Take a Permanent Vacation Pt. II

“If he wants me to blow him I’ll blow him. Hell if Gary wants me to blow him I’ll blow him too- I’ll blow ’em all!” This was Daniel, a regular, talking to a business crony on his hands free cellular device at the bar. Daniel is the head of operations at a TV station and talks with a boisterous arrogance I can imagine these kinds of bigwigs often do. Although he talked loud and pompously on the phone with zero regard to others surrounding him, he was always cool with me. He was from Boston and worked with the Patriots at one time, so we often got into some hearty football conversations. He spoke with pity and sympathy upon learning of me being a Bills’ fan, as most usually do. My first instinct is to hate New England fans, and I do, but Danny eased the hatred ever so mildly with his acknowledging of how shitty the Patriots were for years before their near two decades of dominance. He spoke of watching games from the press suites and Bill Belichick’s unusual rules and precedents in allowing Danny and his crew to film them during practices and whatnot. What a bastard he’s got to be. The whole lot of ’em. Alright I’ll cool it with the football tangents. I get carried away. Especially with the season around the corner. Speaking of which what’s going on with Buffalo’s backfield this offseason? Shit, sorry.

And then there was the man with a gray ponytail under a backwards Cream hat on a motorized scooter. I stood at the counter closing out a check and from the corner of the store the man came weaving through the seats up to me with a stern face that jiggled from the vibrations of the scooter.

“Take this.” He looked at me like a disappointed father over the top of his thin crooked glasses.

“Um okay? Sir you can just leave that on the table, we’ll pick it up.” He tried forcing the checkbook into my hand.

“Well I’m on my way out, just take it.” I opened it up and there was no signature or tip.

“Okay but you just need to sign this quick is all.” He shook his head like I was an idiot.

“Kid you don’t understand. I CAN’T sign it. I have MS.” I didn’t know what to say.

“Well…maybe just scribble something on here I guess?”

I felt bad and in hindsight I could’ve just put a line through it or just whatever. Not a big deal. Shaking his head he abided and indeed scribbled on the receipt. He tried tossing it on the counter but it just clipped the lip and fell to the ground with the pen and receipts flying out. “See ya dude.” He said as he quickly jerked his scooter around and wheeled out of the store like a bat out of hell with his ponytail dancing around, waving goodbye to me. It was pretty badass. Mad respect to the dude.

It’s been a wild ride working at an airport. It’s a world completely unto it’s own- a world of anxiety, stress, chaos, and unpredictable hijinks. And what’s the best way to cope with all that? For most, it’s booze. Hence the thousands of nerve-rattled guests I’ve served in my time behind the bar. I’ve encountered all kinds and learned a lot about people and places. Unfortunately the company I worked for is notorious for having poor management skills and manipulative inexperienced leaders. I’ve never worked for a company with such phony values and “do as I say not as I do” mentalities from management.

Things were sketchy from the get go with them. I was part of the grand opening team, and on our third day of business, both of our managers took the day off for inexcusable reasons. It was three of us versus hundreds of people and we hardly knew what we were doing. We were thrown to the wolves and got our asses handed to us on a silver fucking platter. That set the tone for the following year of bullshit within this company.

Having said that, I recently was let go/quit because I finally crossed the threshold of blatantly giving no shits. I showed up physically (usually 20 minutes late), but mentally I was long gone. I worked with two older women who worked service industry jobs their whole lives and admitted they’ve never experienced such bullshit both from customers and the company. It was no secret this place ran about as efficiently as a 5th grader’s Rube Goldberg project.

So ends this chapter of American Shmucks. It’s been a relatively short sprawled out run, but it’s been fun. But by God I can assure you this won’t be the end of my ramblings. There will be more to come in one fashion or another. ‘Til then, friends…

“Life has become immeasurably better since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously.” -HST

 

 

 

 

 

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Smack Dab In the Middle of a Situation Overrun by Fools

Bomb scares, angry drunk women, obnoxious gingers bothering nice Indian men, and Macklemore. Pretty much sums up the past week at BNA.

