I�m on this tiny, two-engine plane that is winging it�s way to Atlanta that supposed to connect and take me to the prospect of a new life, or at least, a new home. The pilot just popped on with the usual pilot speech. The ground now is washed out and low, pressed against the flatness of the earth and the clouds are just golden and wet, a frozen still of churning and motion. My head is hazy, my eyes are itchy, but inside I am calm. And I want this, this feeling. I want to throw myself into whatever makes me afraid or uncomfortable. I want to maintain this station of quietness and passive, indifferent reflection while taking it all in casually. To look out and accept what�s happening or will happen. Am I fighting against what I know, or who I think I am? I consider examining the details, I opt for staring dumbly at the ground noting what it means to keep watching from a safe distance.

In the Atlanta airport I find myself considering the many ways I would feed the parts of the architects of this torturous transit playground. I believe I would start with their genitals, it just somehow feels like the right thing to do. They obviously had it out for us. I pace a five mile minute in desperation for the comforting thickness of smoke. I can�t wait to get to Austin, check into my hotel and find some food. I could give a fuck about the rest of the night.

I finally arrive. From the sky, it didn�t look all that different from where I�m from. From the ground, I�d have to say the same. In the tunnel disembarking the plane, an obviously upset woman passes me in a furious stride with two officers in tow. She grabs and latches arms with a boy behind me and says, �Have a nice flight?� between her clenched teeth. The kids MAYBE eighteen and lucky for me, they fall in-step to my left. I keep looking forward toward the end of the hall. I wonder what he�s done. She�s being careful to dodge his questions about where they are taking him until they can get him out of close quarters with the arriving passengers. I consider how ironic it would be to get killed, etc. just now. There wasn�t any real threat like that; I was just thinking to amuse myself. I�m funny like that. I collect the hideous, flowery suitcase my folks loaned me. It�s white with greenery and foliage and fairly offensive in appearance to my senses. It says �fashionably clueless, parents and feminine�. I pull it off the conveyor and help myself to a cab. The driver, it seems, hates everyone. So much so, that I wonder what nationality he could be since it seems no one is being spared his criticism. �Fuck Bush!!� he says. He�s 63 and drives a cab for ten or more hours a day, seven days a week and still cannot afford to retire. He just wants to go back to Europe, screw this non-socialized medicine shit. With the cost of the fare, I�d say I made a significant contribution towards his goal. The hotel is set with a scenic view of circling interstate nestled between nothing and a �Nations Rent� place where a person might find alternate modes of transportation such as forklifts to rent. It�s maybe in the low fifties and the sky is overcast and rainy. I find as I go along that about half of everything in the hotel is broken or un-serviced. The strange little Mexican restaurant that�s attached is quite tasty though. After I hoof it around humping the low ground with my man-purse for a bit and manage to locate a grocery to get some supplies, I wonder back to my room where I start to realize I�m not feeling too great. I figure I can just get some rest since I won�t be meeting up with anyone until the morning, but my pal Indy shows up unexpectedly. He and his friend Shelly are really nice, I feel awful that our first meeting was with me being a wreck and looking like shit. I have to decline the offer to watch a video. I can be so awkward sometimes; I�m surprised I didn�t hyperventilate. The next morning I awake to find out what the problem is: I�m coming down with a cold. The weathers even worse than the day before. I chalk it up to being cursed, that�s just the way life is. Indy and his friends though come and fetch me to go out to breakfast where we play a round or two of �no-talent celebrity tag� ala Milk and Cheese. My breakfast taco arrives before I can whip out �Yahoo Serious�; it�s such a shame for that one to go to waste. From there it�s on to bookstores, record shops, a wacky toy store, and a store that sells handicraft Mexican things. Later we eat at a place called �Stubbs� where Hank Williams III is playing a sold out show. Indy approaches him about the �killbilly� stuff he releases on the side. No luck in procuring earlier albums, but I get a look at the fellow. Grey jeans jacket overtop a hoody, cap and jeans with a gangly frame like the Senior. He�s an affable fellow. From there we go to a Roller Derby thing that Shelly is keen on. A shitty band opens the show with some warmed-over sleazy rock. The singer looks like he�s spent some quality time perfecting the disheveled beer and heroin look to match the posturing that he displays all around the mike stand. A girl in a ball gown accompanied by a roller derby member walks around selling tickets to �spanking row�. Roller derby has all girl teams with each member wearing a uniform that distinguishes which team they are on along with a tough name. For example, the girl standing just ahead of us was �Patsy Crime� Apparently when an error is made, a wheel is to be spun to decide the penalty. If it lands on the �spanking row�, the persons that bought a ticket get to spank her as she goes by. Yay, yah feminism this is not. Kitschy cool, definitely. A woman insisted on bringing us to this, yet it�s three fellas standing there not amused. We�ve been trained well you see? Actually, I can't speak for themselves, that's just me.