Cross-Blog with Jake Christie

In light of my recent tardiness in posts, I was approached by friend and colleague Dirty JC, codenamed Jake Christie of [this blog will be titled when inspiration strikes me], also a fellow founding member of Tasty Dude Films with myself. He had a tale of such epic proportions it was welcomed into the halls of Travipedia with a blazing chorus of angellic voices. Here it is, unabridged, and hopefully will inspire me to find the time to sit and write more.

This long, meandering story is a cautionary tale about liquor and trenchcoats. It involves THC in both spirit and wardrobe.

October, 2008. Pink Bicycle invites me to a Halloween party at her apartment, and I immediately start to get nervous. I'm somewhat idiosyncratic -- some might say "charming" -- in that I hate parties. While everyone else my age seems thrilled by parties, I've always been perfectly content to sit back with a joint, a movie, and myself, and kind of let my evenings chill out until I organically cross that event horizon of sleep. The unwind from the grind.

But maybe I feel like getting out; maybe my financial margins have jumped from razor-thin to almost-razor-thin; maybe I'm kind of guilty over the fact that I never get out. I usually have fun at PB's parties anyway. So I check the Facebook invite list to make sure that my best friends are going to be there (minus THC, of course, who is adventuring in sunny San Francisco), and I excitedly add my name to the "confirmed" list.

There is one caveat: being Halloween, this is a costume party. I promise PB that I will wear an elaborate costume -- Scout's honor, cross my heart, swear to God. Problem is, I don't have the money to buy a costume or the various costume accouterments. I frantically search the house, looking for something that I can convert into a Halloween costume with minimal cost passed on to me. Graduation gown? Nah. Ski parka? Meh. The classic corked-cheek hobo? Nope.

Inspiration strikes when I see THC's trenchcoat. It was second-hand at best when he wore it as the titular private eye in our film "Enter Max Dagger," so I figure he won't mind if I borrow it. It has been sitting on our coat rack for months. I pick it up. It's thick, heavy. Something that a down-on-his-luck ex-cop would wear while prowling foggy docks and roughing up small-fish mafiosos for information on the dark underworld food chain. I message PB and tell her that I'll be attending her party as Humphrey Bogart.

The costume doesn't cost much to complete. I already have slacks, dress socks, a collared shirt, and even the white tank-top that you always see P.I.'s peel down to when they're stuck in a case, drinking heavily and delivering voiceover. Come Halloween I just have to buy some shoes, which I find for four dollars at Goodwill, and a fedora, which I find for six dollars at TJ Maxx. Only one part of the costume never quite comes together: the classy metal flask. J-Grande had one when we changed apartments, but I can't find it, and seeing as I have a bottle of Bacardi for the night's entertainment I need some way to transport it. My elegant solution is to fill an empty Poland Springs water bottle with rum. When J-Grande heads over to help finish the decorating I shower, shave, and put my costume together: Socks, slacks, wifebeater, shirt. Fancy shoes. Tie. The trenchcoat. The fedora. I look in the mirror, sipping a Pabst, and decide that I look pretty good. The costume works. I toast my reflection, finish the beer, and grab another.

Around ten o'clock I get a call from J-Grande to get my ass over there. Beer in one pocket and rum in the other, I lock the door and enter the real world. It feels kind of strange to be walking through my quiet family-friendly little corner of Portland dressed in a full suit, trenchcoat, and fedora. I feel like a flasher, or a down-on-his-luck middle-aged man, whichever is worse. I'm sure that up on the peninsula, in Portland proper, costumed twenty-somethings are crisscrossing from bar to bar, from costume competition to Munjoy Hill house party, but down here in the 'burbs it's just late-night joggers and dog-walkers enjoying the calm autumn air. All the trick-or-treating kids have gone to bed. I keep my head down, feeling like a weirdo, and try to tell myself that I'm wearing perfectly acceptable attire, just about sixty years too late. I avoid streetlights.

I get to the party and, as is always the case, it's not nearly as terrifying as I expect. J-Grande is there, dressed as Jesus and holding a PBR. Autonomous Government is there, dressed as the Blind. (Not "a" blind person, but "the blind," in sunglasses and a set of window blinds, because AG possesses a kind of mad genius that science has yet to explain.) Pink Bicycle's roommate is dressed as a perfect Sarah Palin days before the election. My first editor, who I'm pretty sure doesn't remember me, is dressed as a Castle Crasher. Whitesnake is dressed as The Jerk from the last scene of The Jerk, pants down and chair in hand for the duration. It's a pretty fun party - and this is from a guy who hates parties even in theory.

My comfort is facilitated, of course, by heavy consumption of alcohol. J-Grande is handing out beers and I am sucking them down at the fast nervous pace that I only seem to achieve at social gatherings. I am drinking the rum straight with no chaser, and the fact that I'm able to do this without gagging may betray how drunk I am even this early in the evening. A pretty girl asks me if I'm supposed to be Inspector Gadget, and I make what I'm positive is an exceedingly clever quip utilizing "of all the Halloween parties in all the apartments in the world, she had to walk into mine." I rejoin Auto-Gov and J-Grande in the heart of the party, and this is the point when I realize I have had too much to drink. Then, according to A and J, I have another beer.

