4/16/04: HEY YA!

Hi Everyone; a note from the field as the search for a smooth departure continues. Ahem. I was deposited in the beautifully constructed McNamara Terminal of the Detroit Wayne County Airport today at 11:37 EST. As a window to the possibilities that Detroit may offer the average traveler, McNamara is a cornucopia of upwardly mobile imagery. Roof lines arc, hi-tech trams whoosh by thirty feet overhead, and the tile underfoot sparkles and glitters like a freshly-waxed dance floor. Various chain businesses that do not appear to be chain businesses line the massive concourse, beckoning one to enter in and taste the high life. Space is abundant; the imposition of hundreds of fellow passengers bustling by is muted by the irresistible urge to look up towards the sixty foot ceilings, and to dream.

My latest foray into budget travel had forced me into purchasing a ticket that included a five hour layover in Detroit. Fortunately, McNamara is blessed by the calm oasis of a Westin Hotel just outside its exit doors. I worked through my options for the best way to pass the time and wisely surmised that the Westin might have a decent bar buried within its Zen bowels. A quick trot down a faux-moderne skyway and a massive escalator quickly proved my suspicions to be correct. I was soon parked at a calm Japanese edifice in a huge atrium overlooking an exceptionally large reflecting pool. Feeling suitably liquidated, I ordered up a spicy Bloody Mary and set to work on the instructional manual for the new digital camera Nat and I had purchased the night before. Four very smooth and expensive drinks later, I had conquered many new aspects of camera technique and become even more excited about the prospects of the upcoming tour. After receiving a few slightly wary looks from the bartender, I paid my tab and made my way back to the sidewalk in front of the terminal, ready to be whooshed away to glory.

As a particularly cheesy and marginally talented Irish singer once sang, life is a roller coaster, and I was about to swoop down into one of its less attractive dips. Out of respect for my love the people of Michigan, I must offer the following disclaimer: Don’t believe everything that you read. I am pained to have to put into detail these sordid events that plagued my tour immediately after those bucolic hours spent in McNamara and the Westin bar, but where would we be without the gory details?

After emerging into the brutal sunlight bouncing off the concrete curb, I was mercilessly hustled into a rickety shuttle that eventually deposited me in front of the dreaded Berry Terminal. This, to say the very least, was a bit of buzz kill. I was immediately overtaken by some Godforsaken group of children in sombrero hats whose sole collective purpose seemed to be stampeding me. After pushing several of them to the ground and cursing loudly, I was able to do some tantric breathing and take in the aforementioned building’s hideous structure. Let’s think of it this way: if the United Nations building is first on the list of questionable but sentimentally valid architectural decision made in the 60’s, Berry Terminal is holding strong at number 12,733. Outstanding among several bad design omens that suddenly made me question the sanity of boarding any aircraft that might depart from such a portal, I quickly noticed the etching of vaguely Egyptian symbols into the marquee. Its sheer uglinesss forced me to ponder the distinct possibility of the terminal being run by Freemasons. The sensation was not alleviated as I maneuvered my way into the ticketing area, a dreadfully ambitious space ruled by the omnipresence of brown. Carpet, faux wood bannisters, god-awful banners hanging from the dusty rafters; brown was everywhere. So much brown as to make one wonder if the kids from Dwell magazine might be lurking in a corner sipping bootleg Martinis and declaring Berry to be a new hot spot of international travel.

Video games from the early 80’s were randomly scattered along the corridor. Closer inspection revealed none of them to be in working order. Amidst highly confused passengers running to and fro in terry-cloth jumpsuits, I pondered quality of life issues and wondered what a scared and lonely immigrant would make of all this upon his or her first entry into the United States. Right on cue, I noticed a lone pizza vendor of Middle Eastern descent picking at a cold and destitute slice with his finger.

Oh Berry Terminal, how you’ve fallen. The desolate visage of your molded concrete block construction laying low against a barren, industrial Michigan horizon is just really fucking depressing. Now I sit in your ancient bar with its new, highly inflammatory smoking restrictions while visions of my entrance into your stinking confines bring a shudder to my brow. The poor passengers sinking into the nougahyde seats of your departure lounges must feel my anxiety as they stare across your cracked tarmac, the fear of never seeing their loved ones again etched deeply in their bloated faces. Your gate agents might be accommodating, your popcorn salted, but, as a particularly wise and very talented Southern Vaudeville actor once said, you can’t polish a turd. And you, Berry Terminal, resemble nothing more than a bad bean burrito dropping to the bottom of the food chain.

