I reach to the sky
And call out your name
And if I could trade
I would
--The Offspring
"The best thing about our friendship is that I feel like we're immortal when we're out together." These were the words uttered by my friend John at a point when we were younger. He felt that when we were all together, all eight of us, that we couldn't be touched. And it was true... until it wasn't anymore.
Twelve years ago, Mike Catizone passed out on a familiar carpet after a night of drinks, smokes, and unmentionables. When everyone finally went to sleep, Cat made sure it was quiet in the night, grabbed his keys, and went to find his way home. None of this was abnormal. As ridiculous as this sounds, Cat was the best drunk driver we'd known, and if someone wants to do something, there's really no way to stop him. So, off he went onto the Auburn roads. I never heard from him again.
Cat went into a coma and was brought to Elliott Hospital in Manchester, NH. We sat in peaceful unrest and waited for any word to tell us how our friend was doing. We got there early and we left late (and some, not at all). We received word that if he came out of it, he would have brain damage and wouldn't walk normally again. We had conversations about how he'd never want to live like that. That he'd be miserable in that setting. So, knowing that he could hear us when we spoke, I let him know nobody would be mad at him if he quit and faded away. That night, he was gone.
For a period after that, I left the world, too. I was here, but I was numb. I drank more than I ever have, I listened to nobody, and my grades, which were more than passable for a guy that didn't study much, had begun to sink like a stone. Who cares? What's it matter, anyway? We all leave sometime and this, what we see and do, is irrelevant. It's safe to say I was a little fucked up. I was angry, bitter, cold and desolate.
And out of that desolation came an appreciation for the time when that wasn't the case. When I was surrounded by great moments and conversations. When I felt like I couldn't be touched. When I felt as part of a community of friends. And I began to embrace those friendships that meant something, because I didn't know how long they would be around for. Sometimes, as I slip back into a sense of entitlement for what it is that I possess, I reminisce to the time when I thought there was no purpose to anything, and I re-grow an appreciation for those that have graced my life.
And for those that left too early.
I love you, buddy. And I miss you dearly.
Show that I still care
But black roses and hail mary’s
Can’t bring back what’s taken from me
I reach to the sky
And call out your name
And if I could trade
I would
--The Offspring
"The best thing about our friendship is that I feel like we're immortal when we're out together." These were the words uttered by my friend John at a point when we were younger. He felt that when we were all together, all eight of us, that we couldn't be touched. And it was true... until it wasn't anymore.
Twelve years ago, Mike Catizone passed out on a familiar carpet after a night of drinks, smokes, and unmentionables. When everyone finally went to sleep, Cat made sure it was quiet in the night, grabbed his keys, and went to find his way home. None of this was abnormal. As ridiculous as this sounds, Cat was the best drunk driver we'd known, and if someone wants to do something, there's really no way to stop him. So, off he went onto the Auburn roads. I never heard from him again.
Cat went into a coma and was brought to Elliott Hospital in Manchester, NH. We sat in peaceful unrest and waited for any word to tell us how our friend was doing. We got there early and we left late (and some, not at all). We received word that if he came out of it, he would have brain damage and wouldn't walk normally again. We had conversations about how he'd never want to live like that. That he'd be miserable in that setting. So, knowing that he could hear us when we spoke, I let him know nobody would be mad at him if he quit and faded away. That night, he was gone.
For a period after that, I left the world, too. I was here, but I was numb. I drank more than I ever have, I listened to nobody, and my grades, which were more than passable for a guy that didn't study much, had begun to sink like a stone. Who cares? What's it matter, anyway? We all leave sometime and this, what we see and do, is irrelevant. It's safe to say I was a little fucked up. I was angry, bitter, cold and desolate.
And out of that desolation came an appreciation for the time when that wasn't the case. When I was surrounded by great moments and conversations. When I felt like I couldn't be touched. When I felt as part of a community of friends. And I began to embrace those friendships that meant something, because I didn't know how long they would be around for. Sometimes, as I slip back into a sense of entitlement for what it is that I possess, I reminisce to the time when I thought there was no purpose to anything, and I re-grow an appreciation for those that have graced my life.