I had the bottle of rum lying around because I'd started sipping it sparsely after work to help me sleep, but it's been months since I've gotten drunk off of liquor . It seems that in the interim I've forgotten how liquor works. I take a shot and feel a little drunk, yes, and this I remember, but it escapes me that this is not as drunk as I am going to be. It's like hiking a mountain; the top is always a bit farther away then it looks, the hike a little bit more treacherous. The liquor gets in little-by-little, gaining power, like a snowball rolling downhill, until those shots reach their full drunktential. In addition to my beers, I've done about five shots of rum in a row. I already feel very drunk, as drunk as I am comfortable with, and without drinking any more I just keep getting drunker.

The room shifts. The ceiling tapers off like a cathedral, or a pyramid. Words start to lose their meaning. It's too hot, way too hot, and I need water. My head is floating something like two feet above my body. I realize, with laser-efficiency, that I need to get out of this party and lie down before I throw up on Sarah Palin.

I think I say goodbye to my friends, and somehow I navigate the steep wooden stairs out of the apartment. I get the door open and closed. Air. Safety. Solitude. I take a deep breath and miraculously don't fall down.

It's about half a mile from Pink Bicycle's apartment to mine, half a mile of dark suburban houses and perennially frost-heaved brick sidewalks. Normally, this walk isn't a problem. I've lived in this area specifically for about a year and a half, and been hanging around more generally for closer to three, so normally it's cake. Normally, however, I'm not drunk completely off my ass on dark rum. My legs have stopped performing at the high standards my brain usually holds them to. I stay off the ground through a combination of balance and positive thinking. My eyes stay about two feet in front of me, on the sidewalk; one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, the longest journey begins with one step, et cetera et cetera.

Half a block from the party I realize that I need to take a leak quite badly. This is the point in the story when a creative writing professor would say the stakes are raised; some point of conflict emerges and drives the story forward. This plot point is the urine that wants desperately to out my body. Rather than turning around, walking back up the stairs to the party,asking PB politely if I can use the facilities and maybe have a glass of water, and relieving myself, I decide to keep walking home, only faster.

To be fair, I probably wouldn't have made it up those stairs. In the fullness of time, though, I understand that it may have been preferable to what actually happened.

I'm speedwalking through Oakdale, juggling my need to pee, my desire to keep the contents of my stomach right where they are, and my selfish wish to not be found unconscious on the ground near my alma mater by the Portland city police. Foremost, however, is the need to pee. I really, really need to pee. I walk faster.

It must be near one in the morning, and there is not a single other person on the street, which makes me a little less embarassed about my speedy duck-walk down the sidewalk. I stumble across Brighton Avenue and realize, two blocks from my house, that I'm not going to make it. Oh, God, I'm not going to make it. How did I get here? How did this happen? Why didn't I go at the party? I need to pee so badly, and I'm not going to make it.

I'm not going to make it... unless I run.

So that is exactly what I do. Screw public urination. I break into a run - not a jog, but a flat-out run - to cover the two blocks between me and my apartment. I feel inclined to remind you at this time that I am still dressed like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. I am dressed like Humphrey Bogart, and I am running past sleeping families at one in the morning. I look like I have just stepped off the commuter train in 1947 and I am being chased by vampire bats. Any discomfort I had earlier about being seen in a costume has disappeared with my sobriety. I run like Forrest Gump, I run like the Roadrunner, I run like my life depends on it. THC's trenchcoat is flying out behind me. My tie is comically flapping over my shoulder. Somehow, the spirit of Bogart protects me from tripping over any of the myriad roots and bumps in the sidewalk. The fedora stays firmly on my head. I dash my private eye ass past "Welcome" mats and white picket fences, past windows where, were somebody to sit up in bed and rub their eyes, they'd see a Raymond Chandler character on the run.

I cross Oakdale street and I can see, two houses away, my apartment. The lights are out. I know the house is warm. My pick-up truck stands sentry in the driveway. I breathe in gasps. I've made it. I'm home. I did it.

I make it as far as my truck.

I fall onto my truck, holding myself up by the bed, and unzip. In my head, this is a victory. I am in the driveway, on the property that I'm renting. I am at my apartment. I pee under my truck for about a minute, panting, barely able to stand. It feels so good. I consider staying out here for the rest of the night. I've made it this far, and isn't that enough? It's not too cold out yet. I could be perfectly comfortable here until morning. But somehow I know that what I really need to do, more than stand in the driveway dressed like Inspector Gadget with my dick hanging out of my pants, is get inside and lie down. I climb our steps, and I can see the steam condensed on the window next to the door. Warmth. Somehow unlock the door and step into our mud room. Door closed. Back home. Safe. Secure. I made it. I did it. I fall over.

I tip one way and the little dude who sits at the controls in my brain must be reading porn rather than keeping his hand on the till, so I'm unable to right myself. It's that kind of slow-motion drunk fall where you're outside yourself, watching it happen, shaking your head but at the same time saying, "Well, I guess that was inevitable."

