This isn't technically a Moi's Adventures in Miami post, but it is related. Almost everyone who knows me well knows I'm afraid to fly, and as a result have crafted for myself a notebook-full of self-soothing behaviors of the kind that probably only make sense to me, a handful of behavioral therapists, and Duc Kwan, counter clerk at the liquor store down the road. Unfortunately, I don't get to visit Duc all that much anymore, now that the NTSB has made it a major no-no for me to hip flask my favorite cocktail through security. Stupid NTSB.
So now I'm down to positive affirmation and visualization techniques culled from a variety of self help books and therapists so earnest, I'm beginning to fear that if I actually fully take these exercises seriously ("envision angels, sent from heaven, pouring golden light from a crystal urn through the top of your head, flowing through your body, and banishing all the bad, purple light") I just might be set on the path towards full blown New Age Hippiedom, and Lord, none of us wants to see that happen.
Still, what to do with sweat-slicked palms and jive jumping heartbeat?
Luckily, this time around, I got through on my way out thanks to utter exhaustion (I was up at 3:30am to meet a 6am flight) and my way back home thanks to a cute, young F-18 pilot who animatedly explained to me with that peculiar-to-the-military mix of ego and humility that it is, in fact, quite possible to survive almost any kind of plane crash. Well, except for those that involve a mid-air explosion . . .
However, after said cute, young marine disembarked in the ATL leaving me to my eventual fate pinched in the middle between two people who prompted me to wonder if perhaps hitting the booze before noon is not such a great idea after all (yes, I said it), I was left to my own devices.
Which, roughly translated, means: reading a stack of magazines I wouldn't ordinarily be caught dead reading at any other time except at my hairdressers, the Jiffy Lube, and emergency panic situations. So you'll forgive me if I happen to know that Camilla Parker-Bowles nearly tossed herself off a bridge at the prospect of bonnie Prince William hip-butting her precious Charles from the throne. I know, huh? Poor Camilla. Always a bride's maid . . .
Or that I revisited my punk musical adolescence with the current issue of Uncut, which at first I thought would be way too esoteric por Moi, but which actually turned out to be almost as cool as the dearly departed Creem and nowhere near as yawn-inducing as Rolling Stone. Hefty features on Captain Beefheart, the Stooges, and Adam Ant are what got me through. Unfortunately, they also reminded me what a tragically neurotic adult I've grown to become. If the former Pink Mohawked Moi could meet today's Quaking in Her Peep Toes counterpart, she'd have quite a sneer. Although perhaps reach an understanding over their mutual, everlasting love for Adam Ant. Seriously, Party People. Dude was über hot.
