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Saturday, March 27, 2010

ordinary lil' fauntleroys

After my body was scanned, my bag gutted for contraband and my person patted down; after baboons with badges cornered, tricked and questioned me, I was released with all my effects into the arrivals hall where lil' lord fauntleroys waved balloons on sticks and mothers heaved their heavy breasts looking flustered at all and sundry. After I’d woven through this crowd of luckies and the row of drivers behind them – J.R. Dental; Pierce Longsword; Hopkinson Smith on their placards – after I’d trolleyed my bag into the clear, after the waving, beaming faction was behind me, I realized – good heavens – how happy I was to be home.

I thought about the French fries I would thrust down my throat, the Doobie Brothers that soon would blast symphonic across my quarters; I thought on the joys of Mica’s calves, cheeks and bellybutton; I thought – Yes! – without shame or reservation– what a joyous, wondrous day.

And so I pardoned with a wave of the hand the fiddling fauntleroys for being such little twerps, and I forgave their bovine mothers too for being so flustered at all and sundry. And I thought to myself, let me resume my life here among you with a kind-hearted gesture.

After the fries had gone in a dozen a pop, after the quart of ginger-ale and the clutch of toffees at the duty free; after satisfying my most commanding Earthly needs, I ventured down into the bowels of Amsterdam International Airport and waited on the platform with the ordinary-Man, the pig in uniform, the hack in a suit. I waited for the bullet-train back to Rotterdam City.

Understand, dear reader, this may seem utterly ordinary to you, but understand that “ordinary” - for me - had just been stripped and skinny dipped into a tub of vitriol. Recall the eyeless gentlemen, recall the stack of biscuits breakfast-lunch-and-dinner, recall the sheer horror of wall-crossings and telekinesis. So forgive me if I enjoyed (more than is appropriate) the chocolate skinned starlets who sat across from me in the bullet-train home. Forgive the rapt expression on my face as I beheld the gold amulets at the foot of their heaving breasts – Shantala, Serena – in bubbly golden script. Indeed, forgive me all these heaving breasts, but I was beside myself with joy in this bullet-train, on this day, in the bowels of Amsterdam International Airport.