Wish you were here

I decided that my last post was just too dark and gloomy.
So I re-wrote it. The voyeuristic amongst you can now get a
glimpse into the creative process :

---

I always find bookstores somewhat unsettling. On one hand there is this
orgasmic mine of information, entertainment, raw thought and, womens
magazines. But on the other hand it is also a little overwhelming because
there is this endless towering amount of information, entertainment, raw
thought and, womens magazines.

Suffice to say that I can usually last about two hours before I have to
either purchase something or just get out and breathe.

The store I was just in was no exception. On the flight over I realised
that my current tome was nearing an end and if I wanted to make it through
the week (and the flight back) I needed a refill. So I rocked into an old
haunt near the university but the deathly palor that consumed the place
was quickly unbearable. The aisles were full of pasty faced vegetarians
fresh from the health food shop next door. They were all moving slowly
through the sociology section which is, unsurprisingly, right next to the
self help section and I just couldn't focus.

I should also point out that these sort of places smell just plain weird.
It is an odd combination of 'Old Person', the great unwashed, slightly
damp books and years of burning incense to hide all the other smells.

So, I took the default approach, grabbed some cheap detective novels and
got out of there before the guy behind me in the line started a long
painful diatribe with the checkout person on the effects of Derrida on the
working classes. His beret and cloak were a dead giveaway.

Then again, this could have just been a side effect of, for want of a
better term, 'High Rent Jet Lag'

I want to say that I was rewarding myself by getting a first class ticket
to Sydney for Christmas, but the truth is that is first class were only
tickets available, so I just had to suck it up and and enjoy the ride.

For the record, anyone who thinks that first class is some bacchanal romp
involving endless champagne, massages and fawning minions is not flying my
airline. (except for the endless bubbly, that much is true)

Instead you spend and an uncomfortable two hours in the first class lounge
where there are only three of you and the place is deathly quiet. It is
like some sort of old hotel, replete with the occasional rustling of
papers and the unmistakable sound of a cube of ice settling itself deeper
into the glass. I half expected to see a geriatric bell hop totter past
under the weight of far too many bags.

The First class Cabin was equally bereft of soul. For some unheard of
reason only half the seats were taken and everyone was so far apart that
there was no way or method for people to intercommunicate. Even the staff
did their best to leave you alone because you, presumably, were far too
important to be bothered.

So you do what everyone else does. You bury yourself in a book or a
movie, sleep when you can and hope that there are normal people at the
other end.

I ended the day waiting for my sister in a bar down by the beach, as she
had the keys to the house and rode out the evening doing my usual 'I'm not
homeless, just interesting' impersonation.

It was supposed to be a balmy summer evening with people filling the
streets celebrating the end of the year. But instead it was
uncharacteristically cold, the rain was beating down and everyone was in
hiding. About an hour ago I finished my book, and would be talking to the
bartender except he went out the back for a smoke.

Instead I thought back to the flight.

Somewhere over the Hawaii they had to reboot the entertainment system and
for about thirty minutes all we had to listen to was the Pink Floyd's
'Dark side of the moon'

"...There's someone in my head but it's not me..."

How I wish you were here

It is sometime after dark. I'm sitting in a bar waiting for my sister to
meet me with the keys to her house. As a result I'm having a bit of a
existential crisis because I now feel truly homeless.

It it supposed to be a balmy summer evening with people filling the
streets celebrating the end of the year. But instead it is
uncharacteristically cold, the rain is beating down and everyone is in
hiding. About an hour ago I finished my book, and would be talking to the
bartender except that the staff have gone out the back for a smoke.

In my defense, I did try to be organised earlier today and find a
bookshop. I hit the one near the university but the deathly palor that
consumed the place was unbearable. I don't know what is it about these
sorts of shops but the place was full of pasty faced vegetarians fresh
from the health food shop next door. They were all moving slowly through
the sociology section which is, unsurprisingly, right next to the self
help section and I just couldn't focus. I should also point out that
these sort of places smell just plain weird. It is an odd combination of
'Old Person', the great unwashed, slightly damp books and years of burning
incense to hide all the other smells.

