Jimmie G, Private D

2) You’re waiting at gate 23 at John F. Kennedy (JFK) Airport’s Terminal 7 to board an Air Canada flight to Vancouver. The flight has been delayed two hours so far. The gate agent announces a further three-hour delay before take off. To your right sits an elderly couple. She’s in a wheelchair. To the left, a family of four, with a boy, aged five and a newborn infant girl.

Trapped in decision

The gate agent had strapped on every effeminate stereo type the way Formula One drivers apply burn jelly. You couldn’t smell the smoke on him but you could hear the two pack a day habit rattle in his throat like a couple of angry wasps. He was in every respect a fabulous Brooklyn queen. His left arm lay across his abdomen, atop of which rested his right elbow, where his armed swayed, lulling anxious travelers into a stupor. I think all of us sitting at the gate were transfixed by his flourish of fingers wrapped around the small square microphone. He was obviously about to say something. Why the pause? The old guy next to me asked in a breathy voice, “did he say something? I can’t hear a goddamn thing”. A grunt came from his wife sitting in a wheel chair next to him. Another breathy “goddamn it” came from the old man followed by a set of, “ehhhh, ehhh,ehhh” from the lady next to him. Maybe it wasn’t an “ehh” I heard. We are going to Canada, they say that. But she definitely wasn’t wondering what he said. Never one for too many connected thoughts I distractedly  wondered why she’s in the wheel chair.

It was in the middle of that thought that her majesty came back on the mic. In his scratchy voice he said, “attention passengers of flight twelve thirdy fohr. We regret to inforhm you that the flight will be delayed an additional five hours.”   The mic went back to the side of the agents head, ready to fire a warning shot should the passengers begin to protest. It was then that the old man dropped another “goddamn it” in his thin voice, but it was only an opening salvo this time. The ‘t’ had hardly escaped his lips before he dropped the f-bomb. The old man landed on the ‘k’ of his “fuck”  like a prize fighter pounding a speed bag. Then I heard the ‘v’ in the old lady’s grunt. She wasn’t saying “ehh”. Her labored moan was “vien. vein. veinnnnnnnnn” She had indeed heard him and was admonishing him as best she could. She might even be angry about the delay. The old guy may be exercising some freedom after forty years of hen pecking. These two are worth some watching just to see if I can find some clues if they love each other. Another five hours should give me enough clues.

I’ll take the case!

Running from hepatitis

What’s in a name? Disparity, History, Legacy, Home, fertile soil and burnt ashes.

My last name is Galaites. Its Filipino I’m told. However, I have yet to meet a Greek that doesn’t think the name is Greek.  I first experienced this assertion while living in Stuttgart, Germany, where I went to high school. I was getting an ID.  A process that required I spell out mine and my fathers first and last names in white letters on a black board and then have my picture taken holding the board under my chin. A mug shot essentially, which  granted me access to various Armed Forces institutions and privileges. While getting ready to take the picture an elderly man cleaning the facility spotted my name and said “ah, a nice Greek boy”. I informed the old man that my name was Filipino. The old guy kindly told me I was wrong, the name was definitely Greek. I retorted that my grandfather, from whom I received the name was born and raised in Manila. The old man’s lips curled down, conceding to my grandfathers birth place but countering with, “maybe your great-grandfather was a Greek sailor that stopped in the Philippines. That is a Greek name my friend.” Well played old man.

You see, like most Americans, I’m mixed. My mom’s side is Scottish, my dad’s Filipino, mostly. What the other stuff is has always been a mystery. My paternal grandmother did something bad, and may have ended up in a mental institution. Everything about her is murky. My dad won’t talk about her, or what happened. So Scottish-Filipino. At least I’m an islander on both sides. Being considered Greek isn’t bad, and the old janitor wasn’t the last to suggest as much. A buddy of mine, actually a Greek, let me crash with him for a few nights after my senior year while I waited for my host family to make a room ready. His parents also very strongly asserted that my name is Greek.

Some years later while living in Astoria, Queens, which has the highest concentration of Greeks outside of Athens, two different landlords greeted me excitedly, happy to have “a good Greek boy” renting from them.

In all these instances people saw in my last name, or heard in it a piece of home. They recognized something they felt to be fraternal. In this way our names are pieces of a puzzle, looking for the inverse of their own shape.

But the name Galaites isn’t greek. I pronounce my name  Gah-la-ee-tes . My mom, dad, sister, and both sides of the rest of my family pronounce it Ga-lie-tes. It rhymes with colitis, the closest thing next to hepatitis. If you had the Copacabana tune in your head then you nailed. I had a few Filipino friends in my youth. Both of them felt that my last name couldn’t be Filipino. At least not the way it was pronounced.
Weekly Writing Challege: Power of Names

Love what you kill

My love affair with running has reached the ole’ married couple stage. I don’t want to leave it, but we don’t talk all that much anymore, and we haven’t had relations in a while. Still, I love running. Though my Running Times magazines pile up, unread, in a heap of discarded hope, I refuse to cancel my subscription. Perhaps for that same reason old married couples stay together, the memory of what was, familiarity. I’m familiar with being a runner, though I don’t run much anymore. So I cling to her hand, longing for the spark to return.

