There is nothing like quitting smoking to bring out your general distain for rest of humanity (as of writing this, it have been over a month, cheers). There is no worse place to get nic fits than an airport. It naturally follows that in such a state there are particular things I do not desire. Invasive surgery. Any sort of sentence detailing the merits of Dave Mathews Band. Essays that begin with passively constructed sentences. Dave Mathews Band. Neo-Conservative rhetoric. Airports.
I hate airports.
I told my roommate about this particular putrid hatred, to which he countered (something to the effect of), "You just don't appreciate the marvels of modern technology." The monolithic combination of lift, turbines, and government regulation, it is kind of incredible when you thing about it. Fair enough. Though, unswayed in my curmudgeony, I point out what I find one of my more clever observations (I think). Airports hold tens to tens of thousand of people. Every single one of them wants to be somewhere else. I am not an exception. I won’t give the long boring tale of my flights from Minneapolis to Las Vegas to El Paso to Houston to Minneapolis to Newark to Shannon, no. That run on sentence is long enough. But I will give you a few highlights, observations etc.
1. In multiple airports, I saw iPod vending machines. That’s right, I kid you not. You can go up, swipe your credit card, and then conveniently get iPod, digital camera, or some such accessories. Of course, this presupposes that you have a laptop with you to put music on said iPod, in which case, you could just listen to music from said laptop. Or, you have to wait until you arrive at some place where you can put your music on your hand-held, music player that was just delivered to you in the manner of Cheetos, or Famous Amos cookies. However, this is no more convenient than going out and buying one at a store. The marketing powers that be, must bank on the novelty of the whole thing to sell their product in this fashion. They must make millions. Sigh, history major, sigh.
2. In Newark I met a few folks including a large rowdy choir group and one person I have class with. I met another girl at the airport bar before take off. We chatted for a while. She is a (and I was not clever enough to come up with this string of verbiage, so I’ll give Woody Allen credit) New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandeis University, the socialist summer camps and the, the father with the Ben Shahn drawings, right, and the really, y'know, strike-oriented kind of, red diaper studying in Dublin for the semester. She kind of reminded my of my ex-girlfriend. And she also made me realize that my ex-girlfriend should have been born a New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandeis University, the socialist summer camps and the, the father with the Ben Shahn drawings, right, and the really, y'know, strike-oriented kind of, red diaper…
3. In the Las Vegas airport I was board and hungry due to a four-hour delay. I should add fast food to the list of things I hate, though, oddly enough, it does not contribute to the pangs of a tobacco-free travel. So I got a veggie burger and fries. None of this really has to do with anything except that it leads up to my observations about the cashier in the context of Iron Age history. In 1st century B.C.E. Julius Caesar conquered Gaul, which is now modern France. The Romans and Gauls fought the final decisive battle at a hill fort called Alesia. In the end, Caesar slaughtered children and stuff as per usual, and the Gaulish leader, Vercingetorix, was put to death in a gruesome and shameful manner. I think Alesia is one of the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard. I’ve used it in songs and other writings as both a metaphor and for its general pleasing quality. I plan on, upon breeding , to name a (female) child this. I have only met on person with this name. It was a girl on an archaeological dig I worked on when I was in (I think) middle school. When asked what her name meant, she replied something to the effect of “It’s a city in France, my dad’s a history buff.” I also remember her liking punk rock. I should have been in love. Oh, the errors of youth. Anyway, in the Las Vegas airport, the person working at the Burger King was named Alesia. Sometimes, I can be a very shallow and thoroughly disreputable person. And sometimes you meet a person and have to feel very much sorry for how absolutely unattractive they are. In the words of the band Butt Trumpet, “What the fuck did you do to you?” This second Alesia was one of those people. Question one: How did she get that name? Question two: Does this ruin the name for me forever? Question three: What level of hell does this put me in? Am I free and easy enduring only infrequent invasive surgery while Dave Mathews is playing, or am I in the belly of the beast thumb wrestling Brutus and Judas?





A post script note, I cannot use footnotes in the blog.This sucks. However, if I were able to use them please insert the following footnote after the words upon breeding. Footnote: If I, in fact, do breed.
For future posts, I'll figure out a different way to footnote. I'm crafty like that.