You know that feeling you’re supposed to get when you come back from vacation? The one that is a mix of sadness and relief – sadness because you are back in a world where you have responsibilities that go beyond “moving away from the crowd when you pee in the ocean,” yet relief because you are back where surroundings are familiar and the TV channels aren’t all mixed up? Yeah, well I’m not getting that lately.
I flew back into New York this morning after spending the weekend with Brooke in Wilmington, NC.* A brief summary of Wilmington: It’s not even like a town they make movies about. They make movies about making movies about towns like this. (State and Main? Anyone? “Who designed these costumes? It looks like Edith Head puked, and that puke designed these costumes.” Great movie.) Long story short, if Wilmington had tits and a vagina I might get drunk on gin and make a huge mistake with it.
So it was hard to leave. Doubly hard because After a spate of storms across the Eastern seaboard screwed up our travel plans last week, we ended up shifting everything around, and after calling 20 different people for four different reservations, the dust settled and we were on a 6:30AM flight back to LaGuardia Airport. Do you have any idea how early you have to wake up to make a 6:30 flight? Or more correctly, how late you have to stay awake to make a 6:30 flight? I’m so tired right now I don’t remember eating lunch. It was like lunch was a dream – a really good one, with pizza and ghosts and naked girls. Hell, I’m so tired right now that I’m still writing this paragraph. I’m not even sure I have a blog. I also smell really bad because I came directly from the airport to work in clothes that aren’t exactly recently unworn. Plus I slept on the plane and you know how a person gets warm and smelly when they sleep. Literally, I’m typing anything that comes into my head. I hate Kelly Clarkson. I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I HATED KELLY CLARKSON UNTIL I JUST WROTE THAT.
Anyway, like I was saying, usually when I get back from vacations, there is at least a hint of “it’s good to be home.” But sometimes in New York you come home and instead of “It’s good to be back,” it’s more like “What’s that smell?” or “Why are you stabbing me?” Whereas I used to find it charming (“I’m being stabbed! In New York! How cool!”), it’s just wearing on me now. I mean, in Wilmington you walk along the street and people say hello to you or sometimes even “Good evening,” which, in 2007, is the linguistic equivalent of a reach around. But then I get home today and I walk to the pizza place and no one says a word to me. Not a “Hey” or a “How’s it going?” or even a smile. One guy even spit on me. In all fairness to him, I think he was trying to spit on the person behind me, but the point is why are you spitting on people? It doesn’t have to be that way.
Also, I say Hairspray while I was gone. Here is my one-line review: John Travolta should always play a woman, and that woman should always kiss Christopher Walken.
* It’s only narrowly a red state, and I promise Wilmington is one of the bluer cities. I mean, there was a kid performing acoustic Radiohead at the diner where we had breakfast. It doesn’t get much bluer than that, in both senses of the word.