L.A. Story
Wednesday, July 20
Man, I really really really hope Northwest Airlines goes out of business. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. If anyone wanted to kill me, it would be extraordinarily easy as I am extreme creature of habit. After a pleasant drive to Metro, I parked, as is my custom, at U.S. Park and took the shuttle to the fancy pants Northwest Terminal. Normally, I fly Orange County Air; so, woo hoo, this was the big leagues. I felt bad that I didn't tip the driver, but I didn't have naything smaller than a ten. Sorry, ma'am.

I breezed through security and that's when all my troubles began. My boarding pass very clearly read "Gate A66." Okedoke, I hopped ont he tram and rode up to the north station. As soon as I stepped off the tram, a voice came over the loudspeakers, "Attention Northwest... blah blah blah." My gate had been changed from A66 to A12. Okay, I can handle that. I'm not happy about it, but into every life a little rain must fall. But then the voice said, "Check your boarding pass." Lisaten, motherfuckers, I checked my Bog damned boarding pass, I'm looking at it right fucking now, and it very clearly fucking reads Gate A66, not Gate motherfucking A12. I can deal with the gate change, but to then say that I should check my boarding pass is to imply that I've made a mistake, which at that point I hadn't. Northwest decided to blame me and my fellow passengers for their mistake. Shiteaters.

Injury added to insult, once I finally got on the plane I was in the middle "bitch" seat, not the window I'd booked. Fortunately, there was only one other person with me in the very last row; so, she took the window, her assigned seat, and I sat on the aisle. And of course we lifted off exactly sixty-five minutes after our scheduled departure. And of course airlines don't serve food anymore, nto even on transcontinental flights, though they will sell you a crummy snack pack for a king's ransom. Next time, I'm flying El Al. I hear they still take service seriously.

We had to have made fairly good time, because we landed only forty minutes behind schedule and to have made up twenty-five minutes on a four and a half hour flight isn't bad. At LAX, I walked right past K. Steeze, the Professor, and the Belle of Texas. I vaguely registered a cute brunette off to my left, but had to do a double take before I realized I'd seen that face before and, man alive, she was flanked by my fellow Blue Tree Whackers. We had a nice laugh about my obliviousness and then went gentle into that good night. (The lady at the Detroit check-in counter had made fun of my old, battered bags, but once in LAX I had zero trouble spotting them on the conveyor belt. As always. Fuck you, lady, and have a nice day.)

We drove past a neat, ultramodern restaurant that the Professor had for the past several years assumed was the control tower (even thought it is flanked by taller structures) and made a bee line for the In & Out Burger. Let me say first that the In & Out Burger is my kind of place; the portions are large and greasy, the decor and employee uniforms are delightfully retro, and best of all it's cheap. That said, the name In & Out Burger is wickedly misleading. In last 2oth/early 21st century American English, the phrase "in & out" implies celerity. Like, you pull up to the bank and say, "I'm just need to use the ATM. I'll be in and out." Quick. Technically, every time you use a building you're emabarking upon an "in & out" transaction, otherwise you'd still be inside that building. So, I'm not out of line saying that the name In & Out Burger clearly implies that you'll get in and out with relative speed. Such is not actually the case.

Still, like I always said, it is my kind of place and I had enough fries to make my feel slightly sick. We drove to BTWest, a loft in a converted factory, the boys showed me the Risk board they had stuck to the the underside of their glass dining table with putty, and as both the Professor and the Belle had work in the morning (he had work, her job is a volunteer internship) we all went to bed. Or rather, I went to couch. Or rather, I went to love seat. Being taller than the love seat was long, I slept in a mostly upright position with my feet sticky up into the air off the other end. Hardly comfortable, but such are the thrills of travel.

The Professor offered me his bed, but even I am not so boorish a guest as to turn my host out of his own bed.

[I also wrote up the events of Thursday, July 21, but as I tried to post them, the fine fuckers at Blogger informed my that the service was unavailable due to "scheduled maintenance." Nice of them to let the rest of us in on their schedule. As always, I hope every single motherfucker at the Blogger division of Google bleeds from his eyes every day of his wretched life from now until death.]

Next time on "L.A. Story": Thursday. (Before Blogger fucked us all over, that would have read, "The Triumph of the Narwhal.")