Adventures in Los Angeles 2.1 – Fuck Team Baker

December 6, 2007

This blog might not make sense.  I’m deliriously tired. 

This time, last night, I was drowsing on my couch, drifting in and out of "Six Degrees of Separation," and waiting for my father to pick me up to take me to the airport.  A little something about "6DoS" – it’s pretty awesome.  There is a rather unexpected scene where Will Smith’s butt gets jiggy with some dude’s wiener… but that’s not really a problem… it’s just surprising when you’re on the brink of sleep and you hear the Fresh Prince mewl in ecstasy.   

Dad showed up at around five in the morning and we set out for the airport.  A little something about airports now:  I like em.  In fact… I love em.  I love airports.  Everyone’s running around, excited to be going or returning.  They’re all hugging and crying and jumping into one another’s arms… it’s one of the few places on the planet where you can find such unfettered joy.  It’s appropriate, then, that it also houses some of the biggest assholes on the planet – nasty, rude and perfunctory shits who spit orders at you while dressed head-to-toe in polyester.  In Philadelphia, these are the black ladies who stand at the head of each line, and yell in your face when you drop your boarding pass.  I appreciate that their job isn’t exactly riveting… but seriously… these ladies need to tone it down a bit. 

Airports have become really scary in the wake of 9/11 – not because I’m afraid of terrorists (though I do realize that our government really hasn’t done a chip of shit to make air travel any safer), but because I’m afraid of the black ladies.  There’s a bond that forms, I think, between the people in line… there’s something about the frenzy of trying to throw your shoes back on, while strapping your belt around your waist, and stuffing clothes into a gutted duffel that makes battered housewives of us all.  The black ladies heave and yell that you’re slowing the line down… and you turn around and see a line of desperate people, all of them different.. but somehow the same in their panic.  Pretty high school girls and exhausted business men, and harrowed mothers… all of them fumbling with their personals under the cold glare of minimum-wage bruisers… the whole time, standing around in their socks.  It’s so pathetic.  It gets my blood up, getting bossed around, no matter the circumstance.

Our line was made to stop what we were doing (after being told to keep the line moving several times) and move out of the way for the crew, as a line of terrifying stewardesses and creepy, mustached pilots calmly dropped their bags on the conveyor and sauntered through the metal detector.  Why do they get to go first?  It’s not like their planes will take off without them.  Shouldn’t we get preference?  Couldn’t they have their own line or something, one where they can sneak through at their own speed, and not require me to drag my crap off the belt and dump my underwear all over the floor?  I’d have said something… but that probably would have granted me a private session with some lady’s finger, so I decided to shut up and get out of the way.  I hate airport bullies.

The plane was essentially empty.  I talked to the boy-stewardess (I realize that they’re supposed to be called Flight Attendants, but this guy was gayer than a three-dollar bill… he was a fucking stewardess) for a few minutes, then, realizing that nobody else was going to be sitting in my row, stretched out like a chubby cat and slept.  I woke up every hour for some reason… padded around groggily… then promptly went back to sleep.  Best.  Flight.  Ever.

Got in to LA, argued with a rental car gentleman named Ernesto, when he took offense to my repeated decline to rental car insurance, finally I said "Ernesto!  Escuche mi!  No insurance!  Got it?!"  That went over well.

I’m really not difficult… really… it’s everyone else on the planet, not me.

I made it to my hotel by noon… went out and got some chinese food, took off my pants, ate, watched star trek and Mythbusters, and rolled around like a big, fat fish for most of the afternoon and early evening.  I read for a bit, went for a walk… whereupon I decided that Los Angeles needs some fucking weather.  Seriously.  Howabout a goddamn season?  Maybe that’s why everyone here wanders around dazed and goofy… detached from reality… LA is one of the domed cities from Logan’s Run.  Everyone’s attractive (except for, I’ve noticed, old Mexican men, who are fascinatingly hideous) and strangely dressed, and just kindof floating from place to place… until, finally, they’re snuffed out at the age of 30.

I worked my way down to the hotel bar at around nine… had a glass or two of whiskey and did some work… and met the Baker Family.  The Baker Family flew in to LA to support their son, who is a contestant on the new American Gladiators show.  They all wore red t-shirts which read "GO TEAM BAKER", and hats festooned with buttons bearing cartoonishly written words of banal support and enthusiasm: "Booyah!" and "You Go!" being my favorites. 

"I didn’t even know they brought that show back," I said, "you must be pretty excited to see your son compete."  Momma and Pappy Baker stared at me pityingly and told me that not everyone stayed on top of things like they did, they guess… and that the show was going to be even bigger this time around.  "Of course we’re proud!" said Momma Baker, with the same tone of surprise and incredulity had someone complimented her Velveeta Cheese sculpture collection.

I hate the Baker family… but I’m tired, and itchy in this bed, so I’m going to save my ire for January 6th, when their hayseed offspring will debut on the show… and root the fuck against him.  You’re all required to do the same.

I’m going to bed now.

Tomorrow’s Agenda:
Touristy bullshit
In and Out Burger
Poison the Bakers


One Response to “Adventures in Los Angeles 2.1 – Fuck Team Baker”

  1. Meowlin Says:

    >I’m going to save my ire for January 6th, when their hayseed offspring will debut on the show… and root the fuck against him. You’re all required to do the same.<
    Roger, wilco.
    – M. \"/

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