I hit the wall, hard, and slide, pulling down a poster. I try to catch myself, but there's nothing to hold on to. My arm jumps out and through my beer-muffs I hear a cracking noise. I crumple on the floor. Standing up is going to be difficult, so I take a moment and sit there. At least I'm home. At least I peed. Happy Halloween.

It starts to get cold, and I slowly come to understand that the cracking noise was the sound of that window next to our door breaking. That's going to be a problem, I think. Correction: that's going to be a problem tomorrow. It takes a few attempts, but I summon the will to stand up. The fedora finally comes off, and it goes on the coat rack with the trenchcoat. I lay on the couch for a few minutes, wondering how exactly one gets a window fixed without telling one's landlord that one drunkenly threw one's elbow at it while one was dressed like a private detective. Then I go to the bathroom and throw up.

The bathroom floor is comfortable. I don't know how long I'm lying there, drifting in and out of sleep, but eventually I hear J-Grande enter the house. My eyes snap open and I yell, "Hey!"

"Hey, man," he calls from the other room. "What happened?"

I raise my head. I am lying on the floor of our bathroom, dressed in a suit and tie. I'm kind of wondering the same thing.

"I broke the window," I slur. "I'm sorry. I'll call the window company* tomorrow."

"Okay," he says.

Somehow I end up in bed.

The next morning I wake up early. I'm so hungover that I can't get back to sleep, so I make myself some breakfast, brew some coffee, drink about three glasses of water, and go survey the damage. The bottom pane of the window looks like is was hit with a lead pipe, but it didn't shatter completely; jagged, toothlike shards of glass stick up out of the bottom and the sides. The floor is littered with pieces of glass big and small, sharp and sharper. Our John Coltrane poster is wrinkled on top of our shoes, Trane wondering why he was unceremoniously shouldered in the jaw. Picking the pieces of glass up and wondering how much the window will cost to fix, I ask myself another important question: how the hell did I not cut myself? There's glass all over the floor where I was rolling around attempting to stand up. The glass sticking up out of the window should have dug into my arm like shark's teeth when I fell down. Then, in the same way it struck me weeks ago, inspiration strikes again.

It was THC's trenchcoat. The Max Dagger Sam Spade Rick Blaine trenchcoat.

That's why this story is on Travipedia. Thank you, Travis. Thank you for letting me borrow your trenchcoat, and possibly saving my life.

*This is not a real company.

Listed on the Wall of the Portland Pie Co. Delivery Area

TEEN WOLF'S BASKETBALL COACHES THREE RULES TO LIVE BY:

1. Never get less than 12 hours of sleep.
2. Never play poker with a guy who has the same name as a city.
3. Never date a girl with a tattoo of a dagger.
   

Top Five All Time Desert Island Lists

Just finished reading Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, a beautifully crafted narrative of a love-troubled self-centered audiophile which is more popularly known by it's film adaptation starring such names as John Cusack, Jack Black and Tim Robbins. I saw a kindred spirit in Hornby, and while I do not know to what degree the story bridges fiction into memories of his, I still related to his manner of storytelling. Perhaps we're not on the exact same proverbial plateau, but I definitely feel our individual mesas are not far off from each other, and maybe if he walked to the edge of his, he'd be able to wave down to me, and I'd wave back, and we'd both be close enough to focus our eyes on each other and note we are happy.

Anyways, it's sparked some inspiration into my fingers, and I'm going to follow suit with the three elitist record shop employees and construct some Top Five lists. For posterity. Here's the most important one, maybe some more later. We'll see.

Top Five Favorite Film Adaptations of Books (That I've Read Thus Far)

1. Jurassic Park. It took me years to learn that this blockbuster was in fact a book, and after reading it my eyes were opened wide to the works of Michael Crichton, and the fine practice of pretension in saying "Well, the book was so much better." And it was. Spielberg left out some crazy action scenes like with the T-Rex underwater, or prying the little kid out from a hold in a cliff with it's tongue. But whatever, the movie still rocked my prepubescent world, and the book alleviated my understanding of pop fiction in literature.
2. Sin City. After the recent surge of adapting comic books to the silver screen, it got tough to call myself a nerd. At every turn I was confronted by a snippy debate over how factually correct Spiderman's organic webshooters were cross-referenced with Marvel canon, or why Ben Affleck was the worst possible choice for Daredevil. I ducked my head low, further into more obscure literary comics, avoiding the buzz. But I resurfaced after seeing the eye-popping trailer for Frank Miller's gritty crime drama. And I applauded. Page by page, the story was done proper justice, the comic was the storyboard, just like how it should always be done. 300 was cool and all, and so was Iron Man and Batman Begins/Dark Knight, but even those were too jaded by Hollywood with extra content to assuage audiences. Sin City was easily the most loyal to the source. I believe I was the only person on this planet who enjoyed Daredevil though.
3. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. By Ken Kesey. I'd never sat and read a novel for seven hours straight before, until encountering this glorious piece of literature. And after renting the flick, it was like Jack Nicholson had been there with me every page of those seven hours, sneering and cackling on with me, with those crazy Jack eyes, that maybe, just maybe, weren't so crazy after all. Even Chief fit the adjective-perfect profile of the story.
4. Fight Club. Google any Top Book-to-Movie Lists and you'll no doubt about it find Chuck Palahniuk's rivetting counter-culture classic somewhere within 5 from the top. This was my number one for years, finding a beautiful middle point between loyalty to the source and taking the story to the next level visually. What was changed worked perfectly within the context, provided new surprises and overall more entertainment. While I still prefer the denouement of the last chapter of the novel, the catalysmic end of the movie practically moved me out of my chair ino a full standing ovation. Then I saw a big fat cock really quickly and chose to remain seated. But still. Wow. Seriously. Quotable. Inspiring. Reviewable. I joined the ranks of adolescents tirelessly rewinding and playing over, while poring through the rest of Palahniuk's catalog (for better or for worse.) The majority of movies don't get to me like this one did.
5. High Fidelity. Did you see it coming? Hornby's angsty overanalytic male confessional is down to the T the most loyal adaptation I've ever seen. Dialogue straight from the film, especially Cusack's fourth-wall narration. The choices for the adapting London into Chicago were seamless and appropriate. Even the most radical change (The first song Barry's band plays at the end) is almost better than the novel's due to it's relevance to the character's and their relationship.

