22 April 2009

The youth are getting restless at the gate. Bad weather in New York. April hailstorm; a maelstrom really. The drawls are on their mobiles and they’re not happy but they’re keeping it to a quiet roar. Rule #1 in bartender school is: bring the ice to the cup, don’t bring the cup to the ice. Have you ever smashed a glass in an ice bucket? Good luck deciphering the ice from the glass. Talk about a dirty martini. The Admiral’s Club ain’t what it used to be. Now it’s just a room where wayward travelers read crisp foreign newspapers, steal pens and sip watered down gin and tonics. I mean how many hours can one spend browsing in Hudson News before insanity sets? The answer: not very long. Paperbacks and expensive candy. Sighs and rolling eyes. Last minute cologne or Toblerone anyone? It’s a far cry from the duty-frees of yore. I’ll find a cab and hopefully it will get me home. We won’t land until tomorrow what with the time change and all. But when it was good, it was good. She never cared much for pomp and circumstance. She sat on the floor of the veterinarian in the middle of the night and stroked Budgie’s bleeding head. “You gotta try harder than that!”, he told the debt collector. “You can’t give up that easy!”. It’s getting stuffy now. Everyone seems resigned to the fact that we’re not going anywhere for a while. Cue the chirping birds. The guests have arrived. Its a long hallway filled with gold wood fillet and chestnut frames. Diplomas in Latin, certificates and awards. "Meet me at the Hyphen"... down where Yigael met with Mar to buy the Dead Sea Scrolls. I drift to sleep with thoughts of claustrophobia and le tunnel sous la Manche. Take my hand and I’ll follow you there. Into the maelstrom and hail. Into the land of the lost. Into the world without end.