In San Francisco International and connecting to Boston. White people everywhere, talking about bullshit. Talking about juicing and the fluctuation of the euro. First time in 11 months I can understand everything I hear. I am nervous. I feel like everyone can read my mind.
So how are my dollars doing. The ATM says it will assess a $2.95 fee to tell me my account balance. Assess. I forgot that they use such cunty terminology in the homeland. A banana costs $1.95. Fuck this place.
I flew here in the night. 10 hours across the Pacific from Seoul. The flight had a lot of Korean spinsters going on vacation with their mothers. They frowned at each other and their Samsung backgrounds were pictures of themselves. The endgame of singlehood. I’m sorry. There was a dog on board too; my nerves have been run through a cheese grater. I find a taphouse. There are blue collar guys who look like the American Sniper and there are girls in Berkeley sweatshirts and yoga pants. I forgot that girls like this existed. It’s hard to even look at them. The bartender is the coolest motherfucker alive. He is black. Not Obama black, Will Smith black. Lando black. So he is smooth; he could read selections from a geology textbook and you would still listen. He’s talking about cowtipping with a lady drinking Riesling and the whole bar has angled themselves at him to listen. You have to drop your shoulder when you hit the cows, he says, and make sure you put them down. If you don’t, you gotta run away real quick, because the cow gonna come get you, and then that cow is gonna do some person-tipping. Huh, who knew. This is charm school. Charisma to aspire to. I sip. I’m buzzed. The beer may be $9 but at least there’s black people here. It’s good to be back.