I have so much more praise for this film/novel. It's affected me, and I have to tear myself away from Travipeding more now, but a surge will surely come. It's always after completion of a great book I'm inspired to write the most.

Y2K

The Dawning of the Year 2000, though we may not admit now today, was a pretty big deal for everybody in America. Some eggheads crunched some numbers and then freaked out when they realized all our computers' interior calendars couldn't handle "00's." Today, this is pretty ludicrous. But at the time leading up to "the Final Countdown" (cue synthesizers), America pretty much lost it's shit. People built bunkers, liquidated their assets, fled the country, and other crazy acts of desperation we may never ever hear about. So we're probably not going to tell our kids exactly how we handled, or didn't handle that.

Lucky for me, I was a kid at the time, nestled deep in the verdant wood at the base of Pleasant Mountain, better known for the popular ski resort on it, Shawnee Peak. My mother was never one to believe the television, so she scoffed at this panic. Planes falling out the sky? Missile silos going off worldwide? Calendar companies going out of business? FLYING CARS?! She was to have none of it.

Except about a week before the big day. For dramatic effect, use whatever tools you may have, p2p sharing networks, torrents, etc. and download Europe's "Final Countdown." Have it ready on iTunes for my signal. What? You don't have iTunes? What the hell is your problem? Get with the program, surrender to Apple and get ready for the Singularity already, geeze.

So one week before the New Millenium, my mother decided to stock up on provisions, "just in case" some serious shit went down. She came home holding in both arms... Ready for it... (hit "Play" now!)

30 rolls of toilet paper.

Once all electronic systems across the globe crashed, all credit dropped to zero, planes lost, anarchy set loose, four Horsemen in the sky, riots, looting, and chaos... my family would be able to maintain with this one vital necessity. Thanks, Mom.

I spent New Years with my father in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He also didn't buy any of this nationwide fear crap and just wanted to have a nice New Years weekend. We walked down to the park to watch fireworks go off over the lake. It didn't occur to me at the time, but if Y2K really busted, the fireworks would still have gone off and we'd have been none the wiser. But the countdown started (don't hit "play" again, I'm sorry guys, I didn't know what I was thinking there. I guess I shoudn't apologize, Europe should.)

Right before people hit "Ten...Nine..." my father pulled my brother and I close and muttered really quickly that if anything should happen we meet up at the tall statue not far away. I couldn't see the small crowd we were in really breaking out into an all-for-nothing, every-man-for-himself, the-streets-are-blood riot. But I guess a man should always have a plan.

Instead they all cheered, and we walked home laughing heartily at the stupid scientists who made us all worry so much. Then a drunk man walking past shouted at my brother and I "Peace, Pot and Micro-Dot!" shortly after which his equally inebriated friend corrected him "Peace, Pot and Smoke a Lot!"

My father wasn't pleased.

On The Way Back

The working title was "There and Back Again: A Very Un-Tolkien Adventure," but I've just about had it with subtitles. Especially ones like that.

If you haven't gathered from "International Travelloging Mishaps and Misfortunes," I am not well-versed in travel. Not too much experience under the belt, no real mistakes to learn from, with the exception of the earlier tale. So I find myself on the verge of another big move. All my possessions, avec moi, need to be at an airport at a certain time, then propelled across the sky. I am nervous as all hell but not showing any signs of it. My tickets were bought far in advance, I've been in tight email correspondence with the flight booking service I used (Expedia.com) and fully packed. I had my flight information all printed out this time, things were swell. My flight was at 5:35, it was 2:30, all the time in the world to catch the 51 into Oakland and BART down to SFO. I'm chilling for the last time with my roommate hereby refered to as Pabst (his initials were PBR, mine are THC, this is hilarious kinda-coincidence).

I hop online to kill some time, double-check on things, and fancy this, a new email from Expedia. A change in my flight information. This is about the fifth change in flight information in a five month period. It happened early last night. Nothing huge, the same connecting flights, same cities, same airlines. Just the time. And no real alarm here, they just moved it two hours ahead. To 3:30. And..

Oh my God I have One Hour.

One Suitcase, One Huge Wheeled Bag, My Yadeng Backpack, and my brother's briefcase. And a ukulele.

