Escape From Bushwick Part One

I’m taking a “work vacation” for the next couple weeks to my former home of Central Florida. Personal problems have really overwhelmed me lately, but I’m not in any position to just take time off from writing. I figure working on record reviews by my parents’ pool might be a little more relaxing than remaining in the sweltering pot of garbage soup New York City has become (happens every summer; Mother Nature fries all that trash up, and we, the fine residents, pay the price).

Anywho, I thought it might be fun to document this, my most recent escape from Bushwick, here on the blog, mainly because I seem to have trouble coming up with consistent material lately (unless you really wanna read twenty-five more haiku reviews about movies I’ve seen recently).

So here I sit in the JetBlue terminal of JFK International, eating a plate of barbecue ribs that are surprisingly good for a generic buffet table at New York’s biggest clusterfuck of an airport. The overhead speakers have been blasting a who’s who of 1980s pop. I had to laugh when they threw on “Danger Zone” by K. Loggins. Who approved that one for airport use? Not the most reassuring song to hear as you’re walking through the security checkpoints.

“Shake It Up” by the Cars just came on. Now this is a good airport jam. Upbeat, positive. People seem happier hearing it, although no spontaneous dance parties have broken out just yet. I wonder what PaleGuy McLongFace from this band is doing right now. Is he at an airport? He’s probably just shuffling around Boston, looking like a goon.

I’m so proud of myself for expertly selecting exactly four dollars and twenty-five cents worth of barbecue ribs. I had a five dollar bill I really wanted to use for this meal. Alas, it seems I took one rib too many for my tiny bird stomach. One day, I’ll truly master portioning.

My flight doesn’t board for an hour. Will this copy of Esquire keep me entertained until I cram my pudgy rear into seat 25D? Probably not. I only bought it for one article—something about “The Price Is Right” that looked interesting. I suppose I could always just stare lovingly at Bill Clinton on the cover there. He’s rocking a pretty self-satisfied look. He must be happy Al Gore finally has a sex scandal to call his own.

A custodial worker here just came up and asked me if I was finished with my ribs. He was dressed like a jazz musician: black slacks, black t-shirt, jaunty old man cap cocked to one side. I’m still working, chief. In the meantime, why don’t you whip out a clarinet and play me something public domain? It’s cool they let them dress that way here.

The time has come to change location. To the gate I journey. Until the next episode, pray I can infiltrate the minds of any screaming babies on my flight and rearrange their neutrons so their incoherent gibberish forms a melody akin to “Shake It Up.”

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