Timothy E. Cook, "Governing With The News � The News Media as a Political Institution"
(This is part 7 of an 18-part story, which begins here. Part 5 is here. And here is where you find part 10. Part 15? Right here. And the end of this entirely too long story is located here. After that, you�re on your own.)
(3:30 a.m. � Oakland Airport � 21th hour.)
I�m free! Free to move around! I no longer have to sit in the same spot that I�ve been in for the last six hours!
I walk the 738 steps through the airport and then sit outside to smoke.
And look, I know I�m tired and cranky, but Jesus wept, this book was terrible! Written by a professor of political science at Williams College (wherever the hell that is), it reads like a master thesis by somebody who has no idea how to write a paper.
Indeed, it�s almost like he didn�t write the damn thing, because there are over 100 pages of footnotes at the end, all used only to explain where his source material comes from. You think with all of the authors that he decided to cite from, he would have found somebody who was interesting! The book became an endurance test. Who knows, maybe the book is better for somebody who hasn�t spent nearly an entire day inside of an airport with no sleep, but somehow I doubt it.
The eatery finally opened again, and I ordered another breakfast (my second from this same place, but they refused to give me a discount for being a regular). The food was again terrible, which I shouldn�t have been surprised by. Even the coffee, which was by no means ever on the level of �good,� was now almost completely intolerable, and I actually struggled to get it down and keep it there, knowing how much I needed the precious, precious caffeine.
Slowly I slogged through the book and I even managed to drop into a fitful sleep on a few occasions only to be awakened by screaming kids, armed guards barking instructions, or the occasional fat person who would shake the entire row of seats when they sat down.
If that wasn�t enough, I woke up a few times with the sudden urge to scratch, mostly on my legs. I finally lifted my leg and inspected my calves.
I had flea bites on my legs, which were exposed because of the shorts I was wearing. Why the hell would I have flea bites from an airport?
The fucking family of hippies. Have I mentioned the fact that I fucking hate hippies?
It was now just past 7 a.m., and while the manager said he didn�t want to see my face before 7:30, I felt that I simply could not sit down any longer � if I did, I wouldn�t be able to get up again. I started to walk toward the ticket window. As I did, the hippie patriarch came running up to me.
�Dude, they called your name!�
�Say what?!?�
�Yeah, man, they called your name like three times!�
I ran past him to the ticket counter. The manager was there, still looking very annoyed. Despite his assertion that everybody past the first ten people should go home, there were nearly 25 people milling about, looking pathetically morose, hoping that somehow, they would be able to get on the next plane. I told him my name and that somebody said they we�re looking for me.
�Yeah, we were,� he said. �Are you interested in going to the Big Island?�
�Well, I need to get to Kaua�i, so what happens when I get to the Big Island?�
�You would have to catch a puddle jumper over to Kaua�i.�
�And I have to buy that ticket?� I asked.
�Yeah,� he said.
�No.�
�Okay then you can go away, and don�t come back until after 8:30.�
�But the second plane leaves at nine.�
�Come back exactly at 8:30, then.�
I started to walk away, and then noticed the hippie family of three staring intently at me from the back wall. I turned back to the ticket manager.
�How many tickets do you have available for this flight?� I asked.
�We have two seats left.�
�And how many do you have left on the next flight?�
�We won�t know that until 8:30. Ask me after then.�
Gee, no wonder the hippie was so concerned.
