gallas13

when a losing streak rears its head the only thing you can do is upgrade. really. i mean if youre going to catch shit there might as well be bigger seats and free booze and some dolled-up broad that calls you mister. my dad always says, go first class or stay the fuck home. never were truer words spoken.

i fucking hate airports. i heard some guy once refer to an airport as a waiting room for hell. indeed. sure there is a somewhat enticing bar culture in airports, but the novelty lasts about 15 minutes. i must say a little prayer the guy who served me my first in atlanta he says, im sorry sir, were all out of limes, but i assure that the alcohols still good. he also agreed to pour me an adult size, as opposed to the typical dinky snifter one normally gets. still, id much rather be surrounded by friends at my local. local bars make everyone instant best chums. last night for example, seamus appears out of the blue and asks, do you smoke? i responded in the affirmative, and told him, i think theyll even let you roll in here. and things proceeded from there. you get the point.

in an airport, however, people judge. instantly theyre given a random sample of strangers from all corners of the earth, and they begin sizing up what the rest of the world is really like. the woman with a purple gown and matching purple head wrap; the requisite platoon of exhausted businessmen, ties loosened and wrinkle-resistant suits crumpled into aluminum-like waste; the condescending grandmothers and their faith; the family and their ill-disciplined brood of mongols that eye you menacingly and then descend on the soft-serve ice cream pagoda; the morbidly obese riding in the beeping courtesy car. i like throwing myself into the midst of these strangers, to see how they respond or ignore. before i got on my second flight i decided to spruce up my coca-cola, and as i stood in the mens room unscrewing my flask, i noticed the man next to me was utterly oblivious (or simply un-moved), while the other three men to my right were either jealous or shocked beyond words. they watched wide eyed as i emptied half the bottle and filled it back up with my trusty stash. i wanted to hold court, to preach a sermon that would echo off the industrial tile walls and say, yes gents, there was indeed a time when it was acceptable for gentlemen to have mid-day cocktails, but now were in the dark ages. and those of us left are reduced to keeping the tradition alive clandestinely. we carry flasks and breathe antiseptic air. we scrawl our secrets on the walls and jerk off in stalls. i shouldve done that and snorted a line or two for good measure. right there. but instead of letting loose, i just eyed my neighbor wanly as i finished pouring. i grimaced, and he looked down at the sink, embarrassed. i wasnt sure for who, though.

a woman on one leg of my journey was hilarious but had horrible gas. we both silently acknowledged this, and i offered her a drink, which she graciously declined. the former governor of georgia sat opposite me. he looked tired. tired of the journey. tired of airplanes. tired of his bejewled wife. and i felt tired for him. i wanted to offer him a drink, but instead i drank for him. or perhaps to him. it was a sleepy evening, and my stepmother arrived with kettle one martinis. there is a bizarre synchronicity that pervades the weary. we just know.

tonight my gay friend told me about getting blown in the back of cab by some girl he works with. right after passing out drunk at the opera in the park. he goes, "man, this being gay thing is really working out for me. the chicks dig it!" i shuddered and jumped out of the cab, heading straight for the bar.

i love lonliness. i revel in it.