Niggaz With Aeroplanes

A week later, I'm still talking about my trip to Indiana. Draw your own conclusions! For reasons of cashflow, I booked my flight with N.W.A. only the day before departure, not realizing that a strike action was underway. D'oh! That's the first quantifiable negative side effect of me not having cable.

There was a delay while my first flight tried to find an empty gate. I was jonesing for a cigarette and feared I'd miss my connection. The flight attendant decided what I really needed was a back massage, in front of all the other passengers who were about as bemused as I was. Does this sound like a dream come true, boys? Alas, she was twenty years my senior and called Alfreda, so all I could think of was chicken in a white sauce.

En route I finally read an old issue of Rolling Stone that Squarepants found on a plane earlier in the year, which had a 30-page obituary for Hunter S. Thompson. I was excited to read there's a movie being made of his novel The Rum Diary, starring Johnny Depp as Thompson once more. I loved the story of him shooting bullets through copies of his books instead of autographing them. I decided to make him my God For The Week and live life a little more gonzo from now on in his honour.

Wednesday evening, I was indulging in a little "gonzo worship" when the loudest alarm I've ever heard went off. I parted the layers of smoke in my apartment and struggled with the detector, gashing the palm of my hand in the process. Ripped off the wall, wires bare and detached, it just wouldn't stop bleating. I was looking for a way into the casing when I noticed a speaker grill high on the wall that I hadn't noticed before. Long story short, it was the fire alarm for the entire building and was ringing in every apartment and every corridor. I got blood on my white wall for nothing. The Good Doctor would be proud of such carnage!