Aaron and I arrived at JFK after having to flag down and convince a private hire to drive us out there since is was 4:00pm and none of the cabs we waved down (about 10) would go out there because it was suddenly “shift change,” meaning it was rush hour and they didn’t want to waste their fare by sitting in traffic.
After a close call, unannounced terminal change and a check-in/security process that was akin to being put into a meat grinder and then being shot out of a cannon, we were spat out onto the concourse half naked (security was really thorough) and numb with just enough time to check our flight status and run to the bar to get a shot and a beer to celebrate our really close call. We clamber into the bar, dump our carry-ons and Aaron slaps some bills onto the bar in a manner which says “Barkeep, give me a cold one and make it snappy!” Not catching on, the bartender finishes his conversation with the waitress and strolls over to us and cheerfully takes our order. Before he can even finish his sentence Aaron and I are, in unison, ordering a beer and a shot of whiskey apiece.
Disheveled and sweaty, we make a toast to our narrow miss and shoot our whiskeys, which were more like three fingers worth of trouble. We collected our bags, paid the man and headed to the gate to prepare for boarding.
By some grace of god, our flight was suddenly delayed by another 25 minutes. It was if the heavens opened up and were guiding us back to the airport bar for another round. Being the keepers of the faith that we are, we followed the signs without question and returned to our trusty, but slow, bartender and ordered two more of the same. Only this time, we had a moment to sit and breathe, instead of shooting the whiskey and chugging the beer and running. But alas, we shot and chugged for the hell of it. Before we knew it, our time was soon up and the boarding announcement was made for our flight and, with a slight swerve in our step, we headed to the gate.
Pardon me while I, once again, Digress: Since the onset of the Christmas season which, strangely, is now beginning right after Halloween, I have been tortured the echoes of Christmas songs which the Grinch in me (who is rather active) despises with the intense and fiery heat of a thousand suns. I managed to swoop into New York and, having witnessed any miracles on 44th St. nor musical montages of people ice skating, having playful snowball fights and whirling about in the snowfall like hippies on acid, I can say I escaped New York relatively unscathed by the Christmas spirit
I pondered this with amusement as I stood amongst the masses waiting to board the flight when suddenly, to my horror, over the bustle and din of the airport, I heard traces of something so terrible, something so vile and repulsive that I shudder, even as I recall to this day. “What,” you ask, could this auditory torture be?” It was the worst of the worst of all the worst Christmas songs ever written in the history Judeo-Christian Christmas tradition. It was George Michael (formerly of “Wham!”) singing “Last Christmas.” You know, that wretched song where last Christmas, he gave someone his heart and the very next day they gave it away? What!?!?! No…No…NO!!! Any song but that one. Seriously. ANY SONG! I’d take a Jingle Bell Rock and two “Country Christmas classics” in place of that one, loathsome and foul song.
Curse you, George Michael. Curse you and your stupid Christmas song. And curse you JFK for letting THAT atrocity be the last song I hear in America in 2007. Curses.
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