Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
I hadn't flown anywhere since before 9/11, and was uneasy for a number
of reasons.
I was concerned a fellow passenger might start screaming belligerence
and explode a Bass loafer above George Bush's Texas ranch; I was afraid
the plane might crash because of some non-terrorist reason, perhaps the
luggage compartment would be left "wide
open," or the pilot would drop
dead; I was convinced I'd be ensnared in some sort of nightmarish
security bottleneck, and miss my plane; I simply knew the flight
out of Scranton would be delayed, I wouldn't make my connection in
Atlanta, and would spend the day adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
On and on it went.... I was a freaking basket-case.
Because of this, I got up at 4 am on Wednesday. It was the middle of the
night, and my brain was throbbing with disapproval. I left the house a
few minutes after 5, and the first leg of my flight was scheduled for 7.
The previous day I'd acted like the ultimate nerd, and gone to the
airport to scout things out. I wanted to make sure I knew where
long-term parking was located, and all the places I'd need to go. I
didn't need any surprises, dammit.
Since I was fairly confident I'd allowed myself plenty of time for
douchery, and knew my way around the sprawling
Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport (ahem), I stopped at Sheetz to hit their
no-fee ATM ("money for nothing"). And the place was packed. It
was 5:10 am, and almost every gas pump was in-use, and the store was
pandemonium. It was bizarre. Apparently there's this whole other world
operating out there while I sleep? Who knew?
I got checked-in with lots of time to spare, so I went upstairs and
talked to Toney on the phone. Finally I decided to drag my ass through
security, and find my gate.
I was ordered to remove my laptop computer from its case, take off my
shoes, and empty my pockets. I did all this, and as soon as I passed
through the metal detector a man with not even a hint of a neck ordered
me to the side. He hadn't ordered anyone else to the side, only me. And
he made me stand on a rug with the outline of feet on it, and hold my
hands straight out like a retard at a circus. He proceeded to pat me
down, rub my ass, and check out my most personal of carry-on bags.
Simply excellent.
The flight was on-time and completely
full, and I was seated beside a neo-hippie who smelled like olive oil.
It was a small jet, but a jet nonetheless. This probably wouldn't be too
bad, I told myself, and it wasn't. The gingerbread cookies they gave us
as a snack were even pretty darn kick-ass. Olives checked the
ingredients on his pack, sniffed with disapproval, and stuffed them in
the magazine flap on the seat in front of him.
I had to change concourses in Atlanta, which meant riding that crazy-ass
train. I was mildly disappointed that the recordings had been changed,
and they no longer had a mechanical hick giving directions over the
loudspeakers. In the old days it sounded like a cast member of Hee
Haw in that place: "Stawp! Doors will not bouince back!!"
Now it's some accent-free chick and sophisticated classical music. Wotta
rip-off.
I had over thirty minutes before my next flight was scheduled to leave,
and was starving. There was an Arby's a few feet away from my gate, and
I decided to pay them a visit. And that's where I got a taste, just a
small little nibble, of the Atlanta experience. The people working in
that restaurant were moving so infuriatingly slow, and with such a
complete lack of urgency, I felt an old familiar rage building up
inside me that I recalled from my years living there. I'd
forgotten all about it, but it came rushing back on Wednesday.
Jesus J. McChrist man, pick up the beats per minute! It looks like
you're working underwater!! I pissed them off with my Yankee-ass
impatience, and they practically hurled my food at me. That shit is
ridiculous, and when I returned to the gate I saw that nearly every
other person had
already boarded the plane. I was almost literally the last one through
the door. Grrrrr....
It was a massive 777, and there was an empty seat between me and my
closest neighbor. Oh yeah. He was an Asian hipster, and was already
asleep. Or maybe he was just acting, to avoid having to talk to me? I
just don't know.
As I strapped myself into my seat, I saw some hillbillies trying to
wrestle a virtual steamer trunk into an overhead compartment. It
was passed to a very stout woman, and she allowed it to slip from her
hands. It fell from above her head, and the corner of the thing struck a
Korean man above his left ear. He started howling like a mental patient,
and rubbing his head, and not a single person said anything to him. The
big-boned woman simply picked up the piece of luggage, and went back to work. I
couldn't believe what I was seeing. The guy sported a perma-wince, and
rubbed his skull for the next thirty minutes. And nobody ever asked if
he was OK.
One of the movies they were showing was School for Scoundrels, so
I bought some headphones for two bucks. But my remote was all fucked-up,
and wouldn't work properly. All I could get from the thing was in-flight
radio. So I listened to "Johnny Gold" count-down his thirteen
favorite rock songs of all time. They included "See No Evil"
by Television, and "September Gurls" by Big Star. Pretty
freakin' hip for Delta Radio, I thought.
We arrived at LAX around 12:30 local time, and I made my way to baggage
claim. I had visions of Amoeba Records dancing through my head, and was
eager to grab my bag, pick up my rental car, and get the show on the
road. I was supposed to meet some folks for dinner at 6:30, so I had six
full hours of free time. It was actually going to work out, just as I'd
planned. Suddenly I realized I was excited.
But it was not to be. I stood in front of that baggage carousel and
watched other peoples' suitcases go 'round and 'round, for a long long
time. The big crowd
kept getting smaller and smaller, and I was still standing there,
waiting. Finally it was just me and a handful of other folks, and I had
a sick feeling in my stomach. Then they turned the conveyor off, and
that was that. My bag was not there.
I looked around, and saw Olives standing near a pillar a few feet away. He had the same
"What the crap?!" look on his face as I had. Clearly, his bags
hadn't made it either. I walked over to him, and said, "Weren't you
sitting next to me from Scranton to Atlanta?" He glanced
around, like he was afraid someone had overheard me, and said, "No,
I didn't get on until Atlanta." Then he walked off.
The hell? He most certainly did get on in Scranton. I sat beside
him, and smelled him, for more than two hours. What the shit was that
all about??
I went to an office called "Delta Baggage Services," and a
woman with a strange accent (Czech?) told me my bag didn't make my plane
(Atlanta again!), and would be arriving on a flight scheduled to
land at 2:17. She said I could wait on it, or they could bring it to my
hotel. I asked how long it would take to receive it at the hotel, and
she said six to eight hours after the courier service has it in their
possession.
And that's how how my Amoeba Records and Frontier Wok dreams went
straight down the ol' porcelain poop funnel.
I didn't want to drag this deal out, but it looks like that's the way
it's going. More tomorrow.
In the meantime, this is a funny YouTube video my friend Tim sent to me.
And here's an interesting quiz that Surf Reporter John forwarded my way.
It supposedly tells you how "Dixie" or "Yankee" you
are. In case you're interested, I'm 70% Dixie, which feels about right
to me. What about you? Tell us about it, won't you?
--
I hadn't flown anywhere since before 9/11, and was uneasy for a number
of reasons. 