First was the ordeal in which an entire Ft. Lauderdale bound Southwest plane had to evacuate right before take off. A nervous young girl at the bar was giving us the lowdown of the situation at hand. Apparently a belligerent man, unfortunately a man of Middle Eastern decent, was getting unruly on the plane and not complying with attendants. Not putting on his seatbelt and loud cursing, that kind of thing. Eventually the man had to be escorted off the plane, to which apparently he did very willfully without hesitation or argument. When he got off the plane somebody noticed that he’d left behind his phone and a gold box of sorts. This triggered a scare that forced everybody off and the police and bomb dogs to board the plane. I could see a group of policeman surrounding the man in question. How necessary this all was I don’t know, but apparently enough to halt 120-some people from getting to Florida. As time passed they deemed the plane unfit for flight, forcing the flyers to wait on another plane. It was a disturbing reality check that this shit actually happens, and not only scares but the real deal. So hard to fathom.

Shortly after the frantic young woman left, two middle-aged women arrived to the center of the bar, separately. One got her computer out like many do and got settled in.

“What’s your guys wi-fi password?” She asks.

“Our internet has been down for awhile now, but the airport has a general wi-fi for people but it sucks.” I said

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. What kind of place doesn’t have wi-fi nowadays? Seriously ridiculous.”

People are so reliant on wi-fi and plugs it’s completely insane. I would be lying if I said I don’t seek them out myself, but the amount of weasels that come in stripped of all decent, reasonable human qualities asking for either of the two is astounding. Like fucking zombies, people just walk in with a dumb blank face and come up to the bar saying “plugs? wi-fi? wi-fi? plugs?” Like yeah sure I get it but what about uttering out a five second greeting at least. A little “hey there, do you guys have wi-fi or perhaps a plug I can use? That’d be really swell.” Is that so much to ask? And we have to shoo away so many clueless assholes bumbling into the store to sit on the floor to charge like little brainless selfish zombies. I fantasize about headbutting all of them square in the nose.

Next to the woman whose lifeblood was wi-fi, sat a shockingly put-together drunk woman who hid the fact for a little while. She complained that the Chardonnay was corked, and upon smelling it I acknowledged it did waft a little funk to the nostrils. I gladly opened a new bottle and got her a new glass.

“You know sometimes a whole case of wine can be corked.” My compadre Susan said to the lady.

“Um no actually. It’s 2% of all wines that gets corked. It can never be a whole case.”

“Yes it CAN affect a whole case as a matter of fact.” Susan said in her enjoyable British accent.

“You’re wrong, I work with wine, I think I would know but thanks for trying.” The drunk woman snapped.

At this point Suzy Q had to walk away because she was boiling with anger, and believe you me this is a tiny older woman you don’t want to fight with. She will tear you limb from limb.

Regardless of who was right, the woman was being so unpleasant. After she cashed out, she not once, but twice attempted to pay her bill again.

“Look lady if you want me to buy a few things with your card I will, but you’ve already paid, I don’t know what else to tell you.” I said. She was visually embarrassed each time, and with a sloppy stroke of the hand signed the receipt and stumbled off into the sea of hasty travelers.

Finally was a jacked ginger fella sitting at the end of the bar next to a meek, mild Indian man quietly eating his tomato soup, not bothering a soul. The ginger was loud as hell from the start, asking me 21 questions and aggressively pointing to different items on the menu. Eventually he settled on the cheapest glass and when he lost my attention he started chatting with the Indian man.

“Hey bro how’s the soup? What’re you drinking? How is it?” He led in with some basics and they got talking a little more. The Indian man was clearly not comfortable talking with the buffoon, giving quiet one word answers. The Indian man fumbled a piece of crostini into his soup and it splattered on his shirt a bit.

“AW NO WAY DUUUUDE THAT BLOWS! How much was that shirt? Where’d you get it?” The Indian man was getting more and more frustrated. It was a long sleeve, crisp white button up now filled with pale red dots.

“So what do you do for work? A cardiologist? Whoa. What’s your actual title? Do you have any regrets?” Such a weird chain of questions, I thought. The poor guy couldn’t chug his wine and finish his soup fast enough.

“Wait a second are you on this flight to Houston? HELL YEAH BRO!” The Indian man died inside a little bit, and was soon on his way.

Oh, and I also passed Macklemore by the O’Charleys around gate C10 on my way to work. I got him in a headlock and we commenced into a good old fashioned wrestling match right in the middle of the walkway. I mean I got a creepy several seconds long Bigfoot-style video of him. What is life.

 

 

The Matzah Curse

You know it’s a good month in the airport when you don’t see the ass of an elderly man upon entering the bathroom. Unfortunately this was not one of the months. Twice in the past three or so weeks I’ve been blindsided by senior citizens with their pants at their ankles and their tiny bodies crammed into the urinal releasing their demons. I walk in, turn the corner and BAM- my day is completely disrupted and I can’t remember my name. Their backs melt into their asses and their asses melt into their frail stick legs and I die a little inside.

