Overstimulated at the Airport Bar


Logan International – Boston, February 5, 2013

TV monitors everywhere.
Hillary in the flippy-do debuted her new website today.
Pundits pounce.
Pakistan is erecting a theme park near Bin Laden’s former lair,
amusement by any other name.
Pat Boone’s become a pitchman for geriatric bathtubs.
Get a grip, sister.
Your old man is only draggin’ you into the tub cause you stinky.
He’s not trying to drown you.
Portugese water dogs, oh man! Obama!
No fear of going under there, cept’ for money.
The jovial guy at the bar shares a lonely tale.
 “No wife, no kids. Just me and my water dog. Day care is killing me.”
Alex Smith is dead to the Niners,
And S&P is DOA with the DOJ.
Fuck ‘em.
I just wrapped a powerful interview with a visionary millionaire who travels the world around, face-to-face, with short shrifted souls, justice not part of their native tongue.  
But a fire in their eyes, he gives them.
A.K.A. hope.
His mind, brilliant, inspired, evolved, global.
How do you turn off that noggin’ at night?
No such concern about the gals next door.  
Mother and daughter at the two-top nearby, nice enough, but scholarly, I doubt.
Honey Boo Boo has three earrings in one nostril and flowery combat boots.
Orders mac n’ cheese and blueberry beer.
Blueberry beer?  Oh, tell it to the muffins!
Another plane ambles along the tarmac.
A trained elephant led by the nose, the United Airlines ringmaster in the iridescent vest commands her with his cones bright orange.
Dance, baby, dance, all the way to the gate.
Sunset backdrop makes it look like a commercial on TV.
Eight of them.
Eight TVs, all at once.
While ABBA’s on the Muzak soundtrack singing SOS.
I hear ya’.
But I’m sleepin’ on the way home.

Roughly 40% of the TVs in this bar.  We really needed more.

Roughly 40% of the
TVs in this bar.
We really needed more.


About Jean Ellen Whatley

Writer. Dreamer. Sometimes schemer. Journalist/memoirist/observer and sometimes constructive irritant. Prisoner of demon muses. Mother to four humans and two dogs. In my spare time, I delete phone numbers of former boyfriends.

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  1. “…tell it to the muffins!” ha-ha-ha
    This is the best stream of conciousness writing I’ve read in a long while. You are no Honey Boo Boo. You know how to turn a phrase, magic up a word poke a political point of view, share an opinion, make a witty observation.

    No wonder you rub elbows with millionaires…they know you are priceless.