Thursday, February 7, 2008


Back home after what was maybe the longest day of my life. Waking up in Garmisch, Germany at 8:30 a.m. and falling asleep in Long Beach, California at 1:30 a.m. is not something I want to do again.

Here's an excerpt from my journal, written on the plane after something like eight hours of non-stop boredom...
Hell is a trans-Atlantic flight. Sittin' upright with nowhere to sleep. Sun shining all day and all day. If there's no rest for the wicked, then I'm the wickedest of them all. Friend passed out from free beer. All I got was a nice wine buzz and a forced shit three hours later. People talking, people sleeping. Babies crying, babies FINALLY sleeping. Trying to read with bloodshot eyes -- no focus. Words not making sense. Terrible inflight flick, 'nother Cusack (this had both of 'em) wannabe tearjerker. Speak up, no one likes a whisperer. Hey, it killed time. For that we're all grateful. When's dinner? Not hungry but bored. Three beeps is bad, she said. Wonder why. Face looks like shit. Pastier than ever, eyes that look stoned but aren't (wishing they were), stubble, yellow teeth. Stomach tossing and turning. Round two perhaps? Spoke too soon. Crying baby means crying passengers. If it's young enough to cry, leave it with grandma and grandpa. Square behind me clicks away on his laptop. Mr. Important gettin' shit done. Strangers cough and we're all gettin' what he's got. Don't talk to me about torture. Not interested in hardships or woah-as-me tales. I gots my own. They're called Lufthansa. Tiny pillows smaller than my head and a pint-sized blanket. Thanks for patronizing us, stripping us of dignity while dangling that elusive carrot, showing us what could -- and soon will -- be. Who needs 'em? Ain't no sleeping going on. 'Cept for the thin older but cute woman catching zzzz across the aisle. She's layed out, enjoying this much more than I am. Everyone's enjoying this much more than I am, even the crying baby. Where are we all going? SF's the easy answer. What's the hard one? Puttin' men on the moon, shootin' missles to Baghdad from DC but we can't make this any quicker. Email keeps the world together by an invisible thread. Type and click, it's there. Scotty, can you hear me?

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