Dear Newark Airport: I Hate You
I've never had an easy or pleasant experience at Newark International Airport. Ever. I've flown in and out of it about 10 times in my life, and the experiences just keep getting worse.
We bagan with a miserable clusterfuck at the self check-in at the American Airlines counter. That's more AA's fault, but whatever - they had about 60 people crowding the area, with tons of luggage strewn everywhere, and one guy working the desk. One. At peak travel time. And the whole point of the self chek-in is that it's supposed to be easier!
By the time we got to the security line, our flight had been delayed 20 minutes. Fifteen minutes later, when we reached our gate, it was delayed an hour and a half. And why was our flight delayed when the plane was sitting right there at the gate? Who the fuck knows! No one would freakin' communicate with us. The flight was severely overbooked, there were 24 people on standby, and everyone was crammed into the waiting area as more time passed and nothing happened and no one communicated with us.
They started boarding the plane at the time we were supposed to leave, and then we sat on the tarmac waiting for our turn for another 20 minutes (at least the pilot told us that much). There were like nine other planes lined up, so it seems the whole airport was operating at dysfunctional.
We didn't get in until 11:10 p.m., two hours later than we should have. By the time we got our luggage and got home, it was almost 1 a.m. Oh, and I have to work today.
I will, however, give credit to the people of Miami for one thing: there were two flights unloading luggage on the same baggage claim. They were taking forever to even get the thing started. So it was a good 20 or 25 minutes of just standing there - and everyone was very patient and polite about the whole thing. No cursing, no pushing people, no yelling at any indifferent employee. Go figure.
Children of the 80's, Unite!
People, Screech needs us! Check this out - and see for your very self how dear old Dustin Diamond is about to lose his home and is selling shirts to come up with the money he needs.
I don't know what to make of this. Is the Screech money all gone? Where did it go? And what about that story that he and Mike D from the Beastie Boys are brothers - if that's true, can't he help him out?
Or is it all a joke?
Oh shit, I’m cringing as I write this. All right folks, here’s the deal: my greatest love (non-human or animal, of course) is poetry. I’ve been writing it since I was about 10, which may sound cute and all, but which sometimes ends up being a problem for me. Because the process is the same now as it was then: thoughts and images overtake me, and I simply have to get them down. And a poem is what comes out. But sometimes, I wonder if what comes out is as crappy as what my 10-year-old self cranked out. I mean, seriously, I used to write crap. Pure, unfiltered crap.
Have I ever improved? When I read my stuff, I feel like I have. And those few people who have actually seen my stuff have all seemed rather impressed and/or moved by it. But then again, these same people love me and have to put up with me on a regular basis, so maybe they’re just being nice, which is both sweet and annoying.
When I think of my poetry and what I hope to achieve through it, I always come back to the same place: I just want people to be able to relate to it somehow. I don't care if I'm writing about my dog and it reminds you of your first love - so long as you feel something, I've done what I wanted to do.
I dream of publishing my poetry (even if it’s a dead market that no one reads), but is it even worth the effort and expense? And can I even stand to know, not just suspect, that my work is indeed crap?
But well, I’m finally at a point where I feel it’s worth the risk and where I can handle the criticism. So, here’s your chance. I’m sharing three poems from the recent past (meaning, the last three years because I go through long periods of writer’s block and don’t produce these prolifically).
I’m asking for honest feedback, but please, don’t be mean. If it’s that bad, just say so – but don’t do any unnecessary crushing, o.k.?
And just some things to note - these don't have titles; I've put in parenthesis how I refer to them, a non-title title, if you will.
(the beginning of a crisis)
We all come apart.
At some point or the other,
the inevitable happens.
Images of your life fly before you,
the people, the places, the memories.
At some point you forget
whom you love
and why you love them.
And then you can't bear
even the simplest things -
deciding what to eat -
milk or toast, or both?
or what to wear -
pants, jeans, a skirt?
Turning the key
in the ignition of the car
takes all the effort in the world.
You let everything go.
And don't care
to ever have any of it again.
(inspired by e.e. cummings)
Next to me you
are the longing.
How long did I long
How long and I
did not evenknow it?
You were in my memories
Because I simply
did not know.
And now I know.
I am knowing.
And still you stand next to me.
And still I long.
(Something semi-coherent about destiny)
It is only his hand
running down the length of my arm,
and my stomach flutters, swoops,
and detaches from me.
It is only his eyes
staring into mine,
and I feel the infinteness of time,
How much meaning can pass
in a touch, a look?
In his arms and in his eyes it is
the meaning of my life,
my place in this world,
my destiny and my future.
What, then, is the weight
of my lifetime?
Only as heavy
as the fingers that lightly trail
down the length of my arm.
cringe cringe cringe