Road Trip, Part I: The Early Preparation and Arrival of Yours Truly into the Land of Dry Heat and Motor-pool Hotties

Thursday, June 12, 2008, 9:00 PM Los Angeles time

Flight time, t-minus 10 hours, and counting

My plans for the evening include a meal of some sort, a midnight showing of “The Happening” and then some packing before engaging in a light nap at home prior to zipping to the airport to make my 7 AM flight. Here’s how these plans went awry.

I was harassed and cajoled by Mr. and Mrs. Porn King into an evening of debauchery and libations at the local Claim Jumpers, a villainous hangout visited only by the most treacherous of the Chatsworth/Northridge underworld. At the time of our arrival the dive is populated by a rowdy mix of reprobate sports-fan and last-call-awaiting barfly that makes visits to Claim Jumpers, at the least, a buffet of people-watching to which even the most ravenous student of human nature would have to make multiple trips.

Mr. and Mrs. Porn King were, as usual, extremely pleased with the novelty of mixing with such low and base peoples as myself and the interminable el_pinko_grande, but were unable to muster the fortitude to endure our presence any longer than it took to consume their prole-meals. Thus they relieved themselves of our presence at their earliest quaint-filled convenience. The Interminable el_pinko_grande and I then made way to my Mountain Lair of Solitude so that I could make use of the twilight in assembling my various steamer-trunks and luggage for the impending flight. Spending the hours intervening the food and our planned picture-show in such a mundane effort was a fortuitous decision, as the distillation of time later made packing prior to my flight nearly impossible. Also, the ever-hilarious “Family Guy” was received in my HD Oscilloscope, thus keeping the Interminable el_pinko_grande from running amok in my parlor of Expensive and Irreplaceable Late-Twentieth-Century Sundries.

From my Mountain Lair of Solitude, we ventured back into the maw of the Northridge sprawl, hearts heavy with the anticipation of lively incompetence we were no doubt to be exposed. Sadly, our plans were thwarted by my newest and most diabolical enemy, the Movie-Fone, which lied when it, in full confidence, spoke of a midnight showing of “The Happening”. Not to be deterred, the Interminable el_pinko_grande and I ventured forth throughout the wilds of the North-West San Fernando Valley in search of a theater capable of meeting our needs. This search, unfortunately for the entirety of all-mankind, was to prove fruitless.

When all options had been exhausted I began to fume in that manner that indicates I shall soon become not a mere man, but a creature whose flesh is naught but Destruction and Woe. In the midst of my transformative rage I began throwing horseless-carriages and their passengers about as if they were empty tins of snuff. My lack of concern for the trappings of humanity were apparent to all who witnessed the piling of broken people and possessions in the picture-show parking lot. My intent to set the property ablaze was a spectacle of wanton destruction the likes of which only the Kaiser has matched, and even then only in his most hedonistic cases of ether-poisoning.

Thankfully, the Interminable el_pinko_grande kept a cooler head and less mutable form than I, suggesting that, instead of producing gross property damage, we instead make way post-haste to the midnight showing of “The Incredible Hulk” which was assuredly playing at the selfsame theaters we had been mislead to believe would show “The Happening”. I quickly returned to my normal stature and even-tempered demeanor (all the better to fit into my own horseless-carriage, of which I had failed to douse in gasoline and lighter-fluid) and with little fanfare we were able to watch the 1:00 AM picture-show with little delay.

Both the Interminable el_pinko_grande and I groused at the mere existence of “The Incredible Hulk” which we took as an affront to the competently produced and exquisitely acted “The Hulk” produced by Ang Lee not two years prior. Pleasantly, I would say, our misgivings were for naught. The latest movie in the Marvel lineup is more a continuation of the story, with the entirety of the Hulk’s back-story being told in the beginning credits. It was a bold move this time around, but allowed for more detail to be put into the action and capabilities of the Hulk. This film was by no means a work of art, but it was a fun summer blockbuster, and it was certainly a great deal smarter than last summer’s “Transformers”.

Friday, June 13^th 3:30 AM Los Angeles time

Flight time, t-minus 4 hours, and counting

After the film I released the indomitable el_pinko_grande into the deep brush near his underpass-hovel in the middle of the wilds of Porter Ranch, where he skittered off fitfully to nest amongst the stacks of discarded Netflix envelopes that make up his home. After a quick drive home I was able resume packing my steamer-trunks with the necessities required for a multi-day overland adventure. Unfortunately, my planning for the evening had been lackluster, at best; I had been hoping to have time to get in a few hours of sleep after packing, but by this time it was almost 5 AM. My flying caravan was tasked to leave at 7:30 AM, and despite my dreadfully important contributions to the world (i.e. being me), I doubted they would delay their leaving so that I could get a few hours shut-eye. With an exaggerated sigh, I transported myself to the Golden and Shining Burbank Airport.

Ahh, Burbank airport, I cannot sing your praises enough. Inexpensive multi-day parking, short security lines, international flights, and frequently bevies of attractive young women (and presumably men, though I always forget to remember those) dazedly roaming your walkways looking for caffeine and departure gates. Of all the airports I’ve had the privilege to lodge myself in times of travel; Burbank Airport is my near favorite. (Chicago airport is still number one for me since, in the early days they had free Wi-Fi and a Steak Escape, two items that are both irreproachable.)

Friday, June 13, 5:45 AM Los Angeles time

Flight time, t-minus 2 hours, and counting

(The rest of this travel log will be typed as a standard narrative, as I do not possess the stamina to translate it into whatever the hell I was doing above. I’d look up the proper term, but I’m writing this on a plane. I’ll be lucky enough to remember to upload it when I do get net access, much less edit it for correctness.)

