Travel jones
I can't stop thinking about New York, and how I'll be there in less than a week.
I've compiled a list of things I'm particularly excited about. (Because lists help me get through every day with utmost efficiency.)
• Upon seeing Amber, running like a freaking drama queen toward her for a reunion hug.
• Seeing the house and meeting Pete the sommelier, who is, in four days, going to teach me everything I ever needed to know about wine without having to watch Sideways.
• Playing The Sims 2 like a motherfucker while Amber waits tables at the fabled Lobster Inn.
• Actually seeing the fabled Lobster Inn. And maybe eating something there. And having a drink or two. And maybe getting it comped, if the crazy owner isn't paying attention.
• Seeing the Hamptons in spring, as I've only ever seen it in the fall.
• Getting a resident's-eye-view tour of the area now that Amber's lived there for almost two years. Two years!
• Getting crunkulated and hee-hawing at our favorite jokes for four days straight.
• Meeting most of the delightful freaks and geeks who populate Amber's New York life.
• Going to the city to see Craig's pad and meeting his roommates/friends.
• Traipsing around the city, pretending not the be a blasted tourist.
• Making that phat* money while I'm "vacationing."
I'm excited as hell. It's going to be so much fun. If I was rich, I'd be up there every weekend. Hell, I'd move up there and live like a trust-funder.
The only thing that's got me a little skiddish is the plane ride. (As usual.) I sat at Phil's the other night and listened to the planes rumble overhead as they made their way toward the airport. He's right in the path of the taxying (sp?) area, and giant planes fly over his apartment in four-minute intervals. As we sat there, I just kept thinking of what it's like to be a helpless schmuck sitting in a plane, twitching at every loud noise or jerk of turbulence. What do you do if something goes wrong?
Why, nothing.
I hate flying. I can't remember if it was the last time I visited the Hamptons or the last time I flew into New York City, but I spent the entire night before the flight in a neurotic frenzy of nerves and apprehension (and tears), worried about the flight and thinking it was just a matter of karmic probability that my time was up and my plane was going to end up in a smoky pile of rubble somewhere near a rural farm.
I tend to get that way these days on the rare occasionas when I fly. The worst part is the taking off and ascension: I am on the verge of tears the entire time. It's not until the flight attendant offers me a Coke and some peanuts or vanilla granola that I sort of chill out and decide that if science can take us 30,000 feet in the air, it can bring us back down. But the landing always brings back all those bad, nervous feelings. And then, on the trip home, I go through the whole ordeal again. It's a bummer, and it's mostly irrational, but it's something I get completely caught up in. Every time. For the past three years, at least.
I don't want to say it's some attitude I acquired "post-9/11," because that's not exactly accurate. I flew in October of 2001 and didn't experience a second of apprehension. In fact, I was sort of brazen and careless because I figured I was being taken extra special care of (truly? I have no idea). I'm not sure when this fear of flying kicked in. It must be some silly post-adolescent confronting-my-mortality nonsense. I don't know. But that's the only part of this trip that I dread.
And, in the event that I die (which is really as likely as the event that I don't die, isn't it? Philosophy majors, chime in here.), let this idiotic blog post stand as a legal notice that my parents inherit all my shit. But Amber gets the cumbersome (but fun!) responsibility of wading through all my Word documents and e-mails and deciding what the parents get to see, which will be compiled for a modest (and poor-selling) collection of short stories and poetry, and which are banished to the eighth level of literary Hell.
*Denotes the first time "phat" has ever been used on this blog.
I've compiled a list of things I'm particularly excited about. (Because lists help me get through every day with utmost efficiency.)
• Upon seeing Amber, running like a freaking drama queen toward her for a reunion hug.
• Seeing the house and meeting Pete the sommelier, who is, in four days, going to teach me everything I ever needed to know about wine without having to watch Sideways.
• Playing The Sims 2 like a motherfucker while Amber waits tables at the fabled Lobster Inn.
• Actually seeing the fabled Lobster Inn. And maybe eating something there. And having a drink or two. And maybe getting it comped, if the crazy owner isn't paying attention.
• Seeing the Hamptons in spring, as I've only ever seen it in the fall.
• Getting a resident's-eye-view tour of the area now that Amber's lived there for almost two years. Two years!
• Getting crunkulated and hee-hawing at our favorite jokes for four days straight.
• Meeting most of the delightful freaks and geeks who populate Amber's New York life.
• Going to the city to see Craig's pad and meeting his roommates/friends.
• Traipsing around the city, pretending not the be a blasted tourist.
• Making that phat* money while I'm "vacationing."
I'm excited as hell. It's going to be so much fun. If I was rich, I'd be up there every weekend. Hell, I'd move up there and live like a trust-funder.
The only thing that's got me a little skiddish is the plane ride. (As usual.) I sat at Phil's the other night and listened to the planes rumble overhead as they made their way toward the airport. He's right in the path of the taxying (sp?) area, and giant planes fly over his apartment in four-minute intervals. As we sat there, I just kept thinking of what it's like to be a helpless schmuck sitting in a plane, twitching at every loud noise or jerk of turbulence. What do you do if something goes wrong?
Why, nothing.
I hate flying. I can't remember if it was the last time I visited the Hamptons or the last time I flew into New York City, but I spent the entire night before the flight in a neurotic frenzy of nerves and apprehension (and tears), worried about the flight and thinking it was just a matter of karmic probability that my time was up and my plane was going to end up in a smoky pile of rubble somewhere near a rural farm.
I tend to get that way these days on the rare occasionas when I fly. The worst part is the taking off and ascension: I am on the verge of tears the entire time. It's not until the flight attendant offers me a Coke and some peanuts or vanilla granola that I sort of chill out and decide that if science can take us 30,000 feet in the air, it can bring us back down. But the landing always brings back all those bad, nervous feelings. And then, on the trip home, I go through the whole ordeal again. It's a bummer, and it's mostly irrational, but it's something I get completely caught up in. Every time. For the past three years, at least.
I don't want to say it's some attitude I acquired "post-9/11," because that's not exactly accurate. I flew in October of 2001 and didn't experience a second of apprehension. In fact, I was sort of brazen and careless because I figured I was being taken extra special care of (truly? I have no idea). I'm not sure when this fear of flying kicked in. It must be some silly post-adolescent confronting-my-mortality nonsense. I don't know. But that's the only part of this trip that I dread.
And, in the event that I die (which is really as likely as the event that I don't die, isn't it? Philosophy majors, chime in here.), let this idiotic blog post stand as a legal notice that my parents inherit all my shit. But Amber gets the cumbersome (but fun!) responsibility of wading through all my Word documents and e-mails and deciding what the parents get to see, which will be compiled for a modest (and poor-selling) collection of short stories and poetry, and which are banished to the eighth level of literary Hell.
*Denotes the first time "phat" has ever been used on this blog.
posted by theogeo | 4/09/2006 01:30:00 AM
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