Route 66
Today is my birthday.
Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in the Route 66 Grillhouse at LAX, having a Foster's because they don't serve beer on Air Canada flights anymore. At least not in economy. There are metal street signs on the wall: Mustang Parking Only; Elvis Presley Blvd; and, of course, Route 66 with its various states. My table is emblazened with Route 66 ARIZONA.
You've got to give Americans credit. Or something. The way they trumpet the most mundane artifacts as symbols of national pride. It's just a highway. But let me back up.
Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.
I'm on a plane again, this time flying to Los Angeles, and feeling guilty for the long silence, Gentle Reader. I haven't yet finished the tale of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K., never mind the long-promised story of my friend Angela who joined a cult for the summer and left me with a bathtub full of her boxes. (It's a good thing I don't take baths during the summer.) But remember when I opined that a lot can happen in eight weeks? It turns out, that was the understatement of the summer.
It's less than 24 hours since the Air France plane crashed and burned at Pearson airport. I was oblivious to the incident when it happened on Tuesday, because I was in an underground midtown mall having Daniel deal with my unsightly roots.
I have a Big Date this weekend, you see.
Because this trip was booked at the very last minute, I got the second-last seat on the plane, and it's an aisle seat. I hate sitting on the aisle. There are many irritations of plane travel that I can tolerate better than most. Babies crying, for example. I'm adept at tuning out background noises, so long as they are natural and expected. But oh, how it annoys me when people continually bump into me — I cannot begin to describe. It infuriates me, because these are grownups, and should know better. It's not as though a sudden jolt of turbulence sent them hurtling against me; that I would forgive. It's the careless bumping of my arm, though it is well within the bounds of my armrest. The kicking of my feet, though they, too, are well within my space, out of the aisle itself. The people who brace themselves against my headrest.
To me, none of this is forgivable.
Did you know that airlines have a policy of not showing either news stories or movies about plane crashes in flight? I suppose this makes sense, but on a day like today it is surreal. They are showing the CBC news, but nothing about the Air France crash. Only light, fluffy stories about Girl Guide camps. Cognitive dissonance when delivered by Sandi Rinaldo, a serious news anchor. Surely she's aware of what happened yesterday afternoon? That she chooses not to tell us about it, or that Air Canada chooses not to show us her telling us about it, is beyond surreal — it's dishonest.
In fact it's downright Big Brotherish, pretending a big story didn't happen; hoping they can make us forget about it. Of course, it's all anyone was talking about inside the airport, and now, on the plane. When a flight attendant walks by we hush up, like schoolchildren whispering in class when the teacher's not looking.
I can only begin to imagine how surreal it must have been to fly a couple of days after the World Trade Center attack: What? a plane flew into a New York office tower and exploded? You don't say! Two planes? Really? No, I wasn't aware, I was on a plane myself...
They only show cute movies on planes. That's the second reason I never watch them. The first is — well, do I really need to tell you? You've been on planes. Can you imagine a setting less conducive to the activity of movie watching?
Still, since it's impossible to read during the meal, today I watch half an hour of Monster In-Law. What a dreadful piece of contrived shit. Even the most implausible plot lines on Dynasty and Dallas were better than this. What could Jane Fonda have been thinking? After 35 minutes the ending of the movie couldn't have been more clearly projected if each of the characters had held up signs reading, for example "My character is going to have an allergic reaction at the wedding reception, and that crisis will lead to a resolution of the conflict between the major characters."
I turn it off in disgust and try to do some thesis reading. It's difficult to concentrate on the WEAF experiment of 1922, though, because what I'm more concerned about is when on earth I'll find the time to buy a dress before Sunday night, when Jack and I are going dancing with my father and his wife.
Wednesday, 7:00 p.m.
