talia wanted words:

Ah, a babeless flight. At least, for this first one. A clusterfuck of layovers and transfers, the train to planeport to the plane to the planeport to the plane to the airport that features in that novel I'm always working on. Cincinnati calls me. There's something about it. Something kindred. And maybe it's the rampant Ohio connections in my life:

a.) father moved to Cleveland after high school to live with friends, above a bar, living on pizza. What story could more attract a kid? A kid like me?

b.) went to cleveland as a child. Saw Indians stadium before it was torn down. Having never been there before, I was still pretty bummed. My dad's nostalgia transferred to me, I suppose.

c.) singer in the defining band of my 20's, that long lost decade (about three weeks past) from Cincy, always talking about it. How scary he made it seem. Race riots and random violence. A strange and exciting place where anything (bad) could happen.

d.) most dreamy of tour dream girls: at my first solo show in Cleveland.

e.) the most AMAZING girl I've ever dated: raised in Columbus, OH.

f.) the Legion of Doom, a place I always wanted to re-create in Portland, but couldn't get it right.

g.) The Reds? Such my team. Failing never felt so good.

I'm sure there's more. I know for a fact there is. But the point is, I can't think of many other states that have such importance in my life, aside from states I've lived in. I mean, Oklahoma? It's dirty, and they have shit beer. That's it. That's the only memories I ever have. For some reason Ohio feels like it's important.

But I digressed from the thoughts of ladies. That's what airport stories are usually about. That random person that I daydream about.

It ain't happening this time, folks. Maybe my Chi-Cincy flight will be more babular, we shall see. It seems like since I've shown up here, so prepared, so ready to go, with my nice pen, and with plenty of paper, and with good music that is mood setting, but able to be a background, and not intrusive, it seems like I should write about something, no?

I left the house this morning, frazzled, tired, spacey, lacking in being ready for action, or, anything, really. I had gotten a decent amount of sleep, but my life has been so fucking active lately that any good night's sleep is just playing catch up. Woke up dreamy, maybe it was the weed from last night. Who knows?

This woman with her children is killing this for me. I'm moving. I don't need to hear you explain to your son that London is not in France.

Anyway. Woke up, showered in one of the most disgusting showers I've ever been in (mine, unfortunately) shampooed my hair and conditioned, a new experience for me. I never understood conditioner. Most like because I always used crap conditioner before. This good stuff I have now, some organic tea tree whatnot, man, it's phenominal.

Updated my ipod as I brushed my hair. REALLY needed Rubber Soul (minus Drive My Car) for this trip. Just a feeling, but it seemed REALLY important.

I'm trying to ignore the fact that my really nice, $12.00 pen, that I've had for at least four years, is finally starting to die. $3.00 a year? Deal. I wonder if this has anything to do with me smuggling drugs in it. The pen gods can be fickle, no doubt. But the gods of writers past seemed to be okay with drug smuggling, and anything else that would make a good story. Hm. I apologize of the greatest sincerity, please hold me through till Cincy, where I will beg and plead for some sort of temporary replacement?

I walked out of my house and started one of the songs on one of the album that I just downloaded. It was perfect walking music and matched my pace wonderfully. Good job, guys

Man, this pen situation is a bummer. I could, of course, have brought extra pens. Total option. After the last debacle, I should have known better. But, this pen has been so reliable, for so long. Optimism? Let's call it that, and not poorly prepared. And it's limping through, no doubt, it's just those stutter and missteps that jog the concentration like mothers and London, France, that make it tough to be the conductor of this train.

Aw, well. Lack of dames, lack of proper pen. BUT! I did get radderall and a half box of Triscuits through security. Crackertastic. Maybe the person next to me will have a pen I can borrow? Or maybe I will be stuck sucking ink out of this husk till Chicago, where I will break down and buy a gold Chicago pen? Who can be sure?

They're offering to let me fly later in order to get free stuff. Maybe? How about a pen?

I knew it! Ever vigilant! our hero has procured a writing device! One of those poorly trained airline employees, allegedly so good at security, has left an ever important PEN (click style!) on an abandoned table. Maybe it's the 200 people you were trying to cram into this plane, maybe it's because you didn't realize that a pen to a writer is more priceless than a needle to a seamstress (or haystack employee), but, WHATEVER the failing, I have reaped the benefits. This NATIONAL GROUP PROTECTION, INC. pen, proclaiming 1-800-344-9016 in beautiful blue, stark white back ground gleaming and inviting, THIS PEN, ma'am, is MINE. A god send, my prayers answered, and I am eager to move on from my previous inky laments and towards greater and hopefully more interesting words for all of you.

