Getting real at the airport

The aspiring flautist playing looney tunes sitting opposite me was annoying. The guy was a shame to Indian Classsical music.

My moronic friend, who used his flute as an "ear cutting machine," made more interesting use of the wood. He'd flash his flute to his kids and shout "I'll use my ear cutting machine if you don't go to sleep." Scared, the noisy kids would scram to bed.

"When the kids mature and discover that Hariprasad played a flute, not an ear cutting machine, they will smash me with a dholak," he said.

I told you Hariprasad Dholakia was a moron.

The flautist attracted a fan following with his proud represention of India -- sitting in a yoga stance, his eyes closed in deep concentration, his sweet and soft Indian music. No dhoti, sorry. The problems started when he flauted his music.

He churned out one 2-second tune over and over again, with a million ragas thrown in. Was it Desh raga? Malhar? Raga Chandrakala that only baapu knows? Only my dad or siblings would know.

I was anyways annoyed as a desk attendant didn't upgrade me to an emergency exit aisle seat.

I launched a fake cough to break up his block party, but the musician got louder and louder with each cough. He won, and I took a hike, hitting the aisles of San Francisco airport alone. An isolated place on the edge seemed like a nice place to take refuge, but a fight broke out there.

"My dog has flown 50,000 miles, but I've never heard a complaint," a man said to a woman who objected to his dog sitting next to her.

"Well, there's always a first time," the woman told the man, who started walking away with his dog.

"I look forward to sitting next to you on the flight," the man retorted, with the frantic woman double-checking her boarding card's seat number. The indicator said the flight was headed to Kansas City -- she was up for a bad time on and after the flight.

Before the she spotted me and objected to sitting next to monkeys, I dashed into Terminal 2's Anchor Steam pub. A table I sat on had a view of a beautiful woman on a barstool, and she came in between me and a TV playing baseball.

When I started viewing the game, the woman turned sideways and gave me a dirty look to say she loved me, and in a split second, glanced back to the bar and continued guzzling her beer. She gave me that same dirty look every few seconds. I loved women who played dirty.

This dude's trying to make a pass at me, she thought.

I tried to be accomodating, changing the angles of my looks to the TV screen, but I just had to look above her. I couldn't help it. Why does an attractive woman always believe she is being checked out whenever a man looks at her?

She finally bottoms-upped her beer and walked out. The magic of my presence can be astounding.

As I downed a beer, I checked out the other attractive women in the bar. Soon, the time to board came and I walked to my gate.

There, the flautist was talking to his fans, trying to extol the virtues of Indian classical music. I wanted to contribute to the discussion, instead I chatted with a friend over the phone. She was blabbering on how I should limit my blabbering, which I will do right now.

One final note: It's cool to wear a tinted glass and observe an airport's colorful characters!