From: (girl guitarist libertine)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: FTSD:  cowboys and strippers and cops, oh my!
Date: 30 Nov 1998 20:09:00 -0800
Organization: merde's web empire
Message-ID: <73vq4s$kqe$>
Lines: 237
X-Trace: 912485344 200 mlt@

and here, for your perusal, is my thanksgiving trip report.

SFO, 11/25/98:

I hate vacations.  When you live at the beach, leaving to go anywhere
else seems kind of silly.  So as we drive up Sharp Park Boulevard over
the hill, I can't decide whether to enjoy the view of the sun setting
over the ocean -- it never gets boring, even though I see it every
night -- or the view of the driver, who is remarkably scenic in his
own right.  About 25, long gorgeous brown hair, fabulous profile, a
couple of silver earrings, neither of which are in the usual place.
He has some kind of foreign accent, and his skin is suntan-dark, but
he doesn't look asian or hispanic or indian -- eastern european, 

Anyway, wherever he's from, he's absolutely gorgeous and I'm having a
hard time not staring.  My brain is running through those things one's
brain does at times like this -- what's his name, why did I have to 
wear my ratty clothes to go to the airport, what would it be like to
date a cab driver, is he going to rear-end that Sentra?

Alas, finally the ride is over; I give him a good, but not great tip,
because I don't want to seem like one of those pathetic women who goes
around overtipping waiters and lawn boys and leering suggestively at
them.  I'm not desperate enough to be that undignified.  Yet.

Inside the airport, things aren't nearly as crazy as I expected, and
I'm 2 and a half hours early, so I get myself a double latte, find 
my gate, and position myself for optimum people-watching conditions.

As soon as I start writing, I become aware of a moderately cute guy 
trying not to look at me.  By the time I get to this point in my
narrative, he has wandered off and has probably writing in his notebook
about the scruffy chick who's writing in her notebook.  He looked the

A hip couple in their mid-20s is racing each other along the moving
walkway.  They're laughing and happy, which must mean they're departing.
I'd lay money they're not speaking by the time they get back.  Travel
will do that to a couple.  I think people should always travel alone.
Or, if you must go together, make your arrangements separately and
meet up at your destination.  Airports will bring you only grief.

Note to self:  must get a jacket that isn't too bulky to pack.

Ever notice how some people seem to dress for the occasion of air
travel?  What are these women with perfect makeup and hair expecting?
That they'll be seated next to Robert Redford?  I'd hang out in the
airport bar to study this phenomenon in depth, but I spend most of
my social time in bars already.  This is my vacation, dammit.  I don't
want to see the inside of a bar until I have Jenine and Stevi with me.

God damn there are a lot of black maxi-skirts walking around this
airport.  Most of them appear to have women inside, but the one with
too much gold jewelry is either a man or a WNBA forward for sure.

Hmmm.  This guy walking by wants to be Elvis Costello *so* bad.

You can tell which passengers are arriving from someplace like Iowa.
They're wearing tank tops and platform sandals and are shivering with
cold.  "But I thought it was supposed to be *warm* in California!" 
they whine.  I'm sure they sell a buttload of sweatshirts in the
airport shops here.

A blonde girl in her early teens walks by with her father -- at least
I hope he's her father.  No luggage, so they're going to meet someone.
She's dressed up for the occasion in a long blue calico go-to-church-
on-sunday dress and a pair of shoes that are about two sizes too big 
for her.  She's trying to look very grown up, but those shoes are a 
dead giveaway.  

Hey, that guy looks kind of like lstewart.

You'd think people would've gotten over the novelty of cellphones
by now, but there are still a surprising number of people who take
plains to use theirs as ostentatiously as possible.  For god's sake,
the maintenance guys at my apartment building have cellphones.  Not
only that, they don't feel the need to show them off.

A guy calls to his 12-or-so-year-old daughter -- "The plane is pulling
up!  The plane is pulling up!"  "Well, then, we can take our time," she
replies irritably.  "They won't be coming out for a while."  I smile at
her and she gives me that long-suffering look all kids that age affect
whenever their parents are around.

Hmmm.  Here's a guy carring a briefcase in one hand and a pair of
sneakers in the other.  Do the shoes count as one piece of carry-on
or two?

There's an interesting couple -- a black woman and a white man, each 
of them with a guitar in a gig bag.  They're heading for the gate, but 
their chances of being able to carry on instruments the day before 
Thanksgiving are just about nil.  They're going to have to check them 
at the gate, and pick up their kindling from the baggage carousel when
they arrive at their destination.  Some people shouldn't be allowed to
play an instrument.

Man, that Elvis Costello wannabe really loves those moving walkways.
He just keeps riding back and forth, back and forth.  Probably there's
a cute chick in one of the waiting areas that he's too shy to talk to.
I wonder what he'd do if I just stood up and yelled "Go talk to her,
dumbass!" the next time he scrolls by.

Nah, it would just get security all riled up, and they're nervous
enough about my biker jacket.  Post '80s, apparnetly, biker jackets
are once again the mark of a Dangerous Person.