I'm sitting at the bar at the Holiday Inn in Monrovia, just east of Pasadena, at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. Shame about the view! It looked familiar, driving up from L.A., but it's only now, looking at a map on the back of one of the hotel's myriad tourist brochures, that I remember why: The first time the X and I came to California, in 1991, we drove the state from San Diego to San Francisco, and during our three days in the L.A. area we stumbled onto the Hollywood Bowl. I have a great photograph of my teddy bear, Antoinette, there.
I'm waiting for Mike and Bill, the two guys who run an Internet startup here in the mountains. That's why I'm here, to spend the day with them, so we can check each other out. We've been at it since lunchtime. I'm just waiting here for them, then we're heading out to the Dave & Buster's in Santa Anita for dinner and — wait for it — to play video games. This plan has as much appeal to me as going to a strip club. Less, maybe. But it was not posed as a question — Mike, the CEO, said, simply, this is where we're going. It's clear he has his reasons. Likely it's a test, to see if we can all play nice together.
I've already decided I like both Mike and Bill. They are smart, funny, and passionate about their small company and its very cool stuff — I can't tell you what it is yet. They've already succeeded in getting me enthused about it. I like the idea of working with them. My brain is already buzzing with ideas.
But must I go shoot at a virtual Death Star to make them like me? Couldn't we build a tree fort instead?
Thursday, 1:40 p.m.
Route 66 Grill House, LAX
Just as I had predicted, last night was all about virtually blowing things up. Me, I like the analog carnival games. There was a shooting gallery, the kind that has a mise-en-scene — a gangster figure, a player piano, a saloon sign, a Marilyn Monroe mannequin &mdash with several dozen laser targets. If you hit the target, a light flashes, or the piano plays, or Marilyn's skirt billows up. I ran my playing card through this one three times. My score on the third try was 74%.
Then we came to the horse race booth. You know the one, the carnival game that ten people play at once, each moving his horse forward by rolling a ball into concentric rings — win, place, and show. My horse was named "Mr B's Tango." You bet I won that horse race.
See, my daddy is Mr B, and he taught me how to ballroom dance starting when I was about six. And in just four days, he's going to meet Jack.
This morning I had breakfast with Mike and we discussed terms. We are now in think about it for 24 hours mode, and I am going shopping.
I drive liesurely along Route 66 in Pasadena, winding my way down to Santa Monica, a shopping mecca with which I'm very familiar. Liesurely, because I have an hour and a half until the stores open. And because I love driving around California, especially this part of it. Call me crazy, and Jack would, but I love L.A. Jack hates it.
At the end of Route 66, or the beginning, depending on how you view it, I park in the parking lot at Santa Monica Place and walk towards Macy's. As I approach the door, the security guard is just unlocking it.
Ah, mecca. I have three hours until I need to get to the airport.
There's no chance I won't find a dress in Santa Monica. There's a BCBG Max Azria store. And Macy's. I love Macy's.
Friday, 5:00 p.m.
On impulse at the airport yesterday, I bought a copy of Candace Bushnell's Trading Up, to read on the plane. Partly because my tired brain craved junk reading, and a National Enquirer only lasts half an hour, 45 minutes tops. And partly because I wanted to find out whether she was a good writer. Though I despise the TV show Sex And The City, I watch it nevertheless because of Chris Noth, who has always reminded me of Jack, and lately I've come to appreciate the clever dialogue. I wondered whether it was Bushnell's.
It isn't. I won't outright call her a hack, but, well, let's just say a good writer she is not.
Jack is on a plane right now. I'm meeting him in a few hours, and the circumstances are such that I'm in a position to live out a fantasy I've had since 1998, when he left Toronto for California. I always imagined that if, one day, X and I were to break up, I would call Jack and say, simply, if you're interested, I'll be at the Royal York in the Library Bar on such-and-such a day at 10:00. I'll be the tall redhead in the white dress.
Tonight, at 10:00, I'll be the tall redhead in the white dress in the Library Bar at the Royal York.
Find out what Jack gives Sass for her birthday in the next story. Or, skip ahead nearly a year to read about Sass's next trip to California, which also involves a job interview, and Jack.
Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in the Route 66 Grillhouse at LAX, having a Foster's because they don't serve beer on Air Canada flights anymore. At least not in economy. There are metal street signs on the wall: Mustang Parking Only; Elvis Presley Blvd; and, of course, Route 66 with its various states. My table is emblazened with Route 66 ARIZONA.
You've got to give Americans credit. Or something. The way they trumpet the most mundane artifacts as symbols of national pride. It's just a highway. But let me back up.
Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.
I'm on a plane again, this time flying to Los Angeles, and feeling guilty for the long silence, Gentle Reader. I haven't yet finished the tale of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K., never mind the long-promised story of my friend Angela who joined a cult for the summer and left me with a bathtub full of her boxes. (It's a good thing I don't take baths during the summer.) But remember when I opined that a lot can happen in eight weeks? It turns out, that was the understatement of the summer.
It's less than 24 hours since the Air France plane crashed and burned at Pearson airport. I was oblivious to the incident when it happened on Tuesday, because I was in an underground midtown mall having Daniel deal with my unsightly roots.
I have a Big Date this weekend, you see.
Because this trip was booked at the very last minute, I got the second-last seat on the plane, and it's an aisle seat. I hate sitting on the aisle. There are many irritations of plane travel that I can tolerate better than most. Babies crying, for example. I'm adept at tuning out background noises, so long as they are natural and expected. But oh, how it annoys me when people continually bump into me — I cannot begin to describe. It infuriates me, because these are grownups, and should know better. It's not as though a sudden jolt of turbulence sent them hurtling against me; that I would forgive. It's the careless bumping of my arm, though it is well within the bounds of my armrest. The kicking of my feet, though they, too, are well within my space, out of the aisle itself. The people who brace themselves against my headrest.
To me, none of this is forgivable.
Did you know that airlines have a policy of not showing either news stories or movies about plane crashes in flight? I suppose this makes sense, but on a day like today it is surreal. They are showing the CBC news, but nothing about the Air France crash. Only light, fluffy stories about Girl Guide camps. Cognitive dissonance when delivered by Sandi Rinaldo, a serious news anchor. Surely she's aware of what happened yesterday afternoon? That she chooses not to tell us about it, or that Air Canada chooses not to show us her telling us about it, is beyond surreal — it's dishonest.
In fact it's downright Big Brotherish, pretending a big story didn't happen; hoping they can make us forget about it. Of course, it's all anyone was talking about inside the airport, and now, on the plane. When a flight attendant walks by we hush up, like schoolchildren whispering in class when the teacher's not looking.
I can only begin to imagine how surreal it must have been to fly a couple of days after the World Trade Center attack: What? a plane flew into a New York office tower and exploded? You don't say! Two planes? Really? No, I wasn't aware, I was on a plane myself...
They only show cute movies on planes. That's the second reason I never watch them. The first is — well, do I really need to tell you? You've been on planes. Can you imagine a setting less conducive to the activity of movie watching?
Still, since it's impossible to read during the meal, today I watch half an hour of Monster In-Law. What a dreadful piece of contrived shit. Even the most implausible plot lines on Dynasty and Dallas were better than this. What could Jane Fonda have been thinking? After 35 minutes the ending of the movie couldn't have been more clearly projected if each of the characters had held up signs reading, for example "My character is going to have an allergic reaction at the wedding reception, and that crisis will lead to a resolution of the conflict between the major characters."
I turn it off in disgust and try to do some thesis reading. It's difficult to concentrate on the WEAF experiment of 1922, though, because what I'm more concerned about is when on earth I'll find the time to buy a dress before Sunday night, when Jack and I are going dancing with my father and his wife.
Wednesday, 7:00 p.m.