While it was a bad month for old man ass, it was good for spotting a couple bigwig celebrities. On my way out of work around gate C6 I breezed by Kiefer Sutherland and one of his cronies. I was 90% it was The Kiefer. It was all but verified when I Googled him only to find out that he just put out a country album and started his tour the very next day. It was indeed the Lost Boy in the flesh. I listened to one of his songs and let’s just say acting is his strong suit. Surprise surprise. Later that week on my way into work I crossed paths with Heisman winner and Titans franchise savior hopeful Marcus Mariota. He’s a real goofy bastard, but I’ll be damned if he couldn’t kick my ass.

Recently I found myself envying and admiring a few airport workers with lower end jobs. Particularly this one fellow who I can’t tell if he’s Latin American or Asian, or perhaps a mix of both. He always rocks the dual eyeglasses/sunglasses combo and appears to have a mental condition of sorts. This guy is always hauling ass and hauling shit around the airport either talking to himself, laughing, or both. He seems like the happiest/craziest guy in the world sometimes. Every time I see him he’s booking it through the concourse tugging two carts full of soft drinks or food or just whatever. If I had to guess his job title I’d say “General Goods Hauler.”

He’s not the only one who seems to be in good spirits given his lowly profession. I admire the fact that they’ve accepted their fates near the bottom of the social totem pole and appear to be fine with it. People acknowledge your position, and while they may judge and scoff, they tend to leave you be and not expect much from you. There’s no pressure to succeed or experience heavy failures, and more or less there’s few places to go besides up. There seems to be a certain freedom in these kinds of jobs. While their level of intelligence may be on the lower end, I would think ignorance is bliss to them. And maybe all janitors and general good haulers go to heaven. Nobody can disprove that.

Then it’s back to reality and I find myself dealing with this sixty-something shrew of a woman who looks like she has Macy’s on speed dial. She’d been at the bar the previous week being rude, waving empty wine glasses and checkbooks at me and being generally unpleasant. Things went alright in the beginning and who knows if she remembered me. Then the Gipsy Kings came on the radio and she couldn’t contain herself.

“I’ve never heard THIS kind of music before in Music City,” she said like a devoted supporter of the Ku Klux Klan.

“Well miss we like to be cultured here and mix it up,” I said. Our radio station has a vast variety of music it plays (not always great by any means) from Jack Johnson to Bob Dylan to Buena Vista Social Club and so on.

“Oh really? It sounds like something I’d hear in El Paso.” Such a strange thing to say, I thought.

“What’s wrong with El Paso?”

“It’s not a place you want to be.” The guy next to her chimed in. He was in the US Armed Forces and his name was Brian Landtroop- a most appropriate military name. Regardless of how dreadful a place El Paso may or may not be, this lady was just bitching because it was Latin-influenced music. Definitely a Trump supporter.

And then there’s the matzah curse. Unfortunately I don’t have a grandiose story for such an intriguing title. I feel like this could be a really awesome or really horrible horror movie title. Maybe I’ll work on a screenplay for it. Anyways, I had an older Jewish couple in from Philly who insisted no crackers or bread come on the cheese plate they ordered. They had matzah to eat with the cheese. They then went on to teach me a brief lesson on Passover, and how it’s never in sync with Easter, especially on leap year. Their son was some sort of tour guide of Jerusalem and was especially busy around this time of year. They talked my ear off and asked 21 questions before I was able to make my escape.

After they finished their sparkling Oregon wine and all but licked their cheese plate clean, the lady came up to the bar.

“I’m so sorry but we got matzah crumbs all over your floor. It’s the matzah curse. No matter how careful you are with it it’s almost guaranteed you’re going to need the dust pan after you eat it. There’s no escaping the matzah curse!” She laughed and her sluggish husband just kind of shrugged and picked up his things to get ready to leave. Between making it a point never to visit El Paso and the matzah curse, I learn something new here every day.

 

 

 

 

 

Beat It On Down the Line

“I saw the Dead for the first time in St. Louis in ’94 when I was 14 years old. I almost dropped out of 8th grade after that.” I could see the LSD of days gone by in this woman’s eyes. She was slow in reaction and had a hundred yard stare when talking to me. There was no doubt she’d sat around a nitrous hose outside the drum circle a time or two. She was an aging festy-chick with clusters of dangling bracelets, a thin ethnic looking scarf, and funky earrings. She went on to discuss other arbitrary years and shows regarding different music she saw. Next to her was sleazeball of the century Missouri Todd.