I arrived early enough to the airport to nest in the waiting area near my departure gate, my electronics arrayed out around me like an impenetrable shield against conversation. It worked, allowing me to prepare myself for a flight that would no doubt be deadened by my inevitable in-flight nap.

Or so I thought.

My inevitable in-flight nap was not to be, as due to my being chincy and not springing the extra $10 for a business flight boarding pass, I was not able to be picky about my seat. I did what I hate doing most on Southwest airlines, and had to take an aisle seat. Not only that, but the man in the seat next to me was about six foot fifty, and assembled from building materials that gave nothing when jostled or pressed. He had a wingspan of nearly three full feet, and being made of concrete and rebar, his presence forced me to scrunch into a position that did not allow for sustained rest. In fact, being that the flight from Burbank to Phoenix is a mere hour in length, I managed to grab little more than twenty minutes of shut-eye in between epically struggling to not touch my neighbors and to keep my watchmans-cap pulled stoutly over both my ears and eyes.

Friday, June 13, 9:30 AM Phoenix time

Phoenix airport was a reminder of the type of wilderness I was about to enter; the women possessed haircuts that I thought dead more than thirty years ago. Large hair, unsustainable in cities like Los Angeles and San Francisco, where aqua-net is a controlled substance. Much like the dinosaurs of old, hair-dos that require ten pounds of chlorofluorocarbons to be released into the atmosphere just to sustain their superstructure should have died out once nature made it clear they were unsustainable. But not in Phoenix. No, in Phoenix the large hair-do seems to be the purview of women in their mid to late forties, make-up applied in such a fashion as to obscure true skin tone and texture and lure men of the same age into thinking that there is tread left to the asphalt of the woman’s nethers to match the ferocity of said men’s Viagra-enhanced erections. And this, I knew, was just a portent, a minor cue as to what I should expect from the denizens of eastern Texas, an unexplored land into which I would shortly be venturing.

I digress, though, from the important facts at hand; in Phoenix I not only witnessed the expected – that is, the gigantic hair-dos on the women and the cowboy outfits on the men – but I also saw something that will stay with me forever: The Sweetest Mullet I’ve Ever Seen. My camera was stowed much too securely in my carry-on case for me to reach it before this vision of mullety-goodness floated out of my view down a people-mover, and would be out of my life forever. I wish I could graciously share with you, my public, the wonderment I felt as I stood there in the middle of the airport thoroughfare, slack-jawed and enraptured at the perfection of the mullet that stood before me. But all I can do is give the barest of descriptions of this creature, this beast that haunts my dreams even to this day:

The creature was female, that much was easily decipherable by the way she dangled an unlit cigarette from her mouth, the paper of the tobacco product adhered to the chapped flesh of her lip as she trundled past on the mighty treads of the airport conveyor-belt. This perfection of form had absolutely no definition in her figure, being built like a stove-pipe and uniformly circumferenced at all points of measure from hip to shoulder. Her flip-flopped feet would have no doubt been slapping on the floor with a resounding echo, had she only been moving under and power of her own. He legs, the creamy color and consistency of cottage cheese, were visible nearly all the way to her untanned hips due to the expertly chosen pair of short-shorts she had specifically worn to the airport. Her chamois-top with spaghetti straps sunken far enough into fleshy, slumping shoulders that they gave her the appearance of going strapless, clung to every rounded curve of her ineffably shapeless torso. But the mullet… Oh, the mullet; it was amazing. Her hair was a dirty-red, practically a flaming beacon of sweetness that naturally drew the eye to the entire package before settling on the beast itself, the glory that was perched atop her head like a distillation of pure Americana. The Mullet was long, swinging down to the middle of her back at least. Where most Mullet wearers turn the ravaged split-ends at the back of their mullet into a rat-tail, she let hers flow free, with a carefree attitude that defines the age old adage, “Business in the front, Party in the back.” And the front was even better. Although this woman had obviously not done a thing to assemble herself for a day of travel in the presence of hundreds of fellow humans, she had applied enough gel to the front of her mullet to make her look like a child whose mother got overzealous after their first haircut. Spiked and gently teased into a semblance of carefully planned-out nonchalance, the front of this woman’s haircut made her entire appearance into a statement of contradictions that will likely never be possible outside of a carnival He-She.

I remember nothing after the mullet except getting onto my transfer flight from Phoenix Arizona to El Paso Texas. Other than a mild sadness at not getting to partake of my traditional mid-transfer, overpriced airport beer, the trip through Phoenix was uneventful.

The flight from Phoenix to El Paso, however, was not. Again, I boarded late in the process. Luckily, due to my propensity for grabbing the first available seat between people approximately my size, I was able to ensconce myself with a quiet, WASPish older woman and an attractive Latina (I assume) girl. The WASPish woman was dreadfully polite and refrained from involving herself in anything with anybody. She was great. The Latina (I assume) girl was feverishly talking on her cell phone in Portuguese, and was very animated. When the Captain announced that it was time to turn off phones, she hung up on her call, lowered the phone to crotch level and rotated her body so no one, aisle side or next to her, could see what she was doing. From where I was I could hear her typing away at text message for the duration of the flight. I think she was saving them up in memory because when the plane landed and the captain announced that phones could be turned on again, she started just held the phone in front of her face (still at an angle unviewable by people in the aisle) and white-knuckled the phone for a minute. Then she turned it back on and began making declarations into it in Portuguese again. I think she may have been attractive, but I never saw her face, due to both her secretive nature and my desire to try and get some shut-eye. I netted about Thirty more minutes of sleep on this flight, somewhat mitigated by my curiosity for the Latina (I think) girl.

Road Trip, Part II coming soon. Alsom Editing!