There is a sign posted at the entrance to the security checkpoint in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport that reads: DO NOT PLACE LIVE ANIMALS ON X-RAY BELT…
I pondered the terrible meaning of this as I ate an undercooked barbecue pork sandwich in the Fox Skybox Bar with my good friend Tony late Thursday morning. Jesus, I thought. If there’s a sign posted, that must mean that some poor sap, at one time or another, had had their pet irradiated on that very belt–or perhaps one just like it. I imagined a uniformed guard trying to separate the charred beast from the plastic molding of its pet taxi, all the while listening to the outraged sobs of a distraught old lady who would’ve never done such a thing had she been warned in writing…
It was another case of technology run amok, a symptom of the Modern Age, as it were. And here I was, about to delve further into this bizarre global obsession with ones and zeroes by attending The Electronic Entertainment Expo in Los Angeles. Tony, a fellow animator and good friend, had invited me to join him for a couple of days; I accepted almost immediately. We both work for a Midwest casino gaming company and were looking for an escape from the creative limitations and disgusting office politics of our everyday grind. The selling point of this proposition was the fact that, given our Professional Status, neither of us would have to pay admission. Also, we’d be staying with Steve, a former company programmer who’d recently moved to L.A. Our only expenses would be airfare and meals, so, what the Hell, I thought. In times of Desperation, one must break from the chains in protest or resign silently to bondage. Besides, being for the most part a card-carrying technophobe, I might gain from this a better understanding of that over which my friends–and everyone else, it seems–obsess: escapism through technology.
I could not have predicted, however, that this trip would be one of Disillusionment and Weirdness; the kind of working vacation that drives good men into the mountains…
Up in the Air
Our connecting flight through Atlanta began on an unsettling note. A stewardess announced that there was “a small package that has been left in seat 21B”, and asked for the owner to “please claim it.” I’m not the only person on that plane who felt more than a little nervous about that “small package”…
I spent most of the flight trying to nap amidst the ravages of an untamed stomach and a crying infant three rows up. Tony, I think, had been expecting a little more in the way of socializing, but the rush of the morning and the desire to relax and forget everything had lulled me into a kind of null stupor. When I came to, he was jotting down notes on a lavender legal pad; notes for slot game concepts. “Good God, man,” I wanted to say. “Leave that at the office! We’re off to California!” It seemed, however, that the specter of the dreaded Company would follow us no matter what. Rumor had it that one of our newer Top People was headed to E3 on a recruiting drive. Tony suggested that we track him down and make sure that he stayed in California, and, under the normal run of things I’d be all for such a grandiose adventure, but I’d vowed to keep my mind off work…
The periodicals and information cards on Delta airlines can provide the bored individual with minutes of hilarity and fun. The in-flight catalog, Sky Mall, showcases everything from wood-carved trellises to “the world’s first and only digital camera watch” (a false claim, I suspect, as my girlfriend’s father got one for free off of some Internet giveaway; so I’m leery of its “uniqueness”…and the two-grand price tag). I tried to photograph the Passenger Safety Information brochure, but my camera failed, capturing instead the back of the seat in front of me as I beat the thing in frustration. The “how-to” illustrations were drawn using basic shapes and flat colors. Tony realized, however, that one picture was nicely rendered, complete with shading and detail. After brief analysis of the leather seats in the good drawing, my friend concluded that it was of a passenger in First Class; the poorer-quality pictures represented Coach Travelers. I opted to steal the brochure, figuring that the airline would expect such a thing from a lowly Coach Peasant…
On the inside of my armrest was a pullout device resembling a TV remote. It featured a telephone with credit card slide, channel options, video game controller (though I couldn’t see why), and, yes, a TV switcher. Tony encouraged me to take the thing out since his wouldn’t come loose. After half a minute of looking it over, I became thoroughly intimidated and scrambled to put it back in the cradle–except that it wouldn’t go back. The cord was tangled and unflinching. Plus it was singing to me in a tone that was Classical music by way of the Super Mario Brothers. I shoved and fidgeted and yelled and finally yanked the cord almost all the way out of its socket. The sudden jerking motion must have activated some sort of spring-loaded defense mechanism because the plastic gremlin leapt from my hand, retreating to the safety of its nook. I finally located the volume control on the face and pushed it all the way down. However, this did not silence the gadget, and its eerie tones haunted me the rest of the flight…
The airline had the audacity to charge passengers five bucks a head for the “privilege” of watching Kevin Costner’s Thirteen Days. Stewardesses paced the aisles for a few minutes doling out headphones to anxious consumers who readily forked over cash. Tony, on the other hand, spent that time plugging his Sony Walkman headphones into the armrest jack and adjusting the channels until he settled on the movie’s frequency. To both our delights, his plan worked, though sound only emanated from the left speaker. I used my own headphones to listen, placing my portable CD player in my lap so as to draw attention away from the scam. Though, after about two minutes of Costner’s “acting,” I became nostalgic for the digital muzak on channel fifteen and gave up on the film altogether…
We touched down in L.A. at just after six PM Pacific Time. I followed Tony out of the airport terminal to the taxi park. An attendant hailed a cab, and the young East Indian driver cheerfully stowed our gear. As we made our way down Santa Monica Boulevard, I noticed how different things looked in California compared to Back Home, specifically in Los Angeles: palm trees, endless stretches of roads that take people in roundabout routes, and a grayish-orange haze that made the idea of a smog check seem less and less funny. Steve lives on Overland, in a gargantuan fortress of an apartment complex called Woodcliff. After having paid the cabbie, we walked to what appeared to be the main entrance. A poorly rendered map showed a sprawling, intricate layout of buildings, each indistinguishable from the other. We circled the complex for about twenty minutes, hiking up and down steep driveways and sidewalks with our rolling suitcases in tow, before Tony finally demanded my cell phone. He called Steve and said for him to meet us at the front door.
Steve and two of his co-workers, Rich and Mike, greeted us. The three of them made for a rather interesting-looking trio: Steve, the stout Asian kid who looked to be about thirty; Mike, who in some respects resembles myself (were I forty-to-fifty pounds lighter); Rich, a laid-back surfer-type whose tuft of brown afro sprouted from a head whose face looked like Billy Crudup’s. We exchanged brief pleasantries on the way up to Steve’s apartment. I dropped off my bags and, after about three minutes of deliberation, the five of us opted for dinner. As Steve locked up the place, I realized that I’d forgotten my notebook inside. Not wanting to inconvenience anyone, however, I said nothing of it. Rather, I followed quietly behind the others, hoping that nothing truly interesting would happen…
After facing packed houses at both a Sizzler (which I’d come to believe had gone out of business more than a decade ago) and a place called Yankee Doodles, the only place that seemed like a reasonable sit-down restaurant was Hooters on the Third Street Promenade. The joint was a monument to testosterone: dozens of men sat ogling the nubile waitresses who paraded around in three-sizes-too-small shorts and tank tops. There were a total of three women in the place who weren’t employees, and their expressions were of disdain and discomfort. This is not to say that this Hooters differed from any other I’ve been to–with the exception of an absence of male wait staff–it’s just that the servers resembled out-of-the-box sex dolls; their perfect appearances, I’m sure, were sculpted from the finest plastics in Creation.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.