2008 Woodie Awards
A Traveler's Tale of the City of Zion: Part 1 of 3
Drunken London GonzoJournalism
Andrew S. Lay
Issue date: 6/13/06 Section: Features
I arrived at LAX on Monday April 4th. I wandered through the various duty-free shops that line the halls of the international terminal. I gazed at the sepulchre laid to fine whiskeys, overexpensive watches and gourmet chocolates.
Trapsing through the terminal, staring at the vagrant travelers hording over precious luggage and weeping babies, I felt the strong urge for a stiff drink.
I took the sharp-toothed escalator to the second floor, and the cool breath of freshly poured beers and dark liquor filled my flaring nostrils. I sat at the bar and watched the people stare unmoving at the UCLA game. This was obviously the most important event in the world at the time.
I attempted to converse idly with one wobbly looking patron with beady eyes and a ripe-red nose, but he brushed my words aside and gave me a hard look as he returned his gaze to the game. It was obvious that nothing could tear these heady men and women away from that incandescent TV. How I hated it all that moment. I thought to myself, "a world away, things will be different." I ordered Wild Turkey and a Bass, then I ordered two more. International flights are always best under the influence, besides, what the hell was I going to do for the ten hour flight? Talk to my neighbors? Over-weight businessmen in Sears suits and penny loafers, fat, weepy-eyed mothers and MTV teens. I don't think so.
After several drinks, I decided that I was hungry. So, I paid the casually dressed bartender and headed for the island behind the bar where the mexican hostess had stuffed herself into a black, tight-seemed dress. She was pouring out of it. As I stepped carefully towards her, I smiled brightly and she smiled back.
"Is the food here any good?" I asked her, turning up my half-imagined charm to full blast. She beamed back at me and said, "It's excellent. I eat here everyday." I thought to myself, I believe it. I instructed her to show me the way and told her to, " seat me away from all these miscreants."
Trapsing through the terminal, staring at the vagrant travelers hording over precious luggage and weeping babies, I felt the strong urge for a stiff drink.
I took the sharp-toothed escalator to the second floor, and the cool breath of freshly poured beers and dark liquor filled my flaring nostrils. I sat at the bar and watched the people stare unmoving at the UCLA game. This was obviously the most important event in the world at the time.
I attempted to converse idly with one wobbly looking patron with beady eyes and a ripe-red nose, but he brushed my words aside and gave me a hard look as he returned his gaze to the game. It was obvious that nothing could tear these heady men and women away from that incandescent TV. How I hated it all that moment. I thought to myself, "a world away, things will be different." I ordered Wild Turkey and a Bass, then I ordered two more. International flights are always best under the influence, besides, what the hell was I going to do for the ten hour flight? Talk to my neighbors? Over-weight businessmen in Sears suits and penny loafers, fat, weepy-eyed mothers and MTV teens. I don't think so.
After several drinks, I decided that I was hungry. So, I paid the casually dressed bartender and headed for the island behind the bar where the mexican hostess had stuffed herself into a black, tight-seemed dress. She was pouring out of it. As I stepped carefully towards her, I smiled brightly and she smiled back.
"Is the food here any good?" I asked her, turning up my half-imagined charm to full blast. She beamed back at me and said, "It's excellent. I eat here everyday." I thought to myself, I believe it. I instructed her to show me the way and told her to, " seat me away from all these miscreants."
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