Flashback about an hour earlier, Missouri Todd struts up to the bar mumbling to himself, emulating a restlessness that only cocaine and/or caffeine addicts have. He yanked out the bar chair sliding it a good four feet behind him and just stood at the bar, fidgeting and messing with his phone. He was a stumpy little businessman with the teeth of an 18th century sailor and the moxie of Bret the Hitman Hart. Upon asking for his ID he says, “wow I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.” I reiterated to him like I do many others that I HAVE to check everybody’s ID, so don’t feel special. About the same time he got to the bar, another visibly drunk goon sauntered up behind him.

Enter Brent from the Bay Area. Classic California fella with some kind of surf shop white T-shirt and slightly curved San Francisco Giants hat he got from his local Lids. His face and skin was lobster red from either the sun an/or the booze he’d had. I told him I could tell he was from California before I checked his ID and he took offense. “Man you just labeled me! Dude you totally just labeled me! Fuck you man! Fuck you!” He was saying all this with a smile and the slur of a tipsy surfer. After that it was nothing but attempted fist bumps after everything we even remotely agreed on.

One way or another the three of us started talking sports. Todd was apparently a die-hard fan of the Cowboys, St. Louis Cardinals, and Tom Brady. Dude was a Grade A bandwagon asshole. Cardinals were understandable since he was a Missouri native. But the rest, I mean come on. Bay Area Brent and I gave him hell for it. Naturally Brent was a Raiders fan, to which he gave me a most proud fist bump for my respect of the people in the Black Hole.

“So where are you heading to tonight?” I asked Brent.

“Ohio, man.”

“What the hell is in Ohio?”

“Awesomeness.” Enter young girl at the end of the bar.

Bad decision lady. Immediately, the hammered halfwits diverted attention to her and there was no stopping them after that. Todd bumbled through the chairs separating them and got up closer to her. The girl was having a ball impressing the bufoons with her sports knowledge. The three of them talked Cleveland sports, mainly the Cavs and Lebron for a bit. I was waiting to jump into Browns talk had it emerged,which of course it did. We got talking about different football teams and Todd had the audacity to say that the Jaguars would WIN THE SUPER BOWL this coming season. This guy was a regular birdbrain. Not just make playoffs which is bold enough, but win the Super Bowl. Jags fans I know you have a pretty mean offense but give me a break.

The girl knew her shit and the shmucks were impressed. Todd was so impressed he offered to buy her another drink after she cashed out. “Come on live a little! You don’t have to catch that plane. Stay with us come on we’re having fuuuuun!” This was much more of a devious suggestion than it was friendly, mind you. Without a split second’s thought and understandably so she booked it from me and the bozos.

Shortly after the girl departed, Brent was next to follow, but not after he drunkenly repeated Big Lebowski lines over and over. “YER OUTTA YER ELEMENT DONNY!” He kept saying as he continued to attempt the fist bump with me. Quit making a damned fool of yourself and just go already guy.

Then it was just shmohawk Todd and I. There were others scattered around but none as interesting. In comes festy-chick who posts up next to Todd at the bar when they begin their chat. Again, Todd can’t get enough of a strange woman talking to him. He milks the shit out of it. Todd claimed he was at the same Dead show in St. Louis that same year, and went on to tell some non-sensical story of him and his uncle on some drug fueled odyssey. Whether it was true or not, they got deeper into talks of their youth.

“I did enough cocaine to kill a small cow in my early thirties.”

Exact words from Todd in regards to his late-blooming adulthood in the sense of getting married and having kids when he was nearly 40. Todd was touching her bracelets and scarves complimenting them and getting real greasy with her. But given her own seemingly greasy nature, she was into it. Eventually Janis Jr. cashed out and again Todd used his line to get her to stay. Ultimately it was a no go on her end too. Real shocker.

While driving home listening to some creole ragtime music on NPR, a man on a motorcycle came ripping out in front of me at a fork in the highway. He continued to weave his way through traffic going a hefty 75 MPH or so. He zipped through the night alongside a most majestic view of the glowing city skyline. The arch of the Gateway Bridge was lit purple and a crescent moon hung directly over the city. What a life, I thought.