Goddamn you, Berry. Your time is done. You are a disgrace to the good will of the Michiganders whose hard-earned tax dollars no doubt paid for your very existence. You are a poor excuse for a proper reception to the many foreigners who are forced to tiptoe over your fiery coals on the way to whatever remnants of the American Dream that are still available to them. International Terminals carry the responsibility of being goodwill ambassadors of sorts, and you fail repeatedly, yes, every time I lift my head from this ridiculous machine. Your inability to even qualify as a cherished relic has made you redundant, useless as the unwanted mothers-in-law that still traverse your vomit-stained concourses in search of a handout. Jesus. I spit on the devalued real estate on which you sit, you dead or dying postmodern armadillo decomposing in the dirt. Your walls are filthy and your bartenders suck. Fuck you, Berry; I hope you rot in hell.

4/17/04

OK. Twelve hours have passed; scenarios have changed. From the advantageous perch of a second story hotel room in Dublin, I thought it might be fun to harken back to earlier journals and do a ‘best and worst of’ list for the opening travel segment of this jammy. Bear with me:

Best Of, in no particular order:

1. The bar at the Westin Hotel, McNamara Terminal, Detroit Wayne County Airport. Enough said.

2. Bloody Mary’s from the bar at the Westin Hotel.

3. British Airways. This was my first transatlantic flight on the Queen of the Airlines, and it was simply the best coach experience I’ve ever had. An extensive (12, count ‘em) movie selection, free booze, repeated inquiries concerning more free booze from very friendly flight attendants, excellent musical variety, free eye shades, toothbrushes and booty socks, not to mention awfully comfortable seats. This enterprise is one of the few that can still claim to be flying the friendly skies.

4. Bernie, cab driver from Dublin airport. Irish cabbies are somewhat infamous for expounding freely on whatever happens to be on their minds. Sometimes you’re in the mood; sometimes you’d rather already be alone in the pub. But Bernie really pulled it together with a thrilling discourse on the role of the ECU in rejuvenating the Irish economy. He also knew a thing or two about where to find a great pint, information that I’m sure will come in handy soon enough.

5. The Camden Deluxe Hotel. This has been my home in Dublin on my last four visits. I can’t tell you how long I have dreamed of showing up in a foreign hotel and having the receptionist know my name. Visions of literary grandeur a’ la Dorothy Parker and F. Scott Fitzgerald abound. The Camden is no Algonquin, mind you; the amenities are pretty slim and all the rooms are named after stars of the Irish Theater (I’m in the Brendan Gleeson suite for the third time), if that gives you an idea of the down-to-earth nature of the joint. But it’s awfully comfortable and very affordable. It’s also next to Whelan’s, my favorite gig and pub in the whole damn city. Given the pace of events so far, Whelan’s will probably be making tomorrow’s best of list.

Worst of:

1. Flight transfer, London Heathrow. Again, a budget touring situation destined to go wrong; I was caught towing a guitar in a flight case, a small carryon suitcase, a massive widow-maker of a suitcase that I had smuggled all of my merch in and a shoulder bag weighing around 25 pounds. Upon arriving at the Aer Lingus counter, I was forced to weigh all of it, revealing that I was carrying 50 kilos in excess of the AL limit for one passenger. A tired argument with a beleaguered airline employee that I was incapable of winning followed. A stiff 60 quid fee was paid (that’s about $100, damn it). This atrocity, combined with the excessive afternoon spent in the Westin Bar, put the tour way in the red. I am very confident that I will make up the difference by selling loads of the clandestine merch that one of the offending suitcases contained. The only difference is that I don’t feel the least bit guilty about doing it now.

2. Bernie, cab driver from Dublin airport. Sure, he was damn nice and somewhat informative, but Sweet Jesus; sometimes you just want to be alone in a pub.

3. The Berry Terminal, Detroit Wayne County Airport.

So, here we are, waiting out the jet lag in the Brendan Gleeson suite of the Camden Deluxe Hotel, Dublin, Eire. I had forgotten that Stephen Hague let me upload the last Beck record into my ITunes back in Woodstock. That seems like a long time ago, and the plaintive tones of California gone wrong are only confirming the observation. By the way, all apologies (to anyone concerned) for my lack of follow-up on the forum; I’m still having problems accessing it on a regular basis because of a weird malfunction in my browser. Maybe it’s for the best. God knows if everyone had to endure all of this and some extraneous postings, well, things might come to an ugly end.

The Mavs are playing tonight in Holland; I won’t be seeing them until sound check tomorrow. The Irish label have done a bang-up job of securing some key radio and press opportunities for Monday, so I am not sure when I’ll have much time to get this dastardly on the keyboard for awhile. Not that you’ll miss me. I find myself a little tired and lonely in a friendly yet foreign burg once again; so what. Boo-Hoo. I like to think that by sharing a little bit of the fun with everybody I am bringing you a little closer to me, which is a little stupid but also about as hopelessly romantic as I can hope to become. If you’re into that sort of thing...

Love,

DAVID