I needed real people, I needed just one good conversation.

The flight here probably didn't help. I can't think of a more solitary
experience.

I want to say that I was rewarding myself by getting a first class ticket
to Sydney for Christmas, but the truth is that is first class were only
tickets available, so I just had to suck it up and and enjoy the ride.

But I just couldn't. It was all too, well, odd.

I had to fly via LAX and spend an uncomfortable two hours in the first
class lounge. There were only three of us in there and the place was just
deathly quiet. It was actually like some sort of old hotel. There was
the occasional rustling of papers and the unmistakable sound of a cube of
ice settling itself deeper into the glass. I half expected to see a
geriatric bell hop totter past under the weight of far too many bags.

In the plane the First class Cabin was is equally bereft of soul. For
some unheard of reason only half the seats were taken and everyone was so
far apart that there was no way or method for people to intercommunicate.
Even the staff did their best to leave you alone because you, presumably,
were far too important to be bothered.

Anyone who thinks that first class is some bacchanal romp involving
endless champagne, massages and fawning minions is not flying my airline.
(except for the endless bubbly, that much is true)

Sometime later they had to reboot the entertainment system and for about
thirty minutes all we had to listen to was the Pink Floyd's 'Dark side of
the moon'

"...There's someone in my head but it's not me..."

I'm a Whore to my Airline.

Seat 24C, the second worst seat on a Boeing 777. (The worst seat is just
behind it, in the exit aisle). I am, as usual, suffering for my art and
doing a long haul across the pond. I had hoped to get some sleep during
the ten hour ordeal. I had also hoped to get an upgrade.

Instead I'm enjoying the unenvious position of being a) Close enough to the
toilets to enjoy the usual water cooler conversations that seem to run too
loud and too late into the night. b) My seat actually sticks out into the
aisle so EVERYONE bumps my seat as they walk past. c) The couple at the
other end of the row have a baby that won't stop crying. And, as icing on
the cake, d) I'm stuck next to someone who has decided that they do not want
to sleep and would rather work all night on their powerpoint presentation
that, now that I've had all night to read it, looks like crap.

You would think that these people would be aware of the folks around them
and reconsider their actions. But there is nothing I can do about it, I
just have to suck it up and enjoy my time in the coach ghetto.

So, I could be feeling a lot of pain, but at least I'm not Bob.

Bob travels as much as I do and by some odd coincidence he is actually on
my flight. Bob is also, I've decided, insane. He is doing something that
is affectionately called a 'mileage run'. He is flying to from San
Francisco to London where, after knocking back a few pints in the
departure lounge, will then get back on the plane and fly back to The Bay

He is doing this to get an extra 20,000 miles which will bump his frequent
flyer status. His argument is that with his improved status he has a
better chance of getting upgraded on later flights. So he is feeling the
pain of slumming it in coach for 24 hours just so he doesn't have to
slum it later.

I tried to point out that if he just didn't fly so often, he wouldn't feel
the pain at all.

It is kinda like buying things on sale. Sure the item is cheap, but you
would also save a lot more money if you just didn't buy the damn thing.

However, this is not why he is insane, well not directly. What is dumb is
that he is taking luggage with him. Here is the perfect opportunity to
travel really light. All you would need is a clean shirt, passport and a
credit card. Even Indy Jones couldn't get this good, he still had to find
somewhere to hang his whip.

Instead Bob has four DVDs, three days worth of clothes, two laptops and,
probably, a partridge in a pear tree. He muttered something about 'having
to get some work done'.

My only response was to just be a smug bastard and tell him that I have
three days of clothes because I'm going to Barcelona.

Unfortunately this meant that I had to endure the extra security while
moving between terminals at Heathrow, the usual connecting flight delays,
discovering that trains in Barcelona do not have route maps (I guess
people just 'know' where they are going). I barely had enough Euros and
was mostly guessing as to where the hotel was. Maybe turning around at
Heathrow was the saner thing to do.

When I did finally stumble into my accommodations to check in, 'Hotel
California' was playing over the sound system.

"...You can check out any time you like..."