Column:

Aimless (and inebriated) in the airport

By Dan Friesen

Published Nov. 28, 2006

Children, I am sure many of you took trips over break. I went to Austin, Texas, to visit my parents. It was quite a trip; families were convened, drinks were drunk, memories were made. But I don't want to talk about so much nonsense. I'd just as soon leave that to one of the other hack columnists in this rag.

I want to talk primarily about airports, the mini-cities where no one knows anyone and drinks aren't cheap. These villages of anonymity seem to bring out the inner shiftiness in people. It's not a fun place to hang out for longer than an hour unless you're drunk, but we'll get to that in a minute.

Now, Lambert-St. Louis International Airport is the McCormack of airports. I had the pleasure of being stuck there for about five hours waiting for a flight this week. It is just a dump. That being said, I must confess that I appreciate its very generous supply of smoking "lounges." Sitting in that little fucking see-through cage, I swear I could hear a passing yuppie mom talking to her kids, using me as an example about why not to smoke.

"Look at the smokers, Thaddeus. Ooh, see that coughing? The bearded one has the beginning stages of emphysema. Can you say emphysema? Don't feed him."

Then they have that fantastic selection of restaurants. In the case of Lambert, you've got the very inappropriately named Heavenly Hot Dog. My idea of a "heavenly" hot dog is not a soggy bun and a leathery hot dog topped with limp onions and only one choice of sauce. It's enough to drive a man to drink.

Thankfully, there is a shitty, overpriced bar every 10 feet or so. To be fair, it is overpriced mostly because it only offers top-shelf booze. I can appreciate that. But seriously, I am in an airport alone. I want to get a serious buzz going here.

So, I'm sitting there at the bar, drowning in my third Glenfiddich and Coke, and a thought goes through my mind: No one knows anyone, therefore no one knows me.

Full disclosure: I have seen a lot of porn in my day, and something that is very prevalent these days is a genre where a guy with a camera walks up to a random girl, then either: a) he promises her stardom, b) he offers her money, or c) he just uses his gift of gab on her, and next thing you know they are getting it on. It's all nonsense; the girls in said films are clearly paid "actresses." Yet, I know there are some crazy people out there, and with all these random people in the airport, there have to be at least two or three girls in the place who would respond to an overt proposition. This was an overwhelming thought to me in my drunken state.

I figured if there ever was a time that I could give this a shot, this was it. But how can you find these gals? Pick the wrong one and you are getting slapped, arrested or beaten up by a chagrinned boyfriend. The stakes are too high. The only guy who would give it an earnest effort is probably a serious creep you should stay away from.

So here's the idea. Ladies: If you are down with random sex, you need to somehow be clear about it so you can land some random sex with a guy who's not a murderer or (God forbid) a hipster. I have a product for you. It's a simple windbreaker with the words "I will blow a stranger" on the back, so there's no confusion. Everyone wins.

New Feature!!! What Dan is Fantasizing About:

This week: If music video directors Nigel Dick and Chris Milk were to partake in a homosexual wedding, they would become the Dick-Milk family. It's just too appropriate.