And for those that left too early.
I love you, buddy. And I miss you dearly.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Oh, the coming wind...
"There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October."
- Nathaniel Hawthorne
Poke your head out the window. Exhale completely. Now, close your mouth, open the nostrils, and take it in as much as you can. Autumn has arrived. Leaves, they're a-changin'. College and pro football are on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday... well, they're on a lot. The Sox are once again in the playoffs. I can't get enough of fall sports
I've been doing pretty well at my "real" job recently, and considering it's the first day of the month, I took it upon myself to grab an extended lunch. I customarily tap the biometric time clock before I leave the building (as the powers highly suggest), but I knew before I left my desk that the 60 minute lunch limitation didn't apply to me, so I looked over my left shoulder, then my right, and darted for the door.
I walked slowly and without purpose to the bank, making certain to greet everyone along the way. I got myself a haircut from my favorite greek barber, Nick, and graciously overtipped him for his artistry contributing to my $11 haircut.
(ASIDE: Nick, I love bay rum. We all love bay rum. It makes us feel clean and in control of our appearance. But when I get my hair cut at 12:45 and at 7, my friend Jeremiah asks me if I just got my hair cut by Nick, the Bay Rum barber, well, it's a sure sign that a little dab'll do ya. We cool?)
OK, this is where autumn kicked in. There's a place here in Dirty Dover called Harvey's. It's rather nondescript, except for its longevity and its self-proclamation that they carry the world's greatest pork pie. With that said, I had their pork pie this past weekend, and it's absolutely phenomenal. Judy Moreau phenomenal? Not quite, but very, very good, nonetheless. But Harvey's is what autumn is all about. The New England chill of October takes a backseat as you sit there, engulfed in a turkey and rice soup and a Boston Globe. And that's what I did today. I wish it was a little bit colder, but there's only so much I can control.
That's what Harvey's does. It makes you wish the outdoors were colder so you'd feel that much warmer within its confines. How many times have you said "you know, it's pretty decent out here, but I wish it were a little more uncomfortable"? My two hour lunch turned my day from "ho-hum" to "downright giddy". Harvey's will do that, too.
- Nathaniel Hawthorne
Poke your head out the window. Exhale completely. Now, close your mouth, open the nostrils, and take it in as much as you can. Autumn has arrived. Leaves, they're a-changin'. College and pro football are on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday... well, they're on a lot. The Sox are once again in the playoffs. I can't get enough of fall sports
I've been doing pretty well at my "real" job recently, and considering it's the first day of the month, I took it upon myself to grab an extended lunch. I customarily tap the biometric time clock before I leave the building (as the powers highly suggest), but I knew before I left my desk that the 60 minute lunch limitation didn't apply to me, so I looked over my left shoulder, then my right, and darted for the door.
I walked slowly and without purpose to the bank, making certain to greet everyone along the way. I got myself a haircut from my favorite greek barber, Nick, and graciously overtipped him for his artistry contributing to my $11 haircut.
(ASIDE: Nick, I love bay rum. We all love bay rum. It makes us feel clean and in control of our appearance. But when I get my hair cut at 12:45 and at 7, my friend Jeremiah asks me if I just got my hair cut by Nick, the Bay Rum barber, well, it's a sure sign that a little dab'll do ya. We cool?)
OK, this is where autumn kicked in. There's a place here in Dirty Dover called Harvey's. It's rather nondescript, except for its longevity and its self-proclamation that they carry the world's greatest pork pie. With that said, I had their pork pie this past weekend, and it's absolutely phenomenal. Judy Moreau phenomenal? Not quite, but very, very good, nonetheless. But Harvey's is what autumn is all about. The New England chill of October takes a backseat as you sit there, engulfed in a turkey and rice soup and a Boston Globe. And that's what I did today. I wish it was a little bit colder, but there's only so much I can control.
That's what Harvey's does. It makes you wish the outdoors were colder so you'd feel that much warmer within its confines. How many times have you said "you know, it's pretty decent out here, but I wish it were a little more uncomfortable"? My two hour lunch turned my day from "ho-hum" to "downright giddy". Harvey's will do that, too.
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