Lemony Snicket, �The Unauthorized Autobiography�
All right, well, here�s the book based on the �A Series of Unfortunate Events� author. Don�t get me started on that awful movie, which I already talked about here. Of course, this isn�t that much better. The best thing is the reversible book cover. Other than that it stinks a little too high of trying to make a quick buck. But who cares? Not me, �cause I was just using the title to talk about my own trip which, while good, could still be dangled in front of the poor little Baudelaire Orphans whereupon you could tell them to stop their whining.
Why?
�Cause I went on a plane.
No, it�s not from something stupid, like having a phobia. It just stands, nearly without fail, that if you put me on a plane, something bad is going to happen. Oh, Samuel L. Jackson, wherefore art thou? I have no snakes to offer, but there�s still plenty of people that you could punch, kick, strangle, or simply say something loud and forceful toward. Don�t believe me? Go ahead, click here. Or here. Or even here.
And that doesn�t even begin to bring up other times that I haven�t written about, like going to my friend�s bar in San Francisco because me and my photographer partner had a six a.m. flight to Buffalo so we figured we�d drink until 2, help her close up and then catch a taxi. What happened was that I passed out underneath the departure screens, one hand slightly down my pants, refusing to neither move from my resting point nor remove my hand from its destiny toward umbrage. I also lost my transfer ticket in route to the next flight. I probably should have checked in my pants.
Let�s just say airplanes and I have a history. But I digress.
I need to back up anyway. If you�ll recall, a few weeks back I wrote about one of the strip clubs in the area for the local paper. This was not my idea. I had a rare evening off from the nightclub and my favorite dive bar was having an anniversary celebration complete with food. So I talked some of my friends into meeting me there, whereupon we�d load up on foodstuffs and then hit a bar or three for me to write about before I left.
What happened is we all stayed at the dive bar until ten, getting far too drunk. When I suggested we go out to find other places that I could write about (seeing as I had already written an article on the dive bar previously), all they could think of involved naked ladies. So I went, and I had a good time, particularly since one of the dancers was a regular patron at my club, who, while was a very nice girl, was built like a ten-year-old boy and thus every time she came out to perform I found myself shouting �Boo!� just to see if I could make her fall off the pole as she spun around, showing us her ten-year-old boy physique.
But I�m digressing again. And strangely enough, my hand is attempting to return to my belt line.
Oh, I�m kidding. Relax. Anyhoo, I woke up the next day, realizing that I had no story and no clubs to write about. Well hell, I figured, I�m a freelancer anyway. They must have all sorts of things they can use. I decided not to worry about it. But the next day my editor wrote me a frantic note asking if I was planning on turning in an article, because she didn�t have anything to use. I explained where I had been and said I didn�t know their policy on adult entertainment, and my editor said she trusted me to make it something besides inherently sleazy.
Oh, what a naive editor I have.
But knowing my editor didn�t have a backstock of stories put me into gear to get her articles before I left. I managed to find two new places on my next day off. The only problem was, I had a monumental workweek for the remainder of the time up until I was supposed to board the plane. Finally, with my shuttle arraigned to pick me up in twelve hours, I pounded out two columns, which can be read here and here.
Christ, think there are enough links in this entry?
I finished the last column and noticed I had less than four hours before my arraigned pickup time. I still hadn�t packed. I started throwing things into my bag: a suit for the wedding, warmer clothes for San Francisco, the final season of Home Movies for Kelly. And gee wizz, since I haven�t slept in 36 hours I may as well pour myself one more pint glass of whiskey and coke, right? Right. I took my glass outside to sip while I smoked a cigarette. When I got back, I noticed a missed call and voicemail from Kelly. I called to check the message.
�Baby?� the voice on the other end said, sounding worried, �I don�t know if you�re awake, but if you get this, then you should turn on the news. There�s all sorts of crazy stuff going on at the airports all over the country.�
She paused for a moment. Kelly knows my history with airplanes. Finally, she spoke saying simply, �This sucks.�
I hung up, preparing to call her back when the phone rang again. This time it was my sister, who also is well versed in my poor luck with airports.
�Did you hear?� she said when I answered.
�I heard something,� I said, �but I don�t really know what�s going on.�
�Well, you better turn on the television, �cause I think you�re about to get another hard time with your flight.�
I turned on the television. Bomb plot foiled. Massive emergency security measures installed at all airports. Huge delays.
Oh fuck, I thought. Here we go.
[To be continued...]