A little girl, maybe 2 or so, is lying down on the metal kick panel
that runs along the outside of the moving walkway.  She's watching
people glide by looking absolutely enchanted.  Her father is crouched
next to her in his mismatched pants and blazer, watching her very
closely but not stopping her.  

There is now a couple doing the jitterbug on the moving walkway.  Now,
that is worthy of immortalization.

You know, this emerging fondness for short guys I've been developing
is clearly an excellent idea.  Most of the tall guys I'm seeing go by
have a woman with them.  Most of the short guys are alone -- except
for the male half of the jitterbugging couple.  Take heed:  if you're
short, learn to dance.

My flight is boarding!  Stay tuned for scenes from next week's episode.

Stevi's, 11/26/98 (Thanksgiving):

There is no air in Colorado.  There is also no moisture.  The food,
however, is really excellent.

Nightclub, 11/27/98:

Present are myself, Jenine, Stevi, and Ilana.  We've already had a
couple of margaritas apiece, and now we are putting away 80 cent well
drinks at an alarming rate.  Mostly, the events of the evening involve
gossip and drinking, so I'll just cut to the interesting part right

A couple of tables away are two guys.  One is tall and thin, dressed
like a cowboy, and looks just like the vampire sheriff from the X-Files.
The other looks like a surf bum, only this is Colorado so he's probably
a snowboard bum.  They keep glancing over at us.  Finally, after a long
time, the cowboy comes over.  Reality being what it is, he positions
himself between the two married women.

After some conversation, it is determined that Jenine and Ilana are
married and Stevi and I are single, and his friend comes over to join
us.  Their names are Derek and Eric.  Eric is unemployed, thereby
predestining himself to be stuck with me, and Derek wants us to guess
what he does for a living.  I am the one to guess that he's a cop.
But wait!  There's more!  He has a second job, we should guess what
that is too.

Jenine is the one to guess that when he's not being a cop, he's a 
stripper.  He proves this by showing us his red, white, and blue G-

When Stevi is off on the dance floor by herself, Cowboy Stripper Cop
says, "Okay, when she comes back, I'm going to leave for a couple of
minutes, and I want you to find out what she thinks of me, okay?
Because I don't want to get shot down."

"We're not above that," Jenine assures him.  "Nope.  In fact, I think
I'm beneath it," I say.  So when Stevi comes back, we say, "So, Derek
wants us to find out what you think of him."

We'd had a lot of drinks, and I don't remember what she said except
that it wasn't completely negative.  The timeline starts to get a little
fuzzy around here, so I'll compress events further.  Stevi wrote "If you
ever get over that smoking habit, give me a call" on the back of one of
her cards, and I ferried it over to Cowboy Stripper Cop.  They left.  A
while later, they reappeared and Unemployed Guy brought over a note that
said "I would love to dance for you privately.  If your <sic> interested,
let me know.  Please."

Stevi and Cowboy Stripper Cop refused to dance until the DJ played
something more danceable, so me and Unemployed Guy went over to the
DJ and begged him to play something for them.  He said it was almost
the end of the night, so he was trying to play stuff to drive people
out.  We said, "Man, if you play something danceable, someone is going
to get SO LUCKY.  And it's not either of us!"

So he played something.  And they danced.  And I even danced once with
Unemployed Guy, but since there is no air in Colorado, I couldn't keep
up.  And at closing time, while we were waiting for Gnat to come pick
our drunk asses up, Stevi and Cowboy Cop Stripper were enjoying a
touching moment in the doorway of a nearby shop.  So to speak.  Ahem.

I got the tab this year.  It was only about $100 with tip, but that
didn't include the several rounds Ilana picked up while they were
still selling 80 cent well drinks.  Last year, the tab was $120, but
there were only three of us.

I'm trying not to think too hard about it.

Gnat, I feel compelled to mention at this point, is the perfect husband.
Every woman needs a man who will drive her and her friends to a bar so
they can get drunk, will then drive back over and pick them up when
they're too wasted to walk home, and will make up the rollaway beds for
them so all they have to do is fall over and pass out.  The man should
get a sainthood, or possibly even be deified.

Flight 433, 11/28/98:

There's a kid showing off for the flight attendant in the row ahead of
me.  He's announcing that he went to 1st grade, so he already knows all
about math!  She asks him if he's ever been to Paris, and he says, "Oh,
we're travelers!  We went to the Grand Canyon!"

"Ooooh," she says.  "Did you spit off the edge?"

"Nooooooo!" the kid squeals, scandalised.

"Well, people do," she tells him.  "I don't want you to think *I* did
it, but someone I know did."

Her tone is too knowing.  I look up and it's a nice-looking black woman,
with neat graying short hair.  I suspect she knows how to have a good
time much better than that little boy will at her age.  He'll be some
kind of suit-wearing stockbroker.

I hope he remembers her.  It might save him.

Home, 11/29/98:

I feel my body rehydrating.  I CAN BREATHE!  IT'S A MIRACLE!

one nation, and guitars, and Steves visible,           
with libertine injustice for all