Any story that begins with ‘so I was in the airport bar…’ is bound to be doomed. It feels rather inevitable especially after recent viewing of Red Eye. I mean that’s how Rachel – I was a mean girl now I’m lovely and did I mention Candian – McAdams and her soon to be psychotic stalker yet ridiculously handsome killer meet, of course from there the whole psychotic-ness comes into play and it’s down hill from there. But of course the above hardly warrants fear nor precludes me of all people from venturing into the bar at Thurgood Marshall airport (If people are going to say ‘Reagan’ than I get to say ‘Thurgood Marshall’, period) and imbibing on some Chesapeake crabs and cabernet and yengling and apparently there was a moment in which I had turned into one of those creepy airport bar dwellers and soon I’ll be joining the ‘mile high club’ this is all very sudden.
Regardless, there are really creepy airport drunk people. I just want to sit and hear more about Eli and how Isaiah has suddenly made people fear the Knicks, that’s all. Closed captioning not withstanding of course, yet alone, to dwell in my misanthropic and lush behaviors, while fucking around with the crackberry. Of course the hint is not well taken by others specifically a gentleman who seated two seats down from me decided to spit tobacco in a bar glass and then involved himself in the conversation of the woman sitting between us. The woman whose hand I came quite close to ripping off when she drunkenly poked me in my fleshy side to question whether or not the seat beside me was taken. Startled, I mistakenly said no and allowed her to sit between me and drunken spitter while she loudly berated her boyfriend on the phone. In a public small bar. And every once in a while…ok, every 10.98 seconds…drunken spitter would holler “Call him an asshole!” or “he’s an asshole and not worth” or “Fuck yeah, asshole”. While she intermittently gave him the glary eyes of death and then shot daggers at me as if drunken spitter and I were BFFE from way back.
There’s a very visceral reaction in me to ignore and drink yet ignore some more until drunken spitter yelled at me as to the quality of my crackberry and how much he hates Hillary Clinton. But drunk public boyfriend berater she’s a republican but really likes Barack Obama. And clearly my keeping my head down while slamming my yeungling (so that I could get the fuck out of dodge and sit and wait with the normal Southwest airlines patrons who line up in their proper section two hours before the plane departs) was the perfect sign for please tell me how you feel and while we’re at it, you were born where? Oh but of course I know the answer to that last question; drunk public boyfriend berater is from Cincinnati and drunken spitter is from Phoenix, and I’m from Albany which is somewhere near Syracuse and it’s cold and sometimes we get 7 feet of snow (that according to drunken spitter). My response was that it doesn’t fucking snow when it’s 57 degrees, asshole.
So I left, because there is only so much conversing that I can handle and I can’t be completely shitfaced on a plane and show up to greet my mother by licking her or some such shit. Though I did meander just far enough to walk right into someone who I’ve known since kindergarten. Right there on my flight and I’m thinking the fermented grapes had something to do with how effortlessly the conversation was and why I turned into a walking sales person for fucking leggings.
And there you have it; the rest isn’t all that exciting except…well I have no couth as my mother pointed out no less than 7 times because I stripped in front of an open window (In my defense the window wasn’t open and no one could see me and jesus lord it’s only day one). Welcome Home and Happy Holidays, clearly, we’re off to a lovely start.