(note: Kev Digi is not pictured in the Australian Outback, but the wilderness in Reno, NV)
(Photo credit: Metal Jeff)
April 20, 2009
Coinciding with Hitler’s birthday and the anniversary of the Columbine massacre, Pete and I are sitting in the LAX Airport waiting to board our flight to Australia. In order to save money on “Entertainment Visas,” and to avoid all the other injustices traveling bands usually endure, the whole band decided to take separate flights to the other side of the Earth. It was just by coincidence that Pete and I got the same flight to Australia. Shane and Bones are sharing a flight, but poor Vic is cruising solo the whole way.
It should be made clear that the_Network will be playing this Australian tour with Shane “the main brain” Frisby on bass and Vic “the prick” on drums. So later in the diary, perhaps, when I say something like “Shane and I built the London Bridge with the help of some ‘Sheila’ with daddy issues,” or “Shane, Vic, and I drank a keg of Foster’s while watching some Australian fuck tapes with some Aborigines and their semi-tamed Kangaroo family,” there won’t be any confusion. Traveling is expensive; and traveling across the entire world is very expensive, so our full time scumbag partners in crime, Tim and Bennett, couldn’t make it. Shane’s experienced the embarrassment of touring with us before so he’s prepared, and Vic seems just sleazy enough to not even bat an eyelash when Pete drags a girl into a bathroom, a girl drags Mikey Bones into a bathroom, and Shane and I have our hands deep in each other’s pockets in a bathroom.
Back to the issue at hand, I’ve just been assigned a window seat with my own little entertainment system installed into the headrest in front of me so my grundle’s tingling with excitement (and a few milligrams of Xanax) at the thought of maybe watching “Mall Cop” or “Confessions of a Shopaholic.” I’m writing my local congressman to ensure that The Dark Knight, Rambo, or any Rocco Siffredi films are the only legal entertainment one should experience when remaining stationary for more than four hours. We can all make a difference.
Oh, quick effeminate celebrity sighting to report. Like I said, we’re in the Los Angeles airport, and you can’t whip out your cock anywhere in L.A. without offending some B list celebrity or obscure television actor. In the airport, I saw an actress from the HBO serious “Big Love” rushing out of the restroom (after hopefully just eating cocaine). If you’re an HBO slut like myself and are familiar with the show Big Love, you’ll know the woman who almost became Bill Paxton’s fourth wife. That was her. I find that show a bit unrealistic because I’m positive that Bill Paxton doesn’t have three wives; he surely has about eight or nine. I didn’t get a chance to speak to the actress but did get a picture of the bathroom she most likely just sprayed with a digested lunch and shame.
The Boeing 747 we’ve just boarded has a second floor where Pete and I assumed we’d be able to enjoy a few cocktails while wearing airline bequeathed tuxedos and James Bond shoe phones for graciously fitting in with the movers and shakers of the world. I haven’t gotten laid in embarrassingly too long and my imagination got the best of me. I thought I’d join the mile high club with the type of beauty you see in postcards from Paris. I was supposed to furiously lift her silk skirt just high enough to get the job done and then charm her into a puddle of ooze throughout the rest of the flight; maybe call her again someday and get married. I’d tell her I just need a few years to build my empire and to save the world and she would stoically wait for me. Damn my imagination! And damn the rules of the 747. Instead of discussing geopolitics waiting for a dry martini upstairs during the flight, Pete and I learned that the upstairs remains reserved for the true blue bloods and high, high end prostitutes. Even at 30,000 feet, the separation of classes is a necessity. I mean, American Airlines can’t have some mother of three wearing a Mickey Mouse sweat shirt ordering a Bud Light on the second floor! It’s bad enough that we lowlifes have to walk past the first class pricks with their mimosas and too much leg room when boarding to the back of the plane where there are only one and a half bathrooms that are constantly occupied by body odor. I endure all this without a cigarette by the way. I hope all you holier than thou non-smokers board a flight with Stephen Hawking behind the wheel.
Oh! I’ve just been handed a menu. Is a menu really necessary on a flight? How many pages does it take to say “cold” shit or “hot” shit? I have to admit that I enjoy airline food. The meal is just another thing to keep my mind off the Parisian model I’m supposed to be fucking like an animal in the upstairs bathroom. An airline meal is like a Hungry Man served as filet mignon minus the delicious brownie and delicious food. “Sigh.” So I’ve got a window seat, an empty seat next to me, an airline menu, and, Parisian model or not, I’m going to invite myself to join the mile high club soon enough.
Another layover: Pete and I are on our final flight from Brisbane to Adelaide, Australia and I have just met one of the most inspirational people I’ve ever known. She’s an older woman named Peta. She’s on her way to Adelaide to visit her daughter and grandchildren. I started a conversation with her immediately upon taking my seat. (I believe I may have a fraction of woman’s intuition.) She has sugar sweet, wise eyes. A real hippy might say she’s beaming with an almost radioactive aura. She seems like the type of mother orphans see in their dreams. She’s also facing death. Really, she told me she’s actively living out her “Bucket List.” I didn’t delve into what’s ailing her, and her optimism wouldn’t even let me tell her how sorry I feel for her. It’s obvious she’s past that and is too tough for anyone’s pity. She may be the bravest person I’ll ever meet (If I don’t die young, I picture myself wilting, feeble, dying like a needy little nothing). Peta said she used to waste time worrying about the future and has now told herself to not look beyond two days ahead. You’d never guess that she’s sick, tired, or troubled in the slightest. I’m sitting next to a living saint. She gave me all her contact info and told me to immediately get in touch with her if anything goes wrong. This is where my brain starts up the strings section, soft music reverberates through my skull and bones, and the crane shot of me staring out the plane’s window pans back; farther and farther until my life and I become as obscure as the squares of land pock marking the world beneath us. As jagged, grotesque, and stupid life can be, it’s always worth living.
My wildest, sexiest, and basically impossible dreams didn’t come true on that flight, but something real and much more important did. That’s how life is I guess.
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