There are seriously no babes on this plane. Being the thoughtful reporter that I am, I got a seat towards the back, 32c, with 34 being as far back as it goes. This means, of course, that the bathrooms are near, but, more importantly, it means that I was one of the last to board, and that I had the opportunity to get a good look at everyone on this plane. Not a single babe. What is the world coming to? $15.00 to check a bag, one would hope for a babe. Or, at least, one would hope for no babies. Or free xanax. Fucking something. Someone needs to fix the exonomy, or make everyone else much more attractive.

Uh... Yeah, back to the beginning, where we derailed a bit. So, I was walking, in beat with track one, bus schedules and train maps, and plans of cash back from the grocery store meandering about in my head. I decided on Starbyx Frappamega coffee, cream cheese and chives weat thins, blue line train west bound, and red line train north bound. Oh, and $15 cash back, which would drain my bank account to the level of being good for a train ride home on monday, and nothing else. My pockets would be pushing past $18, including odd bits of change. I'm ready for my Travel Channel show: Moped Rallies on less than $6.00 a day. Thank god I'm not riding this weekend. I wouldn't be able to afford the $2.00 in gas for my loaner bike.

And then I get back, and have three days left before payday. My great redemption is the $5.00 my roommate owes me that he'll "totally have when I get back."

This is the longest taxi ever. I think the plan is to drive the plane to Denver and then fly the rest of the way to Chicago. Anything to save the airlines some money, no?

And there we are. In the air, all feeling awkward and frightened. Not me, though. I learned a long time ago that plane travel is the best non-train way to go. Either are good, but while the plane is quicker, the train is classier.

Ha. Want proof? How about Pink Panther 2 as our in flight. Should I watch it so I can see The Jerk turn into a jerk? Should I spend $6.00 on a mix drink? Or on a "snack box"? Fucking America.

Speaking of better countries, this flight continues on to London when I jump off in Chicago. So there's tea on this flight. I'm dreading it a bit, but I'll be ordering it. Styrofoam cup? My thoughts are paper. Either way, I'm sure I'll be the last to receive it, so it'll be extra fresh.

On another topic, if someone would devise a way for me to be able to read downloadable comic books on a plane, aside from the obvious of me buying a laptop, I'd be a happy camper. I really should have bought a laptop last week when I had money, but the gialnt bass cabinet seemed like a better idea. And maybe in the long run it was, and maybe I'll just buy a laptop next paycheck. I could upgrade to annoying fuck writing in public on a computer instead of serious artist fuck writing in public in a spiral bound notebook (with various obnoxious, failing, and stolen writing devices).

I'm going to attempt a mid flight nap. I'm sure I will achieve restless sleep as soon as they get around to delivering me this suspect tea. Or, worse, I will wake up, parched, as soon as my caretakers and done delivering to the illustrious 32nd aisle. And once that cart passes, it's all over.

The tea was adequate. It certainly wasn't grand. I watched bits of the Pink Panther 2 with the Beatles, Tom Petty, and the Kings of Leon filling me in on plot points. I'm sure it was better that way.

CHICAGO.
Well, specifically, O'hare. I love it. It's like a large city, but without anyone who is too poor to buy a ticket. New York City or SF without the bums. Nice, for sure. I walked around for an hour looking at food opportunities. I'm broke, as I mentioned, but there's never any really cheap food in the airport. So I hunted for the best bargain, walking around, looking at people and food and prices. Meandering layovers. What else was I to do?

I finally made my choice, and though it was a bit more than I wanted to spend, I was okay with it. Dr. Pepper and Popcorn. The soda was over priced, clocking in at a bit over $2.00, for a measly 20oz, but I was craving it, and that seemed like a good enough justification. I got the regular (vs. diet) because the calories seemed beneficial, and thereby more justifiable. The popcorn seemed like a good bet. It was a large bag, with butter, for $2.75? Something like that. Tax makes it hard to tally, but my total was $5.40. At any rate, it took me forever to finish (good), it was crunchy (good), and it felt healthier than McDonald's (debatable).

What could I do in an airport? I'm gonna smuggle ramen onto the flight home, no doubt.

This flight is so less crowded than the last. Something like 30 empty seats? More? Either way, I have a seat between me and the dame at the window. She's older, a mom, but not unattractive. Not my type, but Simon would be in heaven.

