Another stupid airport : walk in here, stand
there, line up. Rental car counter, coffee stand.
Artisan bread, bakeries like soda-water. Easter
pastries, and Summer ices. What gives?
I sit on a rounded plastic bench, like something
from 1974 - I fully expect the twenty-five cent
per hour slot for TV viewing coins. You remember?
Those dumb little black and whites built into the
plastic bench-seat arms? Well, anyway, that was
America then. Vietnam had no travel brochures yet.
One time, I fell asleep, crossing the country from one
little airport to bus station to airport again. In a chair
just like these - I was on the run, fighting the law,
no, Hell, I was fighting the killing of a very bastardized
country. Something of Lucy and Desi bombings, the
filth and disgust of TV land hostelries, Archie Bunker
bullshit while we carpet bombed and Agent Orange'd
Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos too. I bet Nixon jerked
off in his sleep over those.
Now, it's a million years later and I'm a book-show
millionaire. Money like fire-water runs through the
Indian reservation in my mind. Wounded Knee got
nothing on me, and I walked the pickets with Russel
Means and fifteen hundred others. War and salacious
he-devil evils have always followed me : now the
stupid shits just pay me off to tell my tales and
stories of 'that was then and this is now' glories.