February 27, 2011 in T
LAX. The world’s most ironic acronym. LAX. Los Angeles International Airport. In transit. Twelve hours in, eighteen to go. I gotta disembark and re-check.
I’ve never been to Baghdad, but if I had, it’d still be number two on my shit-holes of the earth list. LAX is a jam of screaming brake-pads and men in vests who bark and point. Uniforms and hands on holsters and the endless migration of idiocy bumping into things.
The security check-point is the natural nexus. The lagoon.
Security. These big black guys in their big blue uniforms with their faces carved from status. They look impressive. They’re big and black and blue, and coiled. Everyday they deal with pointy heads with Bismarck carry-ons and forgot-to-remove-lap-tops and oh-my-shoes-too? They’ve spent their time in the queue doing pointy-head-things. Quietly nudging. Look-at-that. Look-at-him. Faces beaming with suburban cruelty. When they arrive at the belt, it is a shock. What? Me too?
Big-black-blue meats pointy-shock-syndrome.
Twelve thousand times a day.
Trying to get to gate thirty-five.
The queue is long.
The guy in front of me has Mini Mouse on his T-shirt.