12-23-98 3:20 pm W
On a Portland-bound MD-80 out of Los Angeles. San Francisco looks rather modest from up here. I feel like I'm clearing my brain. Much of California is uninhabited. Whatever. Guess what? I'm hungry. There are some weird geysers out the window. I'm squirreling down my second bag of nuts. Love is such a tricky thing. I'm going to Idaho so my family will know I love them. I guess I've got to marry Shirelle so she'll know I love her. But I can't do anything about the love I feel for the Village Chief's daughter. Oh, well, right? Where's Mt. Shasta? What else? Whatever. It's supposed to be freezing in Idaho. We'll be sitting around the house for three days listening to Christmas songs and staring at each other, sober. Somebody brought some McDonald's on this plane that's stirring my carnivore lust. I sort of have to take a leak, but I'm on the window and would have to disturb my sleeping sister. There's about an hour to go until we land in Portland, and then we'll have to hustle over to the Horizon terminal and board another plane. Delays in LA ate up about half of what was to be a one-hour layover. I hope nothing else happens or we'll miss our connection to Spokane. We carried on all our bags. So at least we don't have to worry about that. We're scheduled to arrive around six, and my dad said he would buy us all dinner on the way from the airport. There are snow-covered mountains out the window. Are they the Coastal Range? The Cascades? Is that Lake Shasta? Whiskey Creek? I'm not drinking today. I played some basketball this morning, but I didn't type. I was reading the newspaper. I should have typed and saved the newspaper for the waiting and flying. Duh. Oh, well. What else? God bless Shrill. God bless Mom. Mac's spitting dip into a clear plastic cup. Filthy. Trip. I'm a tripper. A drunk tripper. Didn't get any gifts or cards for anybody. My ego disorder has been in full sway lately. I have trouble breathing. The earth below is covered in snow. My imagination fails me. A fool I am, of the highest order. Maintain your cool at all times. Maybe Grandma has a game of Scrabble. What else? At what temperature do you need to worry about wind shear and the wings icing up? What else? Hawkeye has the prejudices of a white woodsman. No humanitarian philosopher he, but a murderous killer.
On a Portland-bound MD-80 out of Los Angeles. San Francisco looks rather modest from up here. I feel like I'm clearing my brain. Much of California is uninhabited. Whatever. Guess what? I'm hungry. There are some weird geysers out the window. I'm squirreling down my second bag of nuts. Love is such a tricky thing. I'm going to Idaho so my family will know I love them. I guess I've got to marry Shirelle so she'll know I love her. But I can't do anything about the love I feel for the Village Chief's daughter. Oh, well, right? Where's Mt. Shasta? What else? Whatever. It's supposed to be freezing in Idaho. We'll be sitting around the house for three days listening to Christmas songs and staring at each other, sober. Somebody brought some McDonald's on this plane that's stirring my carnivore lust. I sort of have to take a leak, but I'm on the window and would have to disturb my sleeping sister. There's about an hour to go until we land in Portland, and then we'll have to hustle over to the Horizon terminal and board another plane. Delays in LA ate up about half of what was to be a one-hour layover. I hope nothing else happens or we'll miss our connection to Spokane. We carried on all our bags. So at least we don't have to worry about that. We're scheduled to arrive around six, and my dad said he would buy us all dinner on the way from the airport. There are snow-covered mountains out the window. Are they the Coastal Range? The Cascades? Is that Lake Shasta? Whiskey Creek? I'm not drinking today. I played some basketball this morning, but I didn't type. I was reading the newspaper. I should have typed and saved the newspaper for the waiting and flying. Duh. Oh, well. What else? God bless Shrill. God bless Mom. Mac's spitting dip into a clear plastic cup. Filthy. Trip. I'm a tripper. A drunk tripper. Didn't get any gifts or cards for anybody. My ego disorder has been in full sway lately. I have trouble breathing. The earth below is covered in snow. My imagination fails me. A fool I am, of the highest order. Maintain your cool at all times. Maybe Grandma has a game of Scrabble. What else? At what temperature do you need to worry about wind shear and the wings icing up? What else? Hawkeye has the prejudices of a white woodsman. No humanitarian philosopher he, but a murderous killer.
posted by johnz at 9:10 PM
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