:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Sunday, August 10, 2003 ::

Because "Arrivin' On a Jetplane" Lacks Panache, That's Why
Got into Boston (Swampscott) this afternoon on an AirTran, the Greyhound of the skies (far more compelling a comparison if you've ever spent time on a Greyhound before) with the cutest kid ever squirming and generally being a kid next to me. I asked to take window seat when I checked into the plane, but I didn't know I was taking it away from a five-year-old. Moving too fast in a given day usually leaves me disconnected, and now is no exception; I'm blogging and listening to Spiritualized when I could be in bed with Jenn, but I'm just not inclined to sleep, as ready as I was to pass out earlier after a huge dinner at Bertucci's. On an odd note, the manager came over and chatted purposelessly (and awkwardly) about my having eaten an entire calzone (the man asked me if it had filled me up in a manner not dissimilar to the one used to addressing 4-year-olds. I felt a little insulted, as it took a mighty effort indeed to suppress my urge to proclaim "all gone!") before inquiring after the service we'd been receiving. If this odd incident was some way of spotchecking the waitstaff, I'd rather it were better designed, such that I didn't stumble out of the restaurant wondering if I'd been poisoned, or whether the management staff thought it better not to tell me that I'd more than exceeded my RDA of cook's semen.

Being engrossed in Jenn Bazydlo's copy of Fast Food Nation has, if nothing else, reminded me time and time again that the west coast exists, a sort of siren's call that leaves me staring at a phone and wishing that I were sleepier. I also have the weird+funny Brain Candy to digest, though that's no great affair. Had I seen the movie when it first came out, I'd have thought myself simply incapable of understanding the humor involved, not dissimilar to the blowjob scene in Ace Ventura.

As it is, I miss home a little, though I can't quite figure out why. I'll be back there soon enough with a motherfucking RADIOHEAD CONCERT under my belt. Mercifully, I brought my Nada Surf shirt, such that I'm spared the awkward bandshirt-of-the-band-you're-seeing situation, though Let Go was bad enough to make me consider a third option.

Music: Peter Gabriel - Here Comes The Flood. I'm in a household where ol' Pete is held in pretty high esteem, and though I can't say I share their enthusiasm, I can't argue with the sheer soulfulness of this bare-bones number that showcases Peter Gabriel's warm, distinctive voice over a tried-and-true chord progression. I fear this song was in some way affiliated with the WB's Felicity; though I acknowledge the irrationality in my adherence to the purity of the way music comes into people's knowledge, I'd just rather a friend, rather than some TV exec, decide that I should hear a song and subsequently show it to me. Oh well.

:: Aziz 12:30 AM [+] ::
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