I spent the weekend with my best friend Melanie (of the nonexistent mammaj sector of rchoochoo’s parent blog, mammajrchoochoo) seeing Paramore and Fall Out Boy perform at the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater. I fanatically wept my eyeliner-smudged eyes out the entire time alongside angsty 14 year-old girls with their hair died red like Hayley Williams’ (though her hair was in fact dyed blue for the concert) and moms who still get a kick out of tormented boy bands. As a particularly devoted Fall Out Boy Obsessed Fan (TM), I’d completely forgotten that Paramore was playing as well, so I was all the more frenzied when they arrived on stage presumably unannounced.
The weekend had to end with my return to my home in NorCal, so I headed to the airport with a rainbow carry-on full of dirty laundry and empty bottles from the party on my flight down, and rolled into the Virgin America terminal at LAX. I was still wiped from all my impassioned screaming the evening prior, and took a few sips of absinthe to prepare myself for the impending party on the flight up. My manner of speech immediately degenerated to that characteristic of my generation, and I was like “dayummm” because why the hell not.
But I was met with a surprise — at security, the guys were totally not cool with the flask of absinthe I was (inconspicuously!) keeping in my leg garter and took it away, even when I told them it was a partywarming gift for Virgin America Flight 945, emphasis on ‘Virgin America’, which I’d read from my confirmation was supposed to be a totally kickin’ flight. With a look of disgust, the guard took my flask and my garter and irritably told me to go away.
When I got into the terminal, I understood. We were sharing it with other airports. I was like “this place is definitely not the future” because there were no purple lights and I definitely didn’t feel like I wanted to dance and there was a Burger King obtrusively sitting exactly where I’d thought there’d be a Pinkberry. American Airlines clientele complained about poor customer service and Southwestern flyers contemplated what seat they were going to choose and Iceland Air goers were concerned that they were in the wrong place. I was all, ugh. The ragers of Virgin America were forced to mix with uncool children, financial consultants and, worst of all, basics. I had to take a hit from the joint behind my ear to take it all in. (Security promptly took it away, wondering how they’d missed it to begin with.)
My mom texted me and I told her that LAX is totally not a party, and is definitely not the future, and that I felt really awkward being so young, wild, and free in the midst of so many uncool people. Mom assured me that the party onboard would have tons of designer drugs and we’d all end up having a pretty rad time.
I get onboard and I’m immediately calmed by the blonde woman in first class wearing a baby blue Juicy Couture jumpsuit. The disco lights are flashing vividly and there’s already a row of three people making out with one another.
But then the pilot announces that San Francisco Airport is being “totally not chill” and “defs not a bro” so we’re gonna have to stay on the tarmac and party here instead. So we’re all having a blast chillin’ with the pilot and his blow-up autopilot, and then this uncool baby starts loudly singing the alphabet and we’re, like, definitely not stoned enough to enjoy it so we all boo the baby (except for that one guy who yells “Encore!” at the end). And I’m all like, “That baby needs to take a chill pill” and luckily at least 10 people brought some.
So while I’m hotboxing with the bros in the cockpit, we get this idea in our head that LAX is super lame, and that we “would definitely not do again.” And then the pilot is so crossfaded that he announces to the cabin that he has “no fucking clue” when we’re gonna take off, but that he’s “super pissed about whatever’s going on” and “sorry, bros.” By that time we’re all pretty high so we all just go “wow”.
The plane starts taking off at some point, even though the pilot is sipping Chardonnay with the homies up in first class. The flight attendants holler out that we should feel free to get up and move about the cabin, except I’m cornered between two Silicon Valley innovators who just went to Comic Con and want to talk about how long they’re going to stand in line for the iPhone 6. They start going on about all the tourist attractions they’ve just come from in LA, and then one guy is showing the other a picture of himself with Sheryl Sandberg, and I’m screaming out “NOT COOL” and tripping so hard I’