hum, baby

sometimes the hum of a fan on a summer night reminds me of a long plane flight, such as I've taken to or from Berlin

can't much sleep on planes or jets, either

once, coming back to the States, the movie was "Lost in Translation"

perfect for my semi-awake, jet-lagged haze

Cancel Cancel Cancel Mayday!

Lame Disclaimer: Anything I type may be compromised owing to the influence and confluence and after-effects of traveling from Berlin to Frankfurt to Chicago to Syracuse, then staying up, too jazzed to sleep, resulting in 23 or so hours of uninterrupted wakefulness, give or take the odd feline quasi-nap on a jet, here or there.

The trip almost never happened. Why say that now? Because it has now happened, that's why. Two days before embarking, Spousal Unit was sitting by the computer and simultaneously shouting words into the phone, obviously talking to one of those voice-recognition-robot-fucko-dorko computers. This computer happened to be Brainiac Machine No. 5569032254 of United Airlines. SU was trying to arrange meals to accommodate a child (our child) and her own special dietary needs.

I had objected to her earlier attempt at this because: a) I was nervous it would somehow screw the whole itinerary up [move the word "up" up in the sentence]; b) I felt we truly did not need this special meal stuff, certainly not the McDonaldsization of our aloft dining experience.

Her shouting into the phone, repeatedly, triggered all my lower-nature hair-trigger impulses.

I walked by, wiseguy, and muttered, "Cancel trip."

"They heard it!" Spousal Unit shouted.

She hung up.

"You've got to talk to a real human."

"No kidding."

(I'm leaving out some of the more colorful adjectives and participles English employs for such lively dialogue.)

"What did they say?"

"It said, 'cancel trip,' and I hung up."

Good.

My hands were shaking with fear by now.

First lose a job and now this? Yikes, what is it? Do I have advanced Tourette's Syndrome? Or merely onset Kokonuts Kamikaze Malaise?

She reached a human.

Trip saved.

But I knew I couldn't relax until completing every leg of the trip. I had visions of an airline factotum looking up from his or her computer screen in Brussels or Nairobi or wherever, saying, in very broken English, "Monsieur le Kokonuts? We have, how do you say, no record of ze itinerary for ze Mr. Pawlie Kokonuts or anyone by zat name."

Oh, it's a long, strange trip, I'm on, all right.

Perhap, just perhaps, it's a sign of mental health that "cancel trip" became a humorous mantra while actually on the trip. Hey, we kid, we laugh! We're freakin' Laughorists!

(Once I felt at least sort of kind of certain that things were ironed out, after SU talked with the United Airlines Human Being de Customer Service, I texted her (Spousal Unit), declaring, "I'm an asshole." Hey, it's progress! But . . . [always the dangerous"but"] don't you think United Airlines' computer thingy should have better defaults? Hunh?)

Planet-Lagged

This New Year's Day has me feeling jet-lagged, planetarily lopsided -- and this is without any consumption of alcoholic beverages!

How did I ever manage it when I did?

Lawdy! Lawdy!

(Be sure to keep that apostrophe for New Year's Day, eh?)

The Virtue of Jet Lag

Jet lag. What a wonderfully oxymoronic term, connoting (or is that denoting?) the rush that slows; the propulsion that regresses. Yesterday, rather hung over from fatigue (late-night browsing in the Double U Double U Double U Universe will do that), I was driving to my haircut place (i.e., Hirsute Psychotherapy by Don), and I experienced memories of recent trips. And the memories were of first moments of arrival in Ireland and in Berlin.

The gauzy, slow-motion sleepwalking of arrival in Shannon, the terror of trying to drive a car on the "wrong" side of the road, the traipsing through a cemetery in Ennistymon as the sun was rising (and Youngest One was toppling over with sleep in the back sleep).

Or sitting in a Mercedes-Benz taxi en route from Tegel Airport, trying to converse with a driver who knew not Word One of what I was saying, canals and rivers, graffiti splattered on stately buildings, falling asleep during a ballet class's lullaby piano melodies, the Brandenburg Gate looming at the end of Unter-den-Linden.

Powerful memories.

And it dawned on me (though not the dawn of vertiginous arrival). These jet-lagged memories recur frequently. They are triggers of further evocations. They are the madeleines featured by Marcel Proust, those tea biscuits that a bite of which [grammar check, please!] transported the narrator into a journey of the past.

I have come to understand that (despite the bone-crushing weariness, deep disorientation, and grouchiness) jet lag is the portal into a new world (it seems to hit me more en route from America to Europe, probably because of the morning arrival). It's really not all that bad, looking back. It's more like we are expected to bemoan it (and I understand why; I do not sleep well at all on planes), but if we roll with it, jet lag yields later benefits (sure, sure, you're saying; so does a colonoscopy).

I salute Jet Lag Memories.

Postvacation Vacancy Syndrome

Warning (Achtung!):

I hereby declare sole copyright, ownership, and blogospheric citation privileges for the term Postvacation Vacancy Syndrome (PVS). PVS, often confused with jet lag, is characterized by the following symptoms (along with others that will be attached and codified hereunto vis-a-vis quid pro quo de minimis with the incorporation of your comments [and yours, too]):

• The inability to formulate common words, phrases, or gesticulations native to one's native tongue or culture (such as it is).
• The overwhelming urge to cease working (no matter the profession, vocation, or status) immediately and forever.
• An obsessive and compulsive desire to consult tram, train, airplane, bus, or subway schedules.
• Profusive sweating and rapid heartbeat brought on by: a) work tasks you were asked to complete in prevacation mode (but may not have completed and probably totally forgot), b) tasks newly revealed through multiple e-mails or voicemails greeting you upon arrival back at your "job," c) tasks requested in the minutes upon returning to your job -- and due immediately, d) any of the above, e) all of the above, or f) none of the above.
• A lassitude and lethargy toward anything not involving sightseeing, journaling, picture-taking, or sitting in a cafe reading the International Herald Tribune, The New Yorker, or a local newspaper. (Speaking of The New Yorker, reading about a dodo bird expedition to Mauritius consumed much of my reading time on the return trip to Amerika. Entertaining and informative, but doesn't one really want sleep inducement in such a situation? [And don't criticize me for having the introductory phrase of the preceding sentence modify the wrong subject. After all, I am suffering from PVS.])
• The persistent and recurring delusion that you can move to an exotic location (or mundane foreign location) and succeed financially, romantically, intellectually, artistically, and emotionally (perfectly).

Beware of PVS!

It lurks everywhere and masquerades as jet lag, exhaustion, immaturity, ADHD, midlife crisis, and angst.

Or else, embrace it fully and voluptuously.

Laugh. Or....

Else.

p.s. Sheeesh! After first posting this, I discovered that PVS also stands for "persistent vegetative state." Who knew?