I got some sleep on the last flight. Optimistic that I can get some on this flight as well. The baby in the back, as well as the woman in pink who's radiating bad vibes (or is that just sudoku frustration?) beg to differ. I hope if I do fall asleep, I don't fart. I guess I just hope I don't fart on this flight in general. We could blame it on the popcorn, but something's not sitting too well. Fucking poverty, leaving me malnourished and farty.

So, one of the reasons I like flying so much is that it's an exercise in eternal peace. The Christian slogan that they generally ignore, is "Let Go, Let God." It's the only sentence of theirs I really like, except for the God part of it. Should be "LET GO". Period. The ability to reach the level of not giving a shit where one can find eternal peace is hard. Strange that giving up would be hard, but it's true. Start easy, I say. Start by flying in an airplane.

Every other method of travel has an out. An escape. Or something you can do if trouble arises. Not flying. There's not a goddamn thing you can do. Nothing. You can't get off, or swim away, or help take control of a bad situation. You can only hope for the best. And let go.

If you can't do it on your own, there' a host of benzodiazapienes you can take. Let Go Pills. And Let Go Booze in Let Go Bottles. The bitch of that being that airlines won't let you bring it to the airports, and it's too expensive to buy it when you get in. Until the airlines own the pill industry, that's your way to go. Doctors will give respectable types xanax and the like easily. Just go and say, "I HAVE TO FLY FOR WORK AND I'M TERRIFIED OF DYING!" If he's a funny doctor, with a good sense of humor, he'll ask you, "But don't you believe in God?" before giving you drugs. Or SHE. In this day and age, of course.

I prefer Valium. FYI gift ideas.

If you aren't someone who's respectable, or who can afford a a doctor, your friendly neighborhood weed dealer or coke dealer or whatever dealer might be a better alternative. They get the pills intentionally, if your market has a demand, or accidentally, if someone has a bunch of pills they want to trade for drugs. Coke dealers will charge the most for them, as there's not many people wanting to LET GO more than someone who's been up on stimulants for hours. Weed dealers are generally cheaper, man, because they aren't natural, bro, and their custies want the kind shit, dude, not pills, shacka.

Either way, you're generally looking at $2.50-$8.00 for each .5 mg installment of LET GO, which should last a domestic flight with 1 or less layovers. SO MUCH CHEAPER THAN A DOCTOR! Unless, of course, you have insurance. I had amazing insurance and a prescription for xanax. The markup would boggle your mind.

The best way to get drugs? Or anything, really? Be charming, quick witted, and never stop talking. The first will get you plenty of people to talk to, the second will help you seize an opportunity, the third will combat the potential for awkward that results from asking people for drugs. No one wants that. Well, maybe drug dealers. But other people want subtle, and they want to help you out. Because you're charming, mostly. They don't want you to ask them to sell you their prescription. They do want to help their friend who is having a problem with reality, and they're okay with making some money on it, as long as it's their idea.

That may sound manipulative. And it is. But it's not sleazy. Sleazy would be trying to get said reality helper for free. Or to not be grateful. I will always pay (low) fair market value. And I ooze grateful.

Okay, maybe ooze isn't the best word when trying to not be sleazy, but I think you know what I mean. I try my best to be helpful to my friends when they need it, and I love it when they're helpful in kind. Helpful world all around.

I guess we're about to descend into Cincinnati. Fitting that I would be listening to the just finished They Found My Naked Corpse Face Down In The Snow album, as Jerry, my partner in crime all those years, is from Cincy. We broke up in Cincy, Jerry and I, on tour, with Evening at the Black House. Our "last show ever." I played the next day, alone, in Cleveland. It was good. Lots of technical difficulties that tour. But that was my first time in Cincinnati. Actually, that's not true. Is it? the memories get scattered and I'll be damned if I 'm going to dig through old journals to figure it out. I vaguely think that I went through Cincy with the Unit Breed and Morse Code Heartbeat. But I don't think there was a show there? Then why would we go? Am I imagining it? Combining tours? Bleeding Columbus onto Cincinnati hills?

Ach.

One thing's for certain, I could use a good road trip. With the band. It's been too long. Hatred of booking tours ought to take a back seat to love of playing shows on tour, no? No?

We're circling now. The actual landing in Chicago was rough. There was a bounce that affected my LET GO immensely and I can feel it now with this descent. It would help if we could listen to our music on the way down, the prattle from the fellow passengers, sounds from confused and upset babies, it's not helpful. Ah, well, here we go. Down to the ground.

Hello trees. Hello grass. Hello ground.

We hit right when I wrote the g in ground. I have amazing timing.

And there's part one. I'm sure you're on the edge of yer seats. But I have to do laundry. TL:DR?