 

 

Bob and Vinny: Good Old Boys

“Would the owner of a red…key-tar? Please come to the information desk in concourse C to reclaim your item.” The announcer’s skeptical voice and pause after “keytar” gave me a good laugh. The guy definitely learned something new that day. I swear sometimes they say the most absurd names or items to retrieve just for fun. There’s been a few instances where they’ve informed a particular confused traveler that they’ve gotten off at the wrong destination. “Attention Dale Crisp. Dale Crisp you are NOT in Phoenix. You are in Nashville. Dale Crisp you need to get back on flight 1746 to Phoenix.”

It’s been a hectic few weeks what with the spring breakers and many a conferences in town, which meant the pendulum of bullshit was in full swing. On the contrary, we had part of the French women’s soccer team in which was cool. They were decked out in turquoise windbreaker pants and jacket, clearly belonging to some sports club. They had just played at Nissan Stadium against our women’s soccer team in which they lost. We also had a woman who was dating a member of the band Fishbone who just got back from some Rancid and other assorted punk rock bands cruise. Sounded pretty wild. Titanic meets Warped Tour. I imagine there was a lot less slam dancing and moshing with this crowd. I mean I would think.

And then there was Bob and Vinny. Bob was an all torso no legs kinda guy. He rocked some XXL black Martial Arts hoodie with a seasoned five a clock shadow and thin wire glasses. He was probably in his 50s or so, not too old. He had an energy and general excitement that just made you want to interact with him. He was waiting for his business partner to fly in from New York City, and Bob had just gotten in from Los Angeles. He spoke in giddy excitement about Vinny, claiming he is the quintessential Italian New Yorker who very well could’ve been in a few Scorsese movies. “I’m tellin’ ya this guy is the real deal! If you close your eyes you’d think you’re watching Goodfellas I ain’t kiddin! He’s also blind. He can’t see worth a damn! Well, if the lights are bright enough he can see a little, but if it’s dark, forget it!”

I expected to see a man walk through the little makeshift tunnel with a walking stick and sunglasses, maybe a seeing eye dog. Instead Vinny emerged from the tunnel looking around like a regular sightseer, seeing Bob at the end of the bar and acknowledging him with an unclear hand gesture. Vinny strutted on over with his gray blazer and gold chain taking a seat next to Bob. “Hey there how we doin’ chief,” he said giving me a little head nod. Vinny immediately lost points with that shit. “Hey boss” or “Hey chief” or any of that is just the worst. I’ve never been involved with Native American hierarchies and even if I had how would he know? I don’t show up to work with a headdress or a necklace fashioned with buffalo teeth or anything. Anyways, I soon turned the corner as Vinny began cracking me up.

“Shit man I think I broke my hand again it hurts like a bastard,” he said in obvious pain rotating his wrist and rubbing it. “I just got my cast off today but I think I need a brace or some shit.” God knows how Vinny broke his hand. I wanted to think it was something mob related. It could’ve been tennis for all I knew. “Hey what’s ya name kid? Paul? Say you got any bee’as?” “Beers? Yeah we got a couple beers.”

As time went on Vinny and Bob were talking like a couple of high school kids, excited to hit downtown and whoop it up underneath the bright neon lights of Broadway. At times we’d all be talking and Vinny what with his broken hand and all was talk-texting with his wife. “HOW-DO-YOU-FEEL,” he said loud and slow with his thick New York accent, like he’s teaching somebody English. Then he had me stand in front of the wine bottles as he took my picture. “FIRST-NASHVILLIAN-WE-MET. PAUL.” He was starting to grow on me.

“Say Paul tell me what you think a dis. Does this sound a little provocative to you?” He showed me the ad in the in-flight magazine he stole from the plane. The ad was all pink with a seductive looking woman on it for I think it was Aloft hotels. It did use words like “a world of possibilities” and “take a step forward” in its description. “Yeah Vin it does sound a bit suggestive I must say.” Him and Bob were getting all worked up about it.

“You better watch out if the lights get too low and you can’t see, you might wind up grabbing something you weren’t expecting and wind up in a sticky situation!” Bob burst into classic fat man with a hoodie laughter. “Hell as long as it feels good then what the hell you know?!” Vinny burst into classic mafioso laughter.

These good old boys were already having a blast and they hadn’t even been out of the airport yet. Besides the fact it appeared they were swingers, or at least wanted to be, they were nice enough dudes. I bid farewell to them as we had to close up shop, and off into the night they stumbled. At least downtown should be bright enough so Vinny could see, I thought.

