I wish I had a reason to be at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, like, every day. I've seen on Twitter Jason Isaacs appears to be using it as a layover place (place of laying over?), at least while he shoots DIG (on USA!) in New Mexico. It is the busiest airport on the planet, I hear. Quite frankly, I think he or his manager or whoever bravely books Lucius Malfoy onto flights has good taste, sending him to us. I'm unashamedly biased, because it's the airport I've come to know the best--I've been in it, through it, and outside it thousands of times. It's got its quirks, for sure. But every time I'm there, I feel like I'm home. Is that weird? Our airport has a very "Atlanta feel" to it. For lack of a better term on account of it's after 9 PM and I've tested small children's brains to death all week and so mine is now fried, too. (For all its quirks, Atlanta has wormed its way permanently into my heart; I love this big ol' smoggy, too-much-damn-country-music, traffic jammed up city of Tea Party Republicans.)
Anyway, he's tweeted about weirdos on Atlanta-bound planes asking for selfies at inappropriate moments (we do draw eccentrics like magnets, Jason), and people have posted pictures of him in Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, graciously taking selfies with them. He always seems very good-natured and kind in regards to this...I'd be very: only if my make up and hair are okay and I'm not having a fat day, okay? about it. (In fact, if I ever run into Jason Isaacs and he asks if I want a selfie, this is exactly what I will say to him.)
Hey, remember when you could walk your loved ones right up to a departing gate and hang out with them until the plane boarded? Those were the days, right? Now travelers have to go through a labyrinth of security and they herd the non-travelers picking up the travelers into an airport version of a cattle pen at a slaughterhouse for humans. Everyone waits in one large crowd together, mooing aimlessly, and then there's a stampede as the travelers slowly come up and off the 5000 foot incline/escalator. I refuse to participate in this--if you're coming in, and I'm picking you up, Hartsfield-Jackson has a very nice cell phone parking lot for me to sit in the quiet comfort and privacy of my car whilst enjoying Damien Rice songs and waiting for you to ride the train, the escalator, deal with baggage claim, and walk out the front doors into the wilds of Atlanta. Call me once your bags are in your hand and I'll swing around and get you. And then we'll go sit in a nice, smoggy traffic jam and I'll school you on why you sound like a big, uncool nerd every time you call it HOTlanta.
(Stop calling us that, everybody. First off, we're STEAMYlanta or SMOGGYlanta or OVERCROWDEDlanta or THESESTREETLAYOUTSMAKENOFUCKINGSENSElanta. Second, if you must go for cutesy, then might I suggest something more fitting like CocaColaville? Or Peachtreewannabe Town? Although A-Town works nicely if you'd like to sound like a rapper, or try "The ATL" if you feel you're more hip hop.)
One time? At Hartsfield-Jackson when I was headed to Phoenix, my brother and I got to watch a barefoot, 400-pound woman wearing a mini-mini-micro-skirt and way too small thong underwear bend over repeatedly to pick up peanuts she dropped on the floor. And since I can hear your brain thinking it: YES. Yes, she DID eat them. Slowly and deliberately. I'm horrified just remembering it. (I am also shuddering at the many memories I have of negotiating O'Hare International Airport, which is exactly what you do from the moment you step off a plane there: negotiate. For all its quirks, I think if you have to go through O'Hare more than ten times, you really come to appreciate a place like Hartsfield-Jackson.)
Nowadays, everyone has to practically strip AND take their shoes off AND taste any breast milk they brought with them AND go through those x-ray machines where questionably educated strangers can see you completely naked. What I'm saying is, thanks, you stupid airplane terrorists. You've turned us all into barefoot, 400 lb women who bend over repeatedly and eat peanuts off the floor. Hope you're happy now.
Speaking of traveling: I'm traveling tomorrow! And not by plane--woo! This time tomorrow, my feet will be in the sand, and an adult beverage will be at my side. I am taking some good books, this laptop, and my ghost hunter skillz (I don't have ghost hunter skillz). The cabin we are renting has bits and pieces of Ft. Skivner in it, and it was built at the turn of the century. I am certain there will be plenty of things to write about. And several opportunities for one bad poetry jam.
More important than all of that? Magic Mike XXL is being filmed ON Tybee Island! Which is where I shall be plunking my sandy feet. It's true! People magazine had a picture of a shirtless Joe Manganiello tossing a ball on Tybee Island. I suppose he could have been tossing a ball in Destin, Florida or Atlantic City, New Jersey or Malibu, California. But it was in People. And if People magazine says it's true, well then. ....Y'all! My friends and I could be extras! I could be in a real dang movie! Everyone has to get their start somewhere. (As long as my make up and hair are okay and I'm not having a fat day.)