September 15th. Trip back to NYC

Just past midnight on the 15th of September. Sitting on the curb of a parking lot near a restaurant called "Baxter's" in Bloomington, Illinois. Jeans. Shoes. Three layers of shirts to keep my warmth in place. Crickets chirp and Drunks cackle. I'm not sure where either is coming from.

I'm waiting for the airport to open at 3:30am. I've never heard of an airport closing, but I've never lived in Bloomington, Illinois. So fuck me. I was hoping to get some sleep in the airport before my flight, but that's not happening. Maybe an hour or so. For now I am just sitting here watching an insect I don't know the name of trying to climb up the curb and falling backwards on his ass every time.. It beats Glenn Beck.

Glenn Beck. You undigested wad of animal fur, bone, and feces.

3:50 am (ish) (4:50 am NYC time)

Close to 3:50 am, sitting in the now open and ostensibly god-forsaken airport. Bought a 3 Musketeers and a pop-tart. Washing it down with my bottle of Diet Mountain Dew. Getting strange looks from the staff. You know, because I'm probably here to bomb the shit out of the place. Right. I'm doing a poor job of blending in if that's the case. One of them, an older gent with a beer belly and a sour puss is up on the balcony level, watching me. I waved at one point. He gave me a half-nod and a turn away that whispered "fuck off". Just a whisper though, so maybe I'm merely going crazy again.

4:19 am (5:19 am NYC time)

Just checked my bag. Waste of $20. Also just saw some old lady totally get owned by a self-check-in machine. Everyone else did perfectly well when put up against said machine. This only further proves my theory that machines aren't out to destroy all of mankind. Just the old people.

4:50 am (5:50 am NYC time)

Made it through the cacophonous maelstrom that is airport security pre-5 am in Bloomington, Illinois. Day's just begun and already the security staff are being yelled at by a crazy. I pretend that the unfortunate display of immaturity isn't happening as I scrutinize a shrine to the "Eureka Capture +" vacuum cleaner that has been placed for my easy-viewing in the middle of the small collection of gates.

Pukishly pristine plastic encasing dozens of small moving parts all designed to break down within a year or so. Pearl white trim outlining the unyieldingly yellow body. Every inch of its existence bellowing, "I AM YOUR GOD. AND BOY, DO I SUCK."

8:06 am (NYC time from now on)

Mid-flight. Bye bye Bloomington. Hello, Detroit. Am I the only person who looks at the aftermath of blowing his nose into a tissue? That's weird, right?

9:45 am

There is a tunnel underneath a airport in the city of Detroit, Michigan. It is said that this tunnel is a passageway used by women and men alike to traverse from Concourses B and C, to Concourse A.

Well, what is said and what is the truth can sometimes be oh so different.

In reality, this tunnel is home to the world's most awkwardly located gay bar. Simply called The Fuck-me-tron. Where the sounds of campy electronica rush at you like a drunken European football crowd and the walls trade flashes of creeping yellow, dominating red, sobering blue, calming green, and fucking pink. The only drawback to this wonderland of color and potential homoerotica, is having drunken pilots constantly crashing the party. But then again, the night isn't complete unless you've taken home a drunken pilot. Right boys?

I'm serious, this place exists. I have seen it.

10:48 am

Saw that Patrick Swayze had died while I watched Good Mourning America in Detroit's airport.