Big Monkey Gets It

I note this week, at 4 months, 4 days left, I don't want to fly for the company anymore.

After being banned for costs from flying out of Richmond, and therefore taking the lazy two-lane country road to the airport, I can confess, faithful readers, that upon driving to Dulles, last Monday at 4 a.m. (the only way to avoid the legendary DC rush hour traffic), I got lost, ending up, panic'ed, in the cargo area.

Comparing her husband not unfavorably to the confused berry-picking Henry Fonda, the Kate-ish wife put the disaster in perspective, declaring, "you old poop - it's a wonder I didn't see "elderly man found driving on runway," on the 11:00 news" -- but that's only the beginning.

-- the airlines have got to be doing something which saves money on cabin pressure since my ears popped so painfully upon landing in Oakland, I couldn't hear for days lest it sounded like I was underwater. I've also got a sneaking suspicion that contract flyers are automatically assigned cheap middle seats even if old-man bladders require bathroom breaks once every 45 minutes.

Pure misery from start to stop - I've no desire to go anywhere at all if I can't get there in the pick-up truck. I've no great desire, frankly, at all, to leave home.

What I do, anyway, upon arriving at a destination, is recreate home. In Oakland, the hotel includes rooms (beyond per diem of course) with kitchenette. It's a price I'm willing to pay - two blocks away, there's the Trader Joes to buy bagels and eggs for breakfast and gourmet microwave pizzas for dinner. The office is a mere few blocks easy walk the other way. Topping it off, there's a Borders across the street.

This last time, however, I did venture out one night, knowing I'd never return.

Others had rented a car so I accompanied them over the Bay Bridge into San Francisco, a city I got to know very well before the office moved from the Embarcadero to the East Bay.

As it is with every city to which I travel, I carve out a neighborhood to which I become accustomed. My usual place to stay in San Francisco is Executive Suites, south of Market, which is an apartment, not a room. I walk to Union Square where there's not only an excellent Borders but also Rasputins, a grand used cd store. Then up through Chinatown to North Beach, up Columbus to the corner of Broadway, and, of course, to City Lights; returning on a circular route, strolling downhill, visiting Stacey's, at Third and Market.

In the neurotic's world, if you're anxious, easily upset and more emotionally unstable than usual, away from home, you gravitate towards not only that which restores a semblance of security but that which affirms what already makes you blue thereby validating the familiar alienation you carry wherever you may be.

Establishing boundaries through minimalism is what sets existence.

It brings me to a point where I can even communicate with you: arise, make coffee, position myself so the laptop reaches the easy chair and the cup, read a comic to loosen brain juice, a stimulating short bio or essay, and then a chapter from the curent open book -- now, write.

This routine isn't immune to change: the economy has driven a stake through the heart of Big Monkey, my beloved comic shop. A place where I could not only discuss the latest cosmic happenings but one that's seen me through the more pedestrian divorces, cancers, and weddings.

Upon devastating loss (Pearl Harbor, Titanic, come to mind), you grasp for a way to re-organize. Big Monkey is dead - long live Little Fish.

Today I'll log on to DC (I gave up Marvel after Civil War fizzled so badly), choose current titles (traditional - Green Lantern, Flash, Supes, Justice League), re-subscribe at Little Fish via email, alter the Saturday driving logistics of comic shop, library and supermarket; restore normalcy.

Brian Wilson knows exactly what we're talking about:

It's good to travel
But not for too long
So, now I'm home where I belong
And that's the key to every song.

R.I.P. Big Monkey