Human Tofu

Cause I’m like you.

I act different in the airports because I am the human form of tofu. I taste like my surroundings.

In Denver, I wear outdoorsy wool-poly blends and think about viewing the world from the crest of Pike ’s Peak. The people in the terminal look at my far-away stare and wish they could see the mile high horizons that now bore me.

In Atlanta, I sip an imaginary sweet tea and brush away the gnats like kudzu. I drawl my y’all and dream of Sherman’s fall. I laugh like Colonel Sanders at the rings, because I’m all ‘the Olympics were like 40 years ago. The Civil War only 30. Let’s get our prahrrties straight.’

In DC, I prefer Dulles because of the giant 5 story buses they have to whisk you from terminal to terminal, and instead of acting all political like I would at Reagan, I pretend I’m a hobbit riding on Treebeard’s shoulders. And it’s a good analogy because the terminals are like 12 miles apart from each other at Dulles, which makes sense because the airport isn’t even remotely close to DC. Not even in the same time zone, my friend.

At JFK, I’m always stuck in the JetBlue terminal and nothing works and I’m just so goddamned busy and cooped up it drives me crazy, because I really need to be somewhere. I hurry from one end of the terminal to the other knowing it will make the plane arrive sooner. I buy a lunch because JetBlue doesn’t have a meal service, but I don’t take the lunch with me. I throw it away as soon as I have it in my possession.

In Juneau, I’m actually afraid, because the landing is so steep and the island so cloudy, and there are bears all over the fn place. And in Alaska every airport has a great big 12 foot tall stuffed bear in attack pose to greet and intimidate the visitors and I think, ‘God help the grizzlies when the Alaskans build an airport, cause one of them’s about to get shot.’

In Phoenix, I feel old, because Arizona is the new Florida and has been since the Spruce Goose, which is the model preferred, incidentally, by America West, the oldest airline invented in the last decade. And I’m so helplessly thirsty but no matter how much alcohol I drink I’m always dry.

In Salt Lake City, for the life of me, I cannot find a drink. Or porn. So I’m chaste and though I desperately want to leave this place, I know I’m a better person whilst here. So I pray. A little silent prayer without clasping my hands or closing my eyes. And my prayer is this: Please Lord, get me out of this place and into the arms of a strong drink and a big bosom.

In Chicago, I should be like the others, but I’m not. I’m stuck in the bathroom continuously flushing the toilets because they have those automatic sanitary seat covers that go round and round and the turning toilet wheel mesmerizes me. And it also comforts me somewhat because I don’t like to take off from a place known as the Windy City.

In Minneapolis, I feel like a hamster, because the whole town is connected by a great big plastic tunnel, and that’s important since Minneapolis has evil weather that will burn you in the summer or freeze dry you in the winter. And when I cross from building to building via the Sky Mall I look down on the streets and see people, actual people either boiling in the pits of summer’s fire or frozen in the tundra that is its winter, and I think, ‘For god’s sake, won’t somebody help them?’ I’m very bizarre in this place, but it could also be due to the fact that the most beautiful women in the world live here and they make me sad to think about them, like tiny frozen ice princesses trapped forever in touristy snow-globes without me to make them laugh and keep them warm.

Worn me down, like a road,
I did everything you told;
Worn me down, to my knees,
I did anything to please.