Yes, I’m on a plane.
‘Bout to get my flyin’ on…
Where am I headed? Well, let’s start with a quick recap. I started writing this blog for my kids. Everything I write here is because of them. Ultimately I want them to be able to read this and see how perfect a life they made for me. So even when it seems I’m writing a funny post with no bearing on their lives it all still comes back to them. I can laugh because they exist and they make me smile.
I’m headed to the Fatherland. Regular readers of this space (both of you) know that I’m referring to New Jersey. Technically I’m headed to LaGuardia – a “nifty” little airfield at the far reaches of Queens, NY. When you have to book a ticket with 24 hours notice you can’t be choosy. When it first opened as Glenn Curtis Field in 1929 (work with me here, I’m trying to teach, you twat), Queens was a sleepy borough of about 50 residents and a handful of chickens. By 1960, former New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia’s wish to be immortalized by a slower-than-molasses, aging, crumbling public works project would come to fruition with “LGA Phase 1”, alternately referred to as “the building of the Central Terminal Building”. In fact, in the 1960’s this facility was seen as the airport of the future. Unfortunately for the good people of Queens, the future held such things as the Jumbo Jet, airline deregulation, and not-asbestos.
She (they) followed me onboard, honest.
I once had a friend – a makeup artist on a television show on which I worked – refer to Queens, his home borough, as, and please pardon the expression, “the most f*cked borough”. “Where else could you have 69th St. intersect both 69th Pl. and 69th Rd. all at once?” he opined.
Where in the hell was I? Ah yes…
I’m flying in to see my dad. He’s had a massive stroke. I think my mom said the doctor called it a “big” stroke. Apparently not calling it “massive” makes it sound less severe. But it’s serious enough that I got the ticket and here I am. Dear readers, I’m handling this, as I always do, because the two people who gave me life taught me to do this, with humor. Work with me. And a few paragraphs back when I referred to you as a twat, I meant it as the British do. Slipping back to my story… Dad’s always been competitive and I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of teenage boy, bawdy joke hiding in the fact that he’d be pissed to not have it called a “massive stroke”. For the record he had a massive stroke once before when I was 16 and he was 56. Miraculously he recovered from that one almost immediately. I don’t see that happening this time.
If I understand, we’ll land and then the Sharks and Jets will go at it.
Kids, when you read this years from now I want you to know something. I love my father. Our relationship (his and mine) is not like yours and mine. We’ve bonded over bizarre things. I figured out how to make high-end cocktails for him. He gave me a copy of the book The Dictionary of Cultural Literacy for Christmas when I was in 7th grade. See? There you go. Children, he’s a good man and everything I know about how to be your father comes from him. I know I’m not perfect. I don’t think I can say that about him. And he taught me a sense of responsibility and of family and of just doing what needs to be done.
Here’s my dad, my twin sister, and me during one of my first forays into an airport. So it was HE who started this whole obsession!
And I read that book cover to cover several times so all of you who know me in real life and wonder how I know something about everything, well there’s a small glimpse at an answer.
That’s why I’m on a flight to LaGuardia on a Monday night. I have a row entirely to myself which is good because I don’t think I’d want seatmates seeing me like this. I really want a cigarette. Sorry. Steam of consciousness. I hate that style popularized by Stephen Crane. I can actually hear my dad telling me some fun fact about Crane and how he grew up in Newark like us and how Civil War vets would have sworn Crane was old enough to have fought in the war because his writing was so vivid.
Let’s divert a moment.
I’m watching a documentary on the plane about Anthony Weiner. Pig. Disgusting cretin. As Dad would say “the man will never get hemorrhoids. He’s a perfect asshole.” And yet… this film is so fascinating. It’s about New York more than Weiner. It’s about my home. It’s the nexus of the universe wherein I grew up. And I love New York so much. The people – though we’d probably disagree on 9 out of 10 things politically – are good people and I miss them sometimes. It’s nice to know that in an hour I’ll be flying in over the East River, over the greatest city on earth. I’ll see the Freedom Tower and Roosevelt Island and Queens. I just wish it wasn’t for this reason. I’m a little scared because I don’t know what condition he’s in.
Watching Weiner. If that was my face I’d probably want to showcase other parts of my anatomy too. Couldn’t be any worse.
Man this Weiner is fascinating.
The flight attendant just gave me two drinks and only charged me for one. God bless him. Unfortunately I think he wants something from me that ain’t never gonna’ happen.
There was a woman standing behind me at the gate back in Texas prattling on and on with someone on her phone. Conversation went something like this. “Then these two self-righteous jerks tried to tell me all passive-aggressive that the two of us shouldn’t have kids and then my husband was like ‘Well we can but they’ll never learn music. I forbid it.’ And I was all ‘Who do you think you are? I’m a musician and you suck. I seriously wanted to cut her.'” It was too perfect. I had been hoping for something for paragraph 14 since I arrived at the terminal and here this lady was just spouting it forth for me. I didn’t care if she could see me. I put my coffee down, took out my phone, and started jotting down every word she said. You’re welcome.
The Big Apple at night, in January, from 9,000 feet, when your dad’s had a stroke.
This flight is bumpy. The captain came on before we took off and announced it was not going to be an easy flight.
My God this movie is incredible. It’s like a train wreck. I want to watch but I can’t. But I must.
My nephew is picking me up at the airport. He’s a rideshare driver too. He’s agreed not to charge me for the pick-up. I’m laughing at that prospect. He’d NEVER charge me. Or I’d kick his ass.
What else could I tell you? I have some fun pictures to run through my flights entertainment options. They kind of describe my flight style these days.
But the reason I started writing this is to ask your prayers.
And now that I’ve done that I think I can get back to my Weiner.