Monkey Diaries Archive

This past weekend, I flew home to San Diego for my younger brother's wedding. I love to travel and never have any issues with moving from point A to point B. In fact, I believe that the true measure of a successful trip isn't what happens once you reach the destination but what happens on the journey. By that I mean that it's the act of getting to where you want to be that is what essentially makes the trip worthwhile. Once you're there, it's something else entirely. Anyway, as is my usual modus operandi, I took public transportation as often as possible. I took Muni to BART and then the shuttle from BART to the airport. On the shuttle to the Airport, I was quickly reminded of why public transportation is oftentimes unbearable. On the shuttle there was some guy... no, wait. Scratch that. There was an experiment in hygiene indifference seated behind me. So intense was this guy's "mad flavor" that I had to run away. I'm not talking the "gee, you're a bit ripe" variety of offensive smells here... I'm obviously failing to relate to you how truly inescapable this man's odor was. His odor was a heat seeking biological weapon. It found you and clung to you, invaded every pore of your being, resolutely refusing to leave once it found purchase. This guy went far beyond the call of duty in his assault of the senses. He was not your typical patchouli dousing dot com bohemian. He was obviously committed to offending as many sentient life forms as he could in the short time he was on the shuttle. I moved. The smell found me. I moved again. It knocked a few people out of the way and began it's war with my delicate sensibilities. Eventually, whatever god that watches over public transportation blessed us and we reached the airport. Immediately, three dozen dazed citizens poured out and began taking in lung-fulls of air. It took some twenty minutes in the fresh air before the smell wafted away in search of other targets. Either that or it didn't survive long separated from the host olfactory presence. If I had to guess, I'd say that the ratfucker either rolled around in pigshit or his innards were slowly putrefying, the smell just the gases escaping by whichever orifice was convenient. As I made my way through the security checkpoint to have all my various body cavities probed and thoroughly inspected for weapons, I found myself thankful for the fact that I wasn't going to be on the same flight as the Olfactory Assailant. He got in the Jet Blue kiosk. Once he flies the Wild Blue Skies, their chosen moniker will take on an entirely different meaning. How long can the average human hold their breath do you think? Once inside the terminal, seated at my gate, I took a few moments to survey my surroundings, noting that there was a variety of interesting characters in my immediate area. To my left was a frumpy housewife who was either blind or nominally retarded. I say this not to be mean... although the thought of being mean does give me a warm fuzzy. No, I say this because it looked as though she dressed herself in the dark. How else would you characterize a woman who wore a plaid top, an iridescent pink skirt, bright white platform sandals and a carried a black handbag? Late last night, as I pondered my trip and was looking for suitable links to sprinkle throughout my entry, I came upon this article on Lower Frequencies, which is a website I've come across from time to time, when researching some of the strange opinions I formulate about everything from the Death Penalty (for it) to Rap music (against it). The articles on Lower Frequencies are intelligently written and completely engaging without being incendiary. Check it out if you have the time.