You would think that by now I would know better than to pack all of my flying into the can of worms we call “Summer.” Jam-packed airplanes, glass-ceilinged terminal buildings that simmer like crock pots, unaccompanied kids in droves and cancellations galore, and for some reason, I stack my schedule like I don’t want to miss a single minute of it. (Santa Fe spas are awesome, after all, but they ain’t free.) But Summertime flying is a topic for another post. (Or “series of rants;” we’ll see where that takes us.) Hard as I’ve been hittin’ it the last couple weeks, though, it hasn’t been all bad. As I’ve mentioned in posts past, I am a mad fan of the downtown layover, and of all of the diversions they provide, and I have lucked into a few of them lately. Cute cafes and boys in shorts are but the first two things that leap to mind as being more plentiful and more fun in a City Center than at airport-adjacent lodgings, and my pro-cafe, pro-boys-in-shorts stance is longstanding and unambiguous. But last week, on an unexpected and uncommon trip with not one but two downtown layovers, I reconnected, at long last, with one of the best things about being a writer who flies: America’s Bookstores. Continue reading
My writing group met yesterday, and, as we love to do, before we got down to the business of being awesome and motivating each other to set new and challenging goals, we did a few group exercises. Yesterday’s pen-pusher was an old favorite: using the next song to pop up on Pandora as a prompt, you use its title as the title of your piece, then write whatever falls out of your head while we listen to the song. Is there nothing Pat Benatar can’t do?
“Shadows of the Night”
I feel like an ass falling offa these platform shoes, but in for a penny… I don’t know whose stupid idea this was, or where this yellow mullet wig came from, but here we are, every one of us taller than 6’2, in leather bustier drag waiting to get into this club. All very underground, very “now” according to J, which doesn’t explain the 80s throwback motif of the line, most of whom will learn about the 80s in History class and probably think a Golden Girl is some kind of glittery tequila shot. But they’re liking the look of our crowd and threatening to let us in, when really all I want is to climb down offa these shoes and go eat some Thai food.
I know there’s somebody out there, except of course there isn’t. It’s those cats again. And that mariachi band up the street that thinks “midnight” is English for “start practicing.” The funny thing is, there’s always so much shit going on back there that Allen could stalk me and lie in wait if he wanted to. But he doesn’t have the guts, and whatever we had wasn’t worth all that.