To quote my third favorite Aaliyah song, "it's been a long time." In the yawning gap since last we spoke, dear Hindenburgians, I have traveled to the frozen tundras of the West--and through the frozen tundras, sweet Hindenburgers, of my mind...
It all began while asleep in the booth of a Quizno's nestled deep inside the A Concourse of Denver International Airport. Due to global warming and extreme airline malfeasance, I was marooned inside this toasted-bread-smelling establishment within the year-round "snow caps" of DIA. (If I were a 1950s stand-up comedian performing in the Catskills, at this point I would make a remark about "D.O.A." followed by a rimshot. But I am not one.)
My thoughts, racing and whizzing with angry deeds of reprisal, slowly crystallized into a plan. I would make my way, barefoot, in the style of one of the Die Hards (I forget which one, but it's definitely not the first one, and definitely not "Live Free or," but I hope it involves Carl from Family Matters) (because Bruce Willis always does badass shit barefoot in those movies, as I recall), stealthy as a snow leopard (they are endangered), and secret myself aboard a Postal Serice jet.
In a series of super-awesome scenes involving judo, smart ass off-the-cuff quips, and a luggage conveyor belt, I made my way aboard a Christmas gift be laden vessel. The interior, pregnant with Holiday Spirit and sweaters on back order from L.L. Bean, was comfortable, if cold. I snuggled deep within a sack of letters the size of Andre the Giant, and slept, cocooned in other people's forethought and caring. (I myself did not send a Christmas card this year. I am lazy.)
But a troubling thought roused me from my partial slumber. Would it have been better, cooler, more unique, to have hidden myself in a Quizno's bread truck? Or perhaps disguised myself as the no-doubt lovable Quizno's mascot, whoever that may be, or--even better yet--as an actual, edible Quizno's toasted sandwich? This thought gnawed at me, plucked at my eyelids and flicked at my ears.
Why, I wondered. Why must I, yet again, imitate. Bruce Willis today; yesterday it was D.H. Lawrence, and the day before that, Daniel Day Lewis. I never used to have this problem. Eight, nine months ago, I was a dynamo. I spray painted the walls, I built farm animals from paper, plucked the hearts from adorable lambs and mounted them on stakes. Where has my vigor gone, my livelihood?
I must rediscover it, retrieve from whence it hath fled. At all costs; at all costs.
Rise, men, and become again impetuous!
It all began while asleep in the booth of a Quizno's nestled deep inside the A Concourse of Denver International Airport. Due to global warming and extreme airline malfeasance, I was marooned inside this toasted-bread-smelling establishment within the year-round "snow caps" of DIA. (If I were a 1950s stand-up comedian performing in the Catskills, at this point I would make a remark about "D.O.A." followed by a rimshot. But I am not one.)
My thoughts, racing and whizzing with angry deeds of reprisal, slowly crystallized into a plan. I would make my way, barefoot, in the style of one of the Die Hards (I forget which one, but it's definitely not the first one, and definitely not "Live Free or," but I hope it involves Carl from Family Matters) (because Bruce Willis always does badass shit barefoot in those movies, as I recall), stealthy as a snow leopard (they are endangered), and secret myself aboard a Postal Serice jet.
In a series of super-awesome scenes involving judo, smart ass off-the-cuff quips, and a luggage conveyor belt, I made my way aboard a Christmas gift be laden vessel. The interior, pregnant with Holiday Spirit and sweaters on back order from L.L. Bean, was comfortable, if cold. I snuggled deep within a sack of letters the size of Andre the Giant, and slept, cocooned in other people's forethought and caring. (I myself did not send a Christmas card this year. I am lazy.)
But a troubling thought roused me from my partial slumber. Would it have been better, cooler, more unique, to have hidden myself in a Quizno's bread truck? Or perhaps disguised myself as the no-doubt lovable Quizno's mascot, whoever that may be, or--even better yet--as an actual, edible Quizno's toasted sandwich? This thought gnawed at me, plucked at my eyelids and flicked at my ears.
Why, I wondered. Why must I, yet again, imitate. Bruce Willis today; yesterday it was D.H. Lawrence, and the day before that, Daniel Day Lewis. I never used to have this problem. Eight, nine months ago, I was a dynamo. I spray painted the walls, I built farm animals from paper, plucked the hearts from adorable lambs and mounted them on stakes. Where has my vigor gone, my livelihood?
I must rediscover it, retrieve from whence it hath fled. At all costs; at all costs.
Rise, men, and become again impetuous!
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