"Holy Shit I have One Hour!" I shout. "To SFO!"

Through public transportation. I dash for the Bus Schedule on the wall, there's one soon. Pabst and I grab my luggage and bolt out of the apartment. We hustle at a tortoise pace. It becomes increasingly real to me that riding the bus with all this shit just might not fly as fast as I'd planned. Pabst has already picked up on this.

"I'll call a cab. It shouldn't be too expensive to the airport, maybe 30 bucks plus bridge tolls."

He tries a San Fran company but they say they don't go to Alameda. We both try Alameda companies that end up not going to South San Francisco. My old friend Panic starts to creep around the corners of my mind. So pacing helps. So does the ukulele. Pabst resorts to 511, and they give him a company. Luckily the wait isn't long, but the clock is counting down.

A black Lincoln Town Car pulls up, and a potentially Indian man in a turban steps out and greets me.

"I need to be at SFO in less than an hour." I rudely blurt.

He says he can do it, and I believe him.

His towncar is nice, spacious, leather and comfortable. He is nice, spacious, leather and comfortable. I relax moderately. Have no fear, Travis, I tell myself. This is how Importand People get to the airport. Fancy towncars. And they make it there on time. Oh, hey, check it out. Crystal Spring Water in little bottles. "Are these for me?" Yes. They are. Okay. Awesome. I am parched.

We talk about flights, and missing them, and rushing, and how he was up all night driving and his handler woke him up after four hours of napping, I apologized but he said don't worry the money's good. I said he's saving my life. He liked that. So he got me there, on time, and I couldn't thank him enough. He wanted 78 dollars of thanks. I handed him $100 with gratitude.

I didn't want to spend that much. I certainly didn't have to. I thought it was a karma investment, but I guess I was precognitively preparing myself for the flight desk. Both my checked bags were over 50 pounds. The dudes at the desk felt my pain, it was a 50 dollar charge for each overweight bag. Ben Franklin and I are bro's, but he doesn't always pull doubles for me. For the first time in my life, I desperately needed to lose weight.

I put on three sweatshirts, another jacket, and then Jamman's winter coat he let me have. A pair of sneakers, two pairs of ripped jeans and heavy papers. Documents, or something. One of the staff played ukulele, I let him strum away while I rearranged contents to drop at least one bag below 50. (These are the details that keep me going, give my life flavor, but seriously this story is effing long so I'm rushing through, bear with me folks.)

A dude hands me my tickets and says here, go on. I don't know if he's charged me any fees for my two overweight bags. I had to slide my card for the machine to pull up my information. Did he charge me? Or was this some sort of altruistic pity given it was five days before Christmas? Or maybe ah fuck I don't have time to question these things! Clad in too many jackets and a wintercoat, holding a briefcase, my ukulele and a ticket, I breezed through security. Wasn't no thang. Besides me looking ridiculous.

This is where it gets interesting. I'm dashing to my gate, well knowing I'm on time but still uncomfortable taking this at a walking pace. I go straight up to the desk and hand her my boarding pass, she gives me an odd look, as if to say, we're not boarding now.

"I just want to make sure everything is OK," I profess.

She is an old woman with a kind face. "What is that you've got there?" It's a ukulele.
"Could you play a song for us?" Hah. Can I play a song for you? Yes. Yes, I can. I instantly do so.

"My bags are packed, I'm ready to go. I'm standing here outside your door. I hate to wake you up to say goodbye. But the dawn is breaking, it's early morn. The taxi's waiting, he's blowing his horn. Already I'm so lonesome I could cry..."

The terminal activity stops. Her face breaks into the smallest smile, that isn't for me, it's for her. I unfortunately break this beautiful moment between strangers by exclaiming "Free upgrade?"
She laughs, nods, gestures me closer and says she'll see what she can do. And tells me to keep playing. Maybe something Christmas-y. The best I've got for that is Avril Lavigne's "Complicated." I sit on my briefcase and gently play melodies without singing as the rest of the passengers gather. Soon lines are formed, and on a nice overhead display, I recognize my name on a list. And yes. It's for Business Class.

All prior stress and anxiety towards traveling home have been vanquished. I just serenaded my way further in life. I board and sit, the only person sitting next to me remarks "Oh, I'm by you," when she sees my instrument. I spend the next fifteen minutes investigating and utilizing every available luxury accessible in Business Class. As a typical "Economy" man, I will take not one thing for granted. And P.S. Business is where it's at. If you've ever got the extra cash, treat yourself. No one has a bad time in Business Class.

I didn't. I watched Little Miss Sunshine for the first time, as well as several episodes of House, How I Met Your Mother, and Heroes. I watched other movies too, but they were dwarfed in comparison to how deeply Little Miss Sunshine got me. I ate a five course meal, all delicious, accompanied with multiple glasses of wine, recommended to me by the young lady sitting next to me, whom I shared delightful conversation with. She was a Med student visiting hospitals to establish residencies at in the Bay Area returning home to New York to see her husband, a lawyer. I gave her the run-down of my moving home to be with the woman I love, focus on my art, and jump-start my life. Probably the most engaging and interesting conversation between fellow passengers. All I've heard are just horror stories. But not here. Not every airplane experience has to just turn dastardly, does it?

