some kittens can fly- parte una (1)

I hate to fly- its not the flying itself, its the crashing that concerns me really- that being said, I recently took a beautiful trip to mother Sicily, land of my peeps- a trip long overdue.

The pure excitement and joy of traveling to a place I always wanted to visit was the pinky-pink pate that wiped out the last vestiges of my malaise and fear.

As it was planned ahead of time Mr. Moose and I would travel by motor car to New York, stay the night, swoop in on Mama Rosa Maria in a nearby hamlet and then fly out of JFK the following day.

That being the case I insisted we spend the night in The Howard Johnson's in Jericho on Long Island- certainly a vague destination yes, but this was the motel that Connie Francis was raped back in 1974 after performing at the Westbury Music Fair. Seems creepy I know, but to me it is the equivalent to visiting Canterbury to see where Thomas Beckett was martyred.

(History, I'm just mad about it. I love strange hotel rooms on occasion- like eating Fugu there always is a sense of danger. Once while looking at a house that had once been a parsonage outside of Tappahannock Virginia we stayed at a "No-tell Motel" in which I found a large wrench upon turning down the covers- I took it more as a gift from the gods of hardware than an ill omen.)

We arrived at the Jericho HoJo rather late and the place looked like Miss Howard had been a little roughed up around the edges herself- we checked into the first room and looking around the place, the ambiance seemed a bit - um, suspenseful.

I am a firm believer that like the suspense of dating some one new- (Does he really like me? Who is going to fart first? Is this a crab? How long can I keep on doing this English accent?) - If the suspense doesn't kill you, something else eventually will.

There was a freshly painted wall which was betraying a very particular very large design - an Aztec Glyph I think -that had been previously drawn in what looked like blood that was now seeping through the whitewash- It was ponderous, chilling, artful even- but not really until after the air conditioning failed to work and finding the mini-bar poorly stocked did we decide to switch rooms.
Upon our settling in to the new room - much better and far less thematic- I thought about calling up a large and rather thuggish Moor to come over and make the Connie Francis experience complete, but after a rather long day, we decided against it.

The following morning we greeted the sunrise, having slept like a fading chanteuse on Quaaludes, the day being spent in a flurry of last minute shopping. I decided -at first- to wear all black with matching shades on the plane, but upon beholding my reflection in the mirror, I unfortunately looked a bit like a Russian spy in a low budget porn flick circa '73.

After choosing a smart yet rugged ensemble of browns and merde de bébé yellow, we were off, arriving at JFK a few hours early in time to have a snack and a bit of liquid courage for myself.

The 9:30 pm flight was delightfully on time with the Alitalia flight attendants smiling and nodding, their use of cosmetics and the word "Prego" being generous to a fault.

As we flew east into the night, my thoughts turned to counting my blessings and the people in DC and in New Orleans that were so similar to one another- A truly American creation- the "Hip Hop Nation" -people with far less range and magnitude, yet far more inventive names and hair styles- grasping at straws over real and imagined insults, goals and struggles in the supposed glamorous netherworld of thug life and prison street cred.

Would there be a variation on this theme in Sicily? Would I hear rap tunes with samples from my favourite hits from the 80's?

After a quick beverage service, a light dinner and even more "Pregos" than Hail Marys in a rosary, we were left to drift off to dream land- I myself had a seat that didn't recline, so I slept bolt upright with a map in my lap and lights blaring- It was Very Napoleonic.

Now a drink fit for a plane ride to Palermo!

The Fresh Hell!

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One Moretti Beer

One Ambien

Two more Moretti beers

Two ear plugs

Three Xanax

Three more Moretti Beers

Combine and pepper lightly with a few chapters of the writings of Dorothy Parker

Pass out accordingly, (with a certain style of course)

When you awaken say to those around you, "What fresh hell is this?"

Demand a warm towelette. (soaked in sarcasm and veiled threats preferably)

To be continued........