Sorry it’s been a spell since I last posted. I’ve been busy, you see.
First, I flew to China. It wasn’t clear to me why I needed to go, but it seems like it wasn’t a pleasure trip. So yes. I had some business in China. Apparently.
I took a Boeing 787 “Dreamliner” there. In retrospect, the entire trip must have been incredibly costly. The passengers included myself, the pilot, and Lisa Kudrow, who was serving as flight attendant.
Flying in style
Though I’m not entirely familiar with aircraft design, it seems this particular 787 had some special modifications. Namely, some sort of pod attachment on the belly of the plane, separated from the 787’s cabin by some sort of airlock.
Maybe this was actually a space shuttle. Who the fuck knows?
As it came time to land, Flight Attendant Lisa Kudrow needed to seal the airlock, because…well, because. But something malfunctioned and it wouldn’t close properly. We [the pilot and myself] knew something was wrong because suddenly we were picking up Mandarin pop radio stations in the cockpit.
Oxford Comma – just as good in Mandarin Chinese
Yeah, I was in the cockpit with the pilot.
When I heard the Chinese version of a Vampire Weekend song, I knew we were doomed. Also, we were flying incredibly low to the ground. And not over any sort of runway, of course. We were flying over what looked like the freeway.
Cut to the emergency landing on China National Highway 1. The aircraft appeared pretty unscathed, but it didn’t occur to the pilot or I to evacuate until Flight Attendant Lisa Kudrow reminded us that the plane might explode.
Phoebe saves the day.
We high-tailed it outta there, running across an open field and reaching the other side in time to look back and see our 787-Space Shuttle explode into a ball of flame.
* * * *
A few nights later, I caught a ballgame.
I don’t remember how I got there, because the last thing I remember before I arrived was sitting in my childhood bedroom, using a vacuum cleaner to suck up an entire bottle of water that my friend Bob* had poured out just for spite. Douche.
Well, before that we were chilling in my parents’ living room – Bob, Bob’s friend John* and myself. Bob was pissing me off. But then I fell and bonked my head on the coffee table and he was nice to me. But then we started talking about diaries and journals, and Bob gets this look on his face and I know something Bad is about to happen and suddenly he and John jump up and run down the hall into my bedroom. He’s already found the key to the diary I kept when I was 7 years old and now he’s fucking tearing my room apart trying to find the diary. He finds it, but I manage to snatch it out of his arms. So apparently he’s being a douche again.
Barbara,* one of my coworkers, is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. She’s half-assedly telling Bob to be nice to me when Bob dumps the bottle of water on the carpet. Thanks, Barbara. Good try.
Okay, but now it’s time for the game to start, so we all head up to the field.
Because we were in the dugout before.
Because the dugout looks like my childhood bedroom.
But I’m, like, some kind of big deal. Why else would I be on the field? Haven’t figured that out yet. Bob and John are gone, by the way. As is Barbara, big help she was.
A local Gospel Choir is performing God Bless America. They nail it. Day-um! Then Stevie Wonder starts singing the National Anthem. He’s backed by some sort of doo-wop group.
Stevie’s struggling. He’s changing the lyrics. Then, he stops singing altogether. The fans and Gospel Choir pick it up, except the Gospel Choir’s changed the tune completely. No one can follow. What a train wreck.
Get it together, Stevie.
*Not their real names, because these are actual people who might actually read this. Maybe. Except “Barbara,” because she [apparently] doesn’t really do much of anything.
* * * *
And now, disclaimers: No, I wasn’t drinking/smoking/anything-ing before I went to sleep the night before. Yes, I am not making any of this up. Actually, there was/is more detail I could include but a) the China dream happened last week so it’s degrading in my memory-banks and b) the baseball dream also included a weird little segue involving making out with Bob in my parents living room after I was concussed on the coffee table so I was like “Nope, shouldn’t write about that one,” except oops, I just did.