Enter John Fitzgerald Kennedy International Jetport.

So boom. Touch down. I'm in New York after the long haul. It is important to note it is now approximately 11:30 pm EST. My connecting flight is at 6:00 am. Disoriented, lagged and decompressed, I carry my briefcase, backpack and uke through the seemingly deserted airport. A few guards point me in the right direction, but inform me if I leave the terminal I can't get back in. It takes me a long while to realize this is necessary. So I exit. Turns out, all the terminals are closing for routine maintenance and cleaning, and won't be open again until 4:00 am. I decide to make my way to the Ticketing area of my next flight just to make sure I get the boarding pass nice and early. A surprisingly long line greets me, entirely foreigners. They are passing up and down the line a petition against American Airlines, for what reason I'm not sure. It's here when it hits me my next flight is with United, and not AA, so I get out of there.

I have absolutely no idea what to do with all the terminals closed. It's snowing outside. The AirTrain system is confusing for everyone else there but I get it, I help some foreigners out. A man tells me Terminal Four is open, it has all the shops and businesses and et cetera. Great. On my way, I notice JFK has a serious issue with birds. Little ones, just flying too and fro, all around through every hall. Maybe you've been there, maybe you've seen them. If you haven't, wait until midnight and when the halls are cleared, and it's just like a metropolis of bird activity going on. Who's in charge of tending to this problem? What must be done? I have time for these thoughts.

Actually, I have a lot of time. I have six hours till my next flight. And in Terminal Four, I find just what I was looking for. The traditionally middle of the night shanty-town of laid-over travellers, cuddled around rollerbags, occupying every semi-comfortable surface area wide enough for most of their body/luggage. I'm digging this, and ready to join them, but as you can guess, every available sleepable space is being camped upon. Booth-seats, chairs pushed together, tabletops, decorative flowerpots, corners near vents. It's incredible how regular people can instantly acquire homelessmen-like tendencies and just sack out anywhere that will barely accomodate them. Me, I just want an outlet. And a beer.

The only open store is not serving past midnight and I'm ten minutes late. Whattabitch. But, hey, whatever. I call my girlfriend, she's still up, and we chat and laugh about how crazy-nervous I was about not making it to the East Coast. I've already missed one major important flight in my life, to miss another would just be, well, embarassing. It gets late and she goes to bed. I stay up for a little longer writing a tune on my uke before passing out on cold linoleum. I've slept in worse places.

My alarm wakes me up, a solid hour and a half before my flight. Gathering myself and heading out, it hits me, if I've switched airlines, does this mean I have to re-check my luggage? Oh shit. My luggage has been down there for God knows how long and no one picked it up. Do I have to re-check it? Better check.

Down at Baggage Claim, I find one suitcase hanging out in an island of misplaced belongings, in a serious sea of clumped groupings of stuff. My gigantic rollerthinger is nowhere to be found. A strange lady with really strange teeth explains it could be anywhere, in any island, at any time. What the hell kind of organization is this? But whatever, I needs to get this business taken care of. Feverishly searching provides no fruit. She tells me to knock on this door I don't want to knock on, inside is just a tiny room filled front to back with more misplaced bags and a visibly perturbed man having to deal with it all. I show him the tag on my suitcase and he says if my rollerbag has the same tag, it will still get to Portland. I ask him if I should re-check my suitcase, he's says sure why not. Cool. One hour left.

I get to United's Ticketing area and HOLY SHIT THERE'S A LINE. Ofcourse, it's now four days before Christmas at 6:00 am, people are going places. Lots of people. The line goes down and down and down, then turns, wraps around a corner, then around the perimeter of this antechamber and then stops right before the door to the outside winter air. Sorrow-filled, I join this line. And man. It really doesn't move. I always thought airlines recommending arriving more than an hour before your flight was recockulous but I've never been to JFK. Man. The inevitable truth slowly dawns on me that if I remained in this line, I would certainly miss my flight. So I see an opening. The lines for Business and First Class are monumentally shorter. I could just shell out an extra $70-#$80, make my flight, switch over one last time in Washington DC and then be home free for the holidays.

This is where it all gets messy. At the self-check-in machine, it doesn't read my passport immediately. I try again, no such luck. It takes a while for a person to get over here, and I'm just melting the clock on the wall with my Heat Ray Vision. I have half an hour. So I think. He says the machine is broken, I try another. Presto, works. He says my flight has been boarded, I say Wonderful, Let Me Get ON It, but there's an issue.. He leaves. I don't know where. The only other person who can help comes over, short woman, hispanic accent, done up hair. She rolls her eyes and does that stupid Airport grimace thing with her teeth. She says she'll call and see. I'm sweating blood.

She gets back to me: all the seats have been filled, already boarded, there's no room. I protest. I paid for a ticket months ago, I'm here, here's the ticket, let me on. She doesn't like my tone. I don't like her tone, OR her hair. She tells me I should have been here 45 minutes before boarding. I tell her I WAS here 45 minutes before boarding in the other line longer than her BANGS.

