Waiting for Dan in the Airport.

When I couldn't sleep, I thought about Kansas City. We met in the MCI airport before 9am central and scared the shit out of everyone on the rental car bus. Middle-aged travelers stared nervously at the airplane vignettes embroidered into the fabric of the bus seats as Dan, dressed as a Motley Crue groupie, and I, dressed as myself, rained verbal shock and awe upon the bus from its backmost compartment. We were stoked. We retrieved our MAGNUM LAND BARGE and laughed about it. We drove to Joplin, met our friends from the Near South Tour, ate BBQ and drank Michelob AmmberBock until we passed out in an alcoholic food coma, then woke up and ate Midwestern pizza until we passed out again, then ate the cold pizza for breakfast on the front porch as the Saga of the Headless Mannequins heated up.

It was absolutely fucking awesome.

Last night, anticipating further awesome, I passed out for three hours, took a cab to Logan, flew to Charlotte, flew to Wilmington. Haters in NY and Boston assured me I was flying into a hurricane and would be delayed all day. Absolutely not.

I had great seatmates. The first guy, a very burly and footballesque southerner, told me he could make a proton stop wherever he wanted it to inside my body. The second guy told me that his brother is making a killing as a hairdresser in Wilmington. His wife doesn't work, and he's raising two kids on cutting the hair.

Who the fuck marries a male hairdresser?


Anyway, here I am. Waiting for Dan in the airport once again. It's later in the day, but once we get some cue in us, the energy levels should be up, and we should be terrifying beachgoers, the elderly, and our friends, as usual.