snow bound
december 20

New York City

Airports. What lesson is the universe trying to send me whenever I get the idea to try airplanes again? I want to lead.. the glamorous life? Right. I am willing to bet the rest of my (once upon a time) frequent flier miles that in the Startrek Holodeck Repair Manual, the settings for 'airports' and 'dental offices' differ by a single digit.

And I rode first class! But before you make me turn in my proletariate credentials, please understand I was forced, yes forced, to take first class, since all the 'coach seats' (coach, as in "we've lost a horse and it's about to rain, why don't we all see if we can fit in the coach") were sold out. I wasn't paying real money, that would have been impossible at this point. Instead, I abandoned a huge chunck of accumulated miles. The agent on the phone did sound oddly gleeful while we booked (book, as in a certain dubious activity) my flight to New York.

You'd think that flying first class would equal a wheelbarrow full of perks. Oh sure, once you're in your seat (never get first row) and the plane's high enough, you get all the liquor you can absorb, whoopee for teetotalers like me, and, get this, you get a choice of biscuit, bagel or muffin, and if you hesitate (because your ears have burst and are leaking amnionic fluid), the attendant will guess you're just a glutton and let you have one of each. Either that or my attempt to 'dress down' to blend in went a tatters too far. That was one of the reasons why I didn't bring my crutch.

Another was that I wanted to make my flight. This was my first air experience since the terrorist attacks, I had heard stories, and didn't want to end up on a one way to Cuba just because Rumsfeld had a vision and decided this week that crutches were the new penknife. Plus, no matter what USA Today says about post-disaster New Yorkers, I wasn't going to risk the increased attention, concern or otherwise, that you get when you're on the streets using a walking aid.

When my jean rivets set off the metal detector, I was swiftly escorted (the irony, and it will come up again, I promise) to a chair and asked to remove my shoes. The Magic Evil Doers Face Recognition Wand skittled over me not unlike a tweaker in a dark bar, but came up with nothing, so it got raked over me again just to make sure. Still, I made my flight.

The relief of landing without a crash did little to shorten the wait for my checked bag. Now maybe being only a 'miles' first class patient, I was ignorant of the separate carousel for those in rows one through six, probably located alongside the secret open bar lounge, where you can (have your driver) pick out your Vitton while you sip one more for the road.

That explains it. I didn't pick up my bags where I was supposed to so the handlers assumed I was in baggage claim getting down with the people. Probably researching my role in the upcoming film where I play Rip Van Winkle.

The relief of finally getting my bag did little to shorten the wait for the 'express' (as in the common mathematical equation "...where x will express in real time the speed of cement setting in below freezing temperature...") bus to Manhattan, but it did arrive, and after a colorful flourish of straining and caster clacking on curbs and various flights of stairs, I made it to Pop Tart's high rise, three hours after the plane landed.

And I would have to leave again soon, because Pop Tart had a 'date' coming over, someone with Family connections, and this being New York, you know what I mean. After looking through the holes in the ladie's garment this guy likes to wear, I half jokingly said I'd just sit on the couch and watch. No, I had to leave, so I dragged my head over to a local gay closet bar and watched porn while various homosexuals stalked by, some repeatedly with a hand in their pocket.

I really just wanted to sleep, for real, and after two hours I called Pop Tart to see if he was alright, actually to make sure he haddn't dozed off to sleep. Twenty minutes, I was told. So I wandered around the bodegas looking for Dutch Mill Chocolate covered vanilla donuts, the only donut I will eat and found none, I'm not even sure the brand exists anymore. I settled for Liu's Dark Chocolate Little School Boys, or whatever it is in French. I sleepwalked back to Pop Tart's and when I got inside, he insisted we go have a drink so he could wind down.

I protested that it was already almost two in the morning, didn't things close, but not this dive, and besides, he'd keep me awake if he didn't have some scotch and in my weakened state I acquiesced. Back into the cold to the hyena pen.

I asked the bartender to throw Pop Tart out, it was the most desperate move I could muster at that hour, and it only got a chuckle. Pop Tart doesn't so much sip drinks as inhale their vapors, consequently we were there another hour. I was too tired to hold my head up to watch porn or pocket pool.

When we got home and in bed, Pop Tart started in, making me laugh and keeping me awake, enjoying my beyond tired exhaustion much as a cat enjoys toying with its prey. Then it came in for the kill.

"I spoke to your mother today."

what I'm reading right now: Gardening Success by Peter McHoy.
what songs I can't get out of my head, thanks to Pop Tart: 'Why Do Fools Fall in Love' and 'Swept Away', both by Diana Ross.

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