Saturday, December 14, 2013

What Have I Done?

Oh my God, I’m stuck in LAX’s American Airlines Ambassador Lounge. Please Lord, I promise never to do whatever sinful thing had you cast me into this ring of Frequent Flyer hell.


Okay, I briefly lived here (LA, not the airport) and been here countless times, but it’s like an allergy, the more you’re exposed to the antigens, the more intense the reaction.

It’s not the people in LA that trigger this reaction, for most of the people in airport lounges are from other places, and it’s certainly not the weather (beautiful today after frigid for my stay).  I guess it’s the attitude that seems to possess all who come here on business, be it for a week, a year, or a lifetime:  I AM IMPORTANT AND YOU SHOULD KNOW ME.

Why must so many speak at pane-shaking decibel levels to a travelling companion or phonemate of matters requiring a flood of acronyms, single names, and mega-numbers in every sentence.   And if the focus of discussion is not all about The Biz, it’s about the latest software deal.  Then again, I guess today software is the entertainment world.

There is a commonality to the men in the mix: blue jeans.  Everyone wears them.  The under-thirty tend to add a tee-shirt and tennis shoes, the next decade of wearers go for the more distinguished blue oxford-cloth dress shirt, fancy leather loafers and dark-blue suit jacket.  Above forty it’s a mixed bag adding in, for some, brown shoes and dark cashmere v-necks.  But always the jeans. 

By far, the women are more eclectic in their dress. Of course there are the all-black slacks, turtleneck, shoes, hair, and cat-eye frames crowd, and a couple of I-want-to-be-discovered-like-Lana-Turner-types, but by and large the woman are typical of what you see (and hear) in any airport lounge.  It’s the men who really put on the show here.  Maybe that’s why I’ve heard LA women say, “LA is a man’s town” and go on to say how much more they prefer Chicago.  Obviously they’ve never been to Pittsburgh.

Discovered at a soda fountain

I just looked up.  They’re all gone. The jeans folk have fled! Was it something I said? Maybe it was the cowboy boots.  Though I am in jeans. Aha, I’ve got it.  It must be the raincoat and fedora I carry to bridge weather ranges between -5F in Minneapolis and 75F in Houston (hopefully).  It doesn’t fit with the all’s forever sunny image of the place. Oh, well, I’ll be out soon, assuming my delayed plane to Denver ever takes off and hasn’t—like so many other visitors—decided to remain permanently in LA-LA land.

Ah, a voicemail message from American Airlines on my phone. I must have missed the ring while in my writing zone.  Time to gather up the things, check the board for the new departure gate, and mosey on out of town. But fear not LA, I’ll be back soon. There’s no place like you and….

My flight was just cancelled.



  1. Replies
    1. Yeah, I should have known better; pink, (imitation) kitty-kat fur was too much with the fedora.

  2. Cowboy boots? COWBOY BOOTS? What the hell happened to the 6-inch stiletto heels??? Sheesh. No wonder they scorned you in LA-LA! And what happens if there's a zombie break-out while you're passing through???

  3. My boots were made for walkin' and that's just what they'll do, straight over Zombies, too. You see, Everett, they're not a Tony Lama, but George Romero design.

  4. Wasn't the boots, or anything else you were wearing. Jeff, you were over 60 and in L.A.

    You were invisible.

    1. I should be so lucky. Then it wouldn't matter if the clothes fit.

  5. I think we need to see a photo of the boots in question.

    1. Luke, I'll take a photo and send it to you as I get the boots back from Lady Gaga.