GDC Prep...of sorts.

I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t afford it, but thanks to the unending kindness of those around me I’m heading to the Game Developers Conference in San Francisco.  This doesn’t seem real. Any minute Sallie Mae or some other bloodthirsty lending institution will wake me. They’ll demand the monthly stipend, which may or may not already be unintentionally lost in their system/s only to surface a minimum of one week later. I’ll react accordingly…with a verbal hammer to the temple of my new friend.  Or I might not say anything. A racing heart’s an invalid ticket to dreamland.

I need a beer. Or a perception-altering equivalent. This shit’s unbearable…cramped spaces, I mean.

Riding in a plane sucks. Flying? That’s probably incomparably freeing. But no in-air six dollar movie (with brightness controls!) or extra-thick seat padding can derail passengers’ thoughts from the head-splitting drone of the engines, the smells of people, and the ball-crushing cramped space. Jesus. In my head I’m bouncing around the plane interior, laughing maniacally. Yeah, Roger Rabbit’s always been a hero of mine.

Turbulence. This is the worst I’ve experienced. No one’s panicking. I’m chewing on the notion of this, like most things, being both good and bad. Do the saps remain calm because they’re confident in the safety afforded by electronic doohickeys and Major Strongchin Redhair pilot? Or do they all subconsciously accept death, and prefer to go down reading the weather section of their favorite rag? Let’s go with the former, only because I don’t want to live in a world where the elemental schedule’s more important than conversation and fucking.

A baby’s crying. Little shit won’t shut up. Might be an audio clip played over the speakers. That’s a good idea. Unwitting passengers pay out the ass to travel in a tin can AND they’re part of a controlled study. Its purpose escapes me, but I’d donate my time to count and collect all the sneering looks. Scratch that, fuckers can pay me. My time’s valuable.

To my right, a window. To my left, an open seat….kinda wish I had someone to talk to. Maybe discuss the Oscars, my new favorite band The XX, or what a beautiful day it is at XXXXX number of feet above the clouds. Or maybe it’s best that I’m mostly alone. I can feel and hear my stomach’s best men laying tracks for the gasline express. Maybe I can slip one out no one will notice…

Middle-aged lady across the row’s reading a trashy romance novel. One of the types that paid for Fabio’s bleach jobs, and maybe blow jobs. Lady’s holding the bottom of the book with her right hand, thumb rested on the book’s inside spine. Her left elbows locked at her left side, forearm’s sticking straight up, and her hand’s level with the floor, with her index and middle fingers delicately touching the space between between her collarbone and heart. She has short red hair, thick black=rimmed glasses, and is wearing brisk-weather clothes from some big box retailer. The faded pink shirt under her cheaply-made velvety hoodie isn’t doing her any favors. But she looks happy, and sometimes sad. The book’s taking her on a ride through a plethora of emotions, most notably one that inspired lip-wetting. Cool. I wish her well in Denver.

I love people, and I love observing them. But I’ll not stare at this woman any longer, for fear of crushing this moment of escapism. We only get so many, it’s a shame to waste a single one.

This feels good. Writing. Like a warm shit, as Bukowski so eloquently explained once.  I’ve been backed up for months. Had I been backed up this bad with real shit, and not my “word on the page” drivel, I’d’ve died at least four weeks and six days ago (the date’s inconsequential, if you’re wondering). Maybe I DID die, creatively. I wasn’t myself when I couldn’t write. To continue the metaphor, we’re never really right when we’re turtle-heading a monster and the nearest porcelain palace remains unknown.

And there’s Denver. Only halfway to Cali. Boo.