 

 

A Shmuck is Born

I work at a wine bar and cafe in a moderatley busy international airport. In the nine months I’ve been there, I’ve come across many of our fair country’s finest shmucks and douchebags. I’m talking folks you are genuinely bummed to know actually exist in our society, and sadly many of these people are prominent figures in American business and/or politics. Often times you can assume these corporate bastards are dreadful selfish beings without actually meeting them, but it’s a whole other beast when you are forced to engage with them.

“So here’s my idea. Now tell me this wouldn’t be a moneymaker. You ready? Okay…strip clubs in the airport. STRIP CLUBS IN THE DAMN AIRPORT!” Jeff from Cleveland was on is fourth or fifth Cab, getting worked up over this idea. “And I have another idea…STRIP CLUBS IN THE CLUB HOUSES ON THE GOLF COURSE!” Great Jeff, brilliant. He went on to fantasize aloud about how successful he thought these would be. A fellow bar patron alongside him laughed as he listened in with me. “Here I am just throwing my pearls at swine,” Jeff said extending his drunken arms in my direction. Eat shit, Jeff.

If I had a nickel for every suit and tie joker that stomped up to the bar with their bluetooth or headphones connected to their phones talking shop with their business chronies, I’d have probably like $20. This isn’t just talking, but often times yelling, just to make sure everyone around can hear them say words like “millions of dollars” or perhaps “vacation home in the Hamptons.” If they aren’t sitting, they are frantically pacing back and forth in our store, paying no mind to others. “I told that motherfucker to close the deal a god damn month ago! I want my fucking bonus!” Hey we all want a bonus, guy. Just chill out and fly far far away from me.

The shmuckery I’ve witnessed behind that bar is unparalleled by anything I’ve ever encountered in my life, job or otherwise. However, the shmuckdom extends beyond gender and social class, as the onslaught of awful travelers come in many shapes and forms. From one girl picking her scabs and leaving her bloody bandages on the floor, to one guy leaving a pile of toenails underneath one of our tables, there’s always shenanigans taking place in one way or another.

There was another incident where a couple of young girls decided to drink and dash. Luckily I noticed in time and I jogged down the hall to catch up with them. They plead oblivious to the situation, ultimately tipping quite well for their “brain farts.” Now just as a frame of reference, the store has no walls so people can come and go at their leisure from a wide variety of angles. Three businessmen at the far end of the bar had been laughing and whooping it up for the past few hours, racking up a bill damn near a couple hundred. While polishing glasses, Susan (fellow co-worker, sassy South African woman) jokingly said to me that the loudest of the three men said he was going to skip the bill like the girls. “I played four years in the NFL man you don’t want me to have to spear tackle you,” I said in jest. He let out a booming open-mouthed laugh to which I could see his fillings and said, “I’ve got a daughter you can tackle!” Awkwardness settled into the air quick. “Well sir that’s a whole other can of worms.” This was merely playful shmuckery, but it was just such a ridiculous thing to say.

On the contrary, for every 10 assholes I meet, there’s usually at least sometimes maybe one really great and interesting person, and/or celebrity of varying degrees. The other day I had James Laurinaitis, ex-linebacker of the St. Louis Rams. He recently got released, and was on his way to New Orleans to visit with the Saints when I talked to him. Being a football fan, it was intriguing to get the inside scoop of a fairly relevant player. I asked him if the Bills contacted him, but he said Rex hasn’t given him a ring yet.

Besides him I’ve encountered such random famous folks as Ashley Judd, Martina McBride, Lou Holtz, Patrick Carney of the Black Keys, Aaron Tippin (shmohawk), the guy who co-invented the spray tan, and likely dozens who I didn’t notice. Spray tan man was bronze and wrinkled as hell and just got back from Montepulciano Italy. You could spot this saggy bag of douche from a mile away.

The entertainment aspect of this job, along with my enjoyment of working with wine, have kept me around and dealing with these kinds of fools. Sometimes it can even be fun to deal with them and talk shit back, which they often enjoy. The people-watching in an airport is arguably the absolute best, too. There is often much going on in damn near every direction involving a rotating cast of crazies. Needless to say, there is no shortage of bullshit and hijinks that go down in the C concourse. The airport is truly a chaotic and indecent world unto its own, and I am compelled to document the atrocious/hilarious/disturbing human behavior within its confines.