Of course, that spark will never return of its own accord. Nor will the ‘familiar’ become exciting again, until I introduce something new. Like barefoot running maybe.  For me that something used to be a race on the calendar. The simple act of signing up for a race was enough spark to get my fire started.  But then I bought a race a discounted price, and didn’t train much, and in the end, didn’t race.  That’s all it took to kill my darling.

Can you love what you kill?

Middle Age College Kids

The kids were staying with Nana so we took the night to act like kids ourselves. We Ubered our way to the bar, so we had some expectation of how the night might go.

The night went much like we had anticipated. Drinks, laughs, bitching about raising kids, and  then flipping through photos of the little pixies with drunken fingers.

Getting home was shaping up top be what I had anticipated as well. Our sloppy making out in the Uber car should have shamed us, but it didn’t. I was college horny at this point.  How could this have ever been the norm? Was it revisionist history to think it was? Uh-oh. Waning. Sweet, dirty sex with the woman I love first, contemplative assessment later.

Fancy Words for Dick

Logorrhea.  lȯ-gə-ˈrē-ə. The spelling bee announcer pronounced every syllable carefully.  Henry asked for the definition. 

Excessive and often incoherent talkativeness or wordiness.

I had the perfect example sentence should Henry need it.

Henry’s excessive babbling last night about teaming up against Tran Nguyen was due to his logorrhea, not to idiotic loquaciousness, or good ole’ fashion cheating.

I would love for Washington State to take home the Spelling Bee trophy for once, and we have a two out of three chance to do so. At least on paper. Tran was worth five of both me and Henry, so really we are out numbered. I suppose I shouldn’t be laodicean when state pride is on the line. But Henry can’t be trusted. And a saboteur besides.

He ran me off the Neighborhood Steering Committee when I let slip I wanted to put speed bumps along our roads. “His precious Porsche couldn’t take it”. 

 

 

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Spelling Bee: Writer’s Digest Prompt

You’ve entered a national spelling bee competition only to find out that your neighbor—and arch rival—has also entered the competition. You’ve both made it to the final three, along with a person neither of you know. Your arch rival comes to you with a plot to sabotage the third person, but aside from the fact that you want to win fair and square, you suspect that your rival is also trying to sabotage you. Write this scene.

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.

Belgian Golden Ale

@laurelwoodbrewingco Belgian Golden Strong. I’m going to bury the lead here. This is a 4 star beer. Just lovely. Underneath a fickle head that runs away quick is a beautifully clear Golden Ale with Lager like clarity. Subtle blend of fruitiness and citrus. I want to revisit this brew in the summer. Grab this beer if you can. #drinkcraftbeer #laurelwood #brewersjournal @kegs_code #lazybeer #fatgringobeerblog #craftbeer #drinklocalbeer 

The Daily Pale

The Daily Pale, session IPA from @reubensbrews. At only 4.9% this could be served from vending machines. Bottle says there are citrus notes and passion fruit. I thought it was malty. However, Lisa agrees with Reuben. Citrus and passionfruit it is. #dailypale #reubensbrews #lazybeer #brewersjournal @kegs_code #fatgringobeerblog #drinklocalbeer #craftbeer #drinkcraftbeer 

Man Crush Beer

Discovered this via a happy accident. My wife and I were introduced to a couple that recently moved to Seattle from Brooklyn. That alone meant we years of conversation. The relationship was upped to besties when the husband divulged he is a beer distributor and then when out to his trunk to share some of his product with me. hashtag than you! #drinklocal #drinkcraftbeer #lazybeer #fatgringobeerblog #mancrush 

Montucky Cold Snacks Lager

@montuckycoldsnacks Cold Snack Lager. 8% of back to local causes. Because it’s Sunday and I have to tithe. #montuckycoldsnacks #drinkcraftbeer @drinklocalbeer #lazybeer #fatgringobeerblog 

Belmont Brewing Company

@belmontbrewingcompany 6 wheel flight. Great Pale Ale, more breweries need to offer this excellent session style beer. I asked the BBC res if anyone ever detected bacon in the Long Beach Crude Porter. A. bug ‘No’ was the answer. Guess my nose is broke. #craftbeer #drinkcraftbeer #drinklocal #lazybeer #fatgringobeerblog

The Daily Dude

Come on, man, I’m not trying to scam anybody here.