I'm sitting at the bar at the Holiday Inn in Monrovia, just east of Pasadena, at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. Shame about the view! It looked familiar, driving up from L.A., but it's only now, looking at a map on the back of one of the hotel's myriad tourist brochures, that I remember why: The first time the X and I came to California, in 1991, we drove the state from San Diego to San Francisco, and during our three days in the L.A. area we stumbled onto the Hollywood Bowl. I have a great photograph of my teddy bear, Antoinette, there.
I'm waiting for Mike and Bill, the two guys who run an Internet startup here in the mountains. That's why I'm here, to spend the day with them, so we can check each other out. We've been at it since lunchtime. I'm just waiting here for them, then we're heading out to the Dave & Buster's in Santa Anita for dinner and — wait for it — to play video games. This plan has as much appeal to me as going to a strip club. Less, maybe. But it was not posed as a question — Mike, the CEO, said, simply, this is where we're going. It's clear he has his reasons. Likely it's a test, to see if we can all play nice together.
I've already decided I like both Mike and Bill. They are smart, funny, and passionate about their small company and its very cool stuff — I can't tell you what it is yet. They've already succeeded in getting me enthused about it. I like the idea of working with them. My brain is already buzzing with ideas.
But must I go shoot at a virtual Death Star to make them like me? Couldn't we build a tree fort instead?
Thursday, 1:40 p.m.
Route 66 Grill House, LAX
Just as I had predicted, last night was all about virtually blowing things up. Me, I like the analog carnival games. There was a shooting gallery, the kind that has a mise-en-scene — a gangster figure, a player piano, a saloon sign, a Marilyn Monroe mannequin &mdash with several dozen laser targets. If you hit the target, a light flashes, or the piano plays, or Marilyn's skirt billows up. I ran my playing card through this one three times. My score on the third try was 74%.
Then we came to the horse race booth. You know the one, the carnival game that ten people play at once, each moving his horse forward by rolling a ball into concentric rings — win, place, and show. My horse was named "Mr B's Tango." You bet I won that horse race.
See, my daddy is Mr B, and he taught me how to ballroom dance starting when I was about six. And in just four days, he's going to meet Jack.
This morning I had breakfast with Mike and we discussed terms. We are now in think about it for 24 hours mode, and I am going shopping.
I drive liesurely along Route 66 in Pasadena, winding my way down to Santa Monica, a shopping mecca with which I'm very familiar. Liesurely, because I have an hour and a half until the stores open. And because I love driving around California, especially this part of it. Call me crazy, and Jack would, but I love L.A. Jack hates it.
At the end of Route 66, or the beginning, depending on how you view it, I park in the parking lot at Santa Monica Place and walk towards Macy's. As I approach the door, the security guard is just unlocking it.
Ah, mecca. I have three hours until I need to get to the airport.
There's no chance I won't find a dress in Santa Monica. There's a BCBG Max Azria store. And Macy's. I love Macy's.
Friday, 5:00 p.m.
On impulse at the airport yesterday, I bought a copy of Candace Bushnell's Trading Up, to read on the plane. Partly because my tired brain craved junk reading, and a National Enquirer only lasts half an hour, 45 minutes tops. And partly because I wanted to find out whether she was a good writer. Though I despise the TV show Sex And The City, I watch it nevertheless because of Chris Noth, who has always reminded me of Jack, and lately I've come to appreciate the clever dialogue. I wondered whether it was Bushnell's.
It isn't. I won't outright call her a hack, but, well, let's just say a good writer she is not.
Jack is on a plane right now. I'm meeting him in a few hours, and the circumstances are such that I'm in a position to live out a fantasy I've had since 1998, when he left Toronto for California. I always imagined that if, one day, X and I were to break up, I would call Jack and say, simply, if you're interested, I'll be at the Royal York in the Library Bar on such-and-such a day at 10:00. I'll be the tall redhead in the white dress.
Tonight, at 10:00, I'll be the tall redhead in the white dress in the Library Bar at the Royal York.
Find out what Jack gives Sass for her birthday in the next story. Or, skip ahead nearly a year to read about Sass's next trip to California, which also involves a job interview, and Jack.
<< Home