Tuesday, June 09, 2009






INDIANAPOLIS, Part 1

Went back to Indiana on Friday. The morning here was cold and gray and filled with gentle squall. I got to the airport expecting to see the flight had been interminably delayed--but it hadn't. Remarkable. So I shuffled through security and found my gate. My phone rings: Orbitz with a flight status update. The robot-lady voice tells me that my . . . flight . . . has . . . been . . . canceled. Oh, excellent. Very good. I went to the Delta counter and they told me to go to the Northwest counter; the Northwest counter told me to go to the Delta counter. I refused and told them we could handle it at this counter. After a short delay, I was rebooked on a US Airways flight that was to leave in an hour. So. Out past security, down to the street, through a rainy parking lot filled with dozens and dozens of idling cabs and over to the U.S. Airway terminal. I passed through security (again) got to my gate and staked out a seat near with the windows with an excellent view of nothing.

While waiting at the gate for the plane back to Indy, I watched a squat, beefy guy with long hair and a handlebar mustache (very Renaissance Faire-looking, very much the kind of guy I became in this SGF-related dream) make balloon animals for a quartet of equally beefy women. (The balloon animal appeared to be a unicorn impaled on a sword with dual, intertwined blades--one blue, one orange--but then I heard him explain it as a "carousel horse.") On the visual evidence, I would've all pegged all of the ladies as butch dykes--short, hard-permed, masculine haircuts with the "sideburns" shaved away in a straight line that aligned with the top of the ear; cargo shorts, backpacks, denim shirts, etc. But apparently they weren't--they were openly flirty back in Renn Faire. I lost track of them once we started boarding the plane but I hope Renn Faire got to stick his sword into the stone . . . and then pull it back out and then stick it back in, etc. until such time as he was declared King of England.

The plane was a small, regional-type plane with two rows of seats on one side of the craft and a single row on the other. I was in on the aisle on the double-seat side. A woman with a precocious child ("I'm a Jedi Master!") in front of me harangued fellow passengers until one gave up the single seat across the aisle from her. Her husband--swathed in sweats and wearing flipflops--then took that seat. The plane took off and he read a book called Fingerprints of the Gods for a bit before nodding off once the flight leveled out. (He also had an om tattoo on the back of his neck and Chinese characters tattooed along the top of his right foot--I wonder what kind of stuff that kid is learning exactly.) I read the journals of Lewis and Clark for a bit and then worked on a drawing in the sketchbook. It's based on some photos I'm collecting of early 20th c. bicycles (or "velocipedes" as Mr. Burns calls them.)

The plane landed at the new Indianapolis airport (big! generic!) and mom picked me up and whisked me back to her place in Fishers. What a long, long drive. I just took forever--the roads unroll and unroll endlessly through the city. I can't believe the amount of open, lawn-y space that surrounds every single building in the city. I guess five years of living here has conked my brain. Mom whipped up some lambchops with broccoli for dinner while I took a look at the damage incurred during Tuesday's hailstorm. (The hail blew out most of the windows on the front/south side of the house (which have since been replaced), punched dozens of holes in the vinyl siding, and broke out one of her Buick's tail lights as well as denting the trunk and a few of the back quarter-panels.)

After dinner, I made a quick run over to Half Priced Books but the place was closing so I only found one book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris. (I finished it over the weekend. Eh. I feel like I'd read most of these essays in the New Yorker over the last few years. Also, I guess he's losing his appeal to me. Not really sure why--I never feel like the sum of a book like Flames or Barrel Fever amounts to much. They're funny and well written but ultimately don't give you anything substantial to contemplate once they're consumed.) Stopped by the liquor store on the way home for a six pack of Old Speckled Hen Ale and sat on the back deck and killed a few. (Not a particularly good beer--kind of sour. I chose poorly.)

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