shitona stick
Cousin Kim on her way to Auckland and Vietnam
10/09/1999
I know I owe the Gibtown story to the weekly planners (those of you in the know will understand this) and you will be getting it I guarantee by the end of the week when I have time to finish editing Matthew's version, fused with my own. For now I will address Auckland. Leaving Miami Saturday morning had to have been the hardest task I had attempted since the SAT's on a Saturday morning in 1988 after my first rave party in Camdontown, London. After saying, oh I will finish my packing in the morning before I head to the airport, I can go out for a little while, I soon regretted my words. A little while has no meaning in the world of South Beach or in the timeless vortex they call the Deuce, and at 5 in the morning I came home to "finish my packing". Before leaving the bar, a menagerie of freaks cloistered around me for a few hours, which was good because I needed my fix since I was going to be gone for so long. (sooooo long). Zeke the violent criminal, Bill the tattooed hottie, Cybll the lesbian stalker, and so on (mom don't worry these are just pet names!) I finally get my luggage together and Tom-tom and I jump in the car head to Miami international, and realize 5 minutes before we get there, that Miami International has no meaning in my life this morning, as my flight is leaving from Ft. Lauderdale, and not only is it leaving from Ft. Lauderdale, I am traveling on the new ValuJet. Go speed racer all the way to Lauderdale, and eventually, after verbal battles with portly female police officers, and mental jousting with airport security, these heroes made it all the way to gate 32. We sat and scowled for several minutes as I realized I had a stop over in Indiana (wherever that is) and we looked at all the people wearing their Tazmanian Devil t-shirts and Tommy Hillfinger pants. I was not happy to be boarding. Luckily I had my own row and went happily to sleep, until I made it to this unknown land they call "Indianapolis" where the large bottomed women roam free, and the bi-level haircuts walk amongst the WB t-shirts. I sat and sulked and read Spin magazine imagining this being the roots of Kid Rocks rage. On to the plane, where of course I am in a seat that does not recline, and any of you who have flown with me you know what pain in the ass I can be (hot cold hungry tired stop looking at me give me alcohol) to name some of my favorite tunes. So I move to the back of the plane and sit in a row with an attractive young woman. But she can see how bitter and angry I am so she shrinks to her side of the chair and just looks at me and smiles. I scowl. The captain tells us that we don' t have enough fuel to make the trip to LA and we have to wait another hour, and there will be no food and beverage service. The expletives that rolled of my tongue were not even encapsulated in the English language. Luckily, my blond seatmate felt the same way, and low and behold, we had bonded. People always bond better on things the have in common that they hate or make them angry, then things they like or make them happy, and we were instant friends. Oh, did I tell you that she was a Marilyn Monroe impersonator? Luckily, Marilyn had some fresh baked raison bread that her Pentecostal father had baked for her (please, imagine that conversation with me prying into her family life wanting to know what the Pentecostal minister felt of his daughter posing as Marilyn with Mini Me in the last issue of Playboy!) So the flight went by easily as I was amused looking through people magazine pointing out all the people we hate, and we made it to LA. On to the United terminal to make my flight to New Zealand and meet John, the producer of the show, with a face like Iggy Pop and a voice like Tom Waits. After stuffing my face with a California burrito I made it to my gate to see how full the plane was and meet John. Full flight. He sees in my face that I am going to be difficult and is amused and keeps poking fun at me the whole time before the flight saying, yeah we're going to be in the center row of the plane, yeah, we re going to be in the center seats in the center row of the plane, yeah, we are going be against the galley so our seats don't recline for the whole way, yeah, it is going to be all Pauly Shore movies the whole flight...and yadayada. We board. What did I say? I didn't rent the Pauly Shore movies the fateful flight to Auckland, but I did sit, chair erect as it could not recline against the galley wall, and had no armrests in the center chair in the center row. John was not laughing any more as I sang cuts from my greatest hits album (hot cold hungry tired stop looking at me bring me alcohol and who can forget the classic ' my feet are swollen can you see my toes' that we all know and love) like a broken record. We decided the best route at this point was drugs, and plenty of them, and I mean over the counter sleep aids for any of you who suspect the worse. I cramped my body into a comfortless King Ramses the Third pose in my sarcophagus of a chair, and drifted off into chemical induced sleep for the entire flight in order to avoid causing my seatmate to hang himself from the thread they call a blanket (along with the maxi pad they call a pillow.) We made it to Auckland. I have to stop here because the memory is causing m body to cramp. Looks like I am headed to Vietnam in a week or so!
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