Except I don't say that. I say something else. Well, guess I can't get in trouble for it here, I say: "the other GOD DAMNED LINE." Now. It's important to mention here that there is a strict policy at JFK, and maybe all international jetports, against cursing in the Ticketing line. Especially the Lord's name. She motions to a man to come and tell me this in a quiet calm manner. I argue with her a tiny bit more, saying things like I still had time to board, yadda yadda yadda, but I realize I'm fighting a losing battle, and stammer off without shouting "BULLSHIT," "MOTHERFUCKER," or anything like that.

So head held low and defeated, I stroll back beside the enormous line for Economy, arms limply holding on to my suitcase and briefcase and ukulele. I notice some sideways eyes from airport employees. Gossip travels fast. It's the holiday season. Who knows what this unkempt depressed scoundrel could do next? I politely ask for the Help desk. After a long wait, they Help me. A stand-by ticket for Dulles International Airport (Washington DC) at noon, with another stand-by there for Portland, ME. My previous landing time in Portland at 2:00 pm has now drastically shifted to 8:00 pm. I have to make some phonecalls. Also, they take my suitcase. Goodbye, down the conveyor. It dawns on me I left my passport back where I made the scene, so I retrieve it under careful watch of the offended employees.

So now I've got another six hours to kill in JFK. I mosey my way to the terminal for my connecting flight, and thank heavens they're done cleaning it. I put my stuff down near the gate and kindly ask a magazine stand lady to keep an eye on it, which she gratefully does. I wander and wander until A-Ha! Just what I need! The instant cure to my missed-flight-travel-blues: The airport bar.

It's only other occupants are stuffing away some breakfast and I plop myself down right at the counter. A tall dark and handsome bartender asks if he can get me anything. I ask what the cheapest beer is. He says Budweiser, at $9.50. It takes all the self-control I can muster at this point to not shout obscenities at him, the other patrons, and God Himself. Nine Fifty! Plus Tip! For a glass of BUD?!?! He then leans in close and tells me they are not allowed to serve alcohol before 7:00 am. Right. I switch seats away from this evil, evil man to regather myself. I make some phone calls to the ladyfriend, mother and father, explaining the missed flight. My second missed flight in my life. This news is not met with well reception.

Bartender slowly walks over to me and leans in real close, under his breath mutters that once his fellow employee leaves, he can hook me up with the Budweiser, just in a paper Coca-Cola cup. With eyes like daggers I kindly thank him for the offer and his generosity, but I must decline. Ten dollars is too much for a beer. Any beer. Out of a paper cup.

On a highlight note, during my gallavanting about the terminal, I see what appears to be Chris Kattan of Saturday Night Live blow past me with a suitcase and navy blue down jacket. Not believing my eyes, I slowly follow him to the gate right beside mine, and upon further inspection, yes, it is Chris Kattan. No doubt in my mind. He looked quite frumpled, tired and upset, so I restrained myself and let the poor aging celebrity be.

My girlfriend calls and informs me a storm is going to blow through Portland tonight, she is worried my flight will get delayed or worse yet cancelled. I tell her that's only if I can get out of this Hellish Pit of Hellshit of an airport in the first place, so let's both pray some shmuck doesn't catch his flight in time, so I can win the stand-by seats. She's still concerned and calls me back later, this time having done Research, and tells me it'd probably be faster and maybe even cheaper to take a bus. I talk to a Gate lady, and she tells me that would require leaving the Terminal, forfeiting my stand-by status, and fucking me over bad. And there's no bus directly out of the airport. A map tells me that JFK is actually far from New York, NY, but in Queens, NY, below South Jamaica. I call my mother, who's still laughing at my second flight missed, and seems totally indifferent how long I have to sit in JFK.

I take girlfriend's advice, getting home to her is Priority Uno, and go out on the largest limb I believe I've ever taken while travelling. I take the AirTrain out of JFK to Jamaica Station, where I get to board the Metro Subway. I have the exact seven dollars for a one way one day pass. Under carefully amalgamated instructions, I ride the Subway into out of Queens, into New York (Manhattan), across the island, to Port Authority. It's a long ride I have trouble keeping attentive for. But I make it to Port Authority, where there is a Greyhound bus station located. Hip Hip Hurray.
(Odd note: It cost $36 dollars to go to Boston, when I asked how much to go to Portland, the lady said $35. I've checked the website a few times since, and I have no idea why it cost me a dollar less but I bought the ticket anyway.)

So here I am in the Big Apple, it's stopped snowing and turned to torrential cold rain, with two hours of my life to live before I ride the bus. I make the appropriate phone calls to relieved loved ones. And decide to check out the streets. Not much going on outside. Lots of New Yorkers moving to and fro. Across the road was a Burger King that offered Internet access. Weirdest thing, seeing a Burger King set up like an Internet Cafe with the computers all against the wall and the cash machines to buy minutes. They were not bad prices either. I nabbed 30 minutes and hit up Facebook and got to F-Chat with my main doggs, Dirty JC and Justice Train. I also Google-Mapped my current location and discovered I was merely three blocks from Times Square.

My only two trips to New York City prior did not include seeing this iconic locale, and here I was sitting right down the street from it, I had to check it out. So I trudged through the slush and rain and saw the bright billboards and businesses along the Square. Given the weather, nobody was milling about in the middle of the Square as I'd so often see on TV, so I shamelessly whipped out my ukulele from it's shelter in my winter coat. And I can now forevermore proudly say I played my ukulele standing in Times Square under the pouring rain.

Then I hustled back to Port Authority to catch my bus. The Greyhound bus was packed full but I've never been one to complain about close-quarters public transportation, I could man this one out. The driver is named Gonzales, no joke, so I laughed to myself and prayed the trip would be Speedy. We start rolling, I'm texting my friends saying I'll be home for Christmas and so on, and everything is starting to look up for once on this wild trip.

Then the bus catches on fire.

Smoke starts to fill the cabin, just the smell at first. Now say what you will about the human spirit, that we are all truly kind and honest people, good natured and so on, but the chaos that erupted on that bus brought our whole species great shame. Just from the hints of smelling smoke. People were yelling, screaming, at the driver, already out of their seats pulling their stuff down from overhead compartments. Dashing down the aisles with no regard for seating order, or the elderly. I fully believe I was the only level-headed passenger who didn't panic, threaten the driver or threaten the other passengers, and I was sitting in the way back, by the lavatory (proper positioning is everything).

The driver pulls over and everyone shouts and moans until they get off. We all gather under this scaffolding while the driver inspects the now-hot-boxed bus front to back and can't determine where the smoke is coming from, so he calls Home Base and orders us up another one. Poor Gonzales answers everyones questions and criticisms. Some people duck inside nearby buildings to get warm, I eventually do this too. By the time the new bus arrives, I'm first out the door, first to the sidewalk, determined to get my old seat back. Everyone gathers around as it hisses to a stop, and I shout out "Same Seats!" to get a laugh. Nobody laughs.

We drive through part of Central Park as Gonzales introduces the new driver, Thomas. Once we hit the highway and make for Massachusetts it dawns on me Thomas must be from Massachusetts. I sleep or feign sleeping the whole ride up, but when I did open my eyes I would notice the rain shift back to snow, and turn into a dreadful blizzard. Or as how my people would term it "a wicked nor'easter." Thomas the Driver must clearly see this, but still tailgates people doing forty on the unplowed highway. I'm scared for us and scared for them, and think Thomas is a dick. A real Masshole. I sleep.

I wake up! The bus is stopping. People are outside waiting for it. A few stand to get off and I'm jumping with joy. We're at Logan! Finally! A safe reliable location to make the last leg home from! I scurry off the bus, and the second my feet are down on Massachusetts soil, WHAM I fall flat on my ass, but I'm so elated I just laugh merrily and pick myself up. I spend approximately five minutes putting together that I'm actually not at an airport, or in Boston, and ask a stranger what's the dilly-oh? He tells me I'm in Newton, Mass. I get back on the bus covered in snow and shame.

When the bus finally arrives in Boston, it's not directly to Logan but to the Greyhound station adjacent to Logan, and it lets us all out. It's snowing real bad at this point. I make my way to the Greyhound station only to be greeted by a nice sign standing up clearly on the desk, saving me an upsetting conversation, that clearly states all buses to Maine have been cancelled. I'm appalled. And don't feel like spending the night in this really crappy hexagonal bus terminal. I find a D'Angelo's and buy a Gobbler and think my situation over. Stomach full of hot turkey, stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce I stand up and survey my situation. In every facet of the hexagon there are enclaved areas hosting two travel companies each. I notice the reputable Fung-Wah of legend and lore. I make my way around until I spot my saving grace: Continental Trailways!!

And they were still running! All the way up to Augusta. I forget how much the ticket was because frankly at this point I've spent so much money just trying to make it home I don't even want to think about my account balance, much less look at it. I only have to wait ten minutes before the bus to Portland arrives. My heart rejoices.

On the close to empty trip up, we watch Song and Lyrics on the little overheard TV's. You know, I never really gave Hugh Grant a chance. The snow is reeeeally coming down now, we're crawling up the interstate. I barely can tell we cross the Piscataqua River, dividing New Hampshire from the Great State of Maine, "The Way Life Should Be." Occasionally I'll make out a large green highway sign with names on it like Kennebunkport, or York, or Wells, but I can't recall which of these is supposed to be closer or farther than the other. The passengers around me don't know the area either, and ask themselves and others aloud how much farther till Portland? I seem to be the only native, so I guess them my best answer in a traditional Mainer style: "Not too far now."

Soon the driver comes over the speaker, assuring us in fifteen minutes we'll be off this shitkicker and in safe, warm, indoor areas that can't break down on the side of a highway in a snowdrift.

And then I'm off. Free. Home. Portland, Maine.

It doesn't take long for my girlfriend to arrive in her car, and I'm rewarded at the end of my odyssey by a big long romantic embrace. I pick her up and swing around. Everyone in the station doesn't care, but still watches.

San Francisco to Portland. Damn, this was long. I might adapt it to a short novella or episodic serial with ficitonal content added in or something. Maybe read it all tomorrow and cut out the boring parts. That's unlikely, I'll just end up adding more unnecessary detail. But seriously, folks. It was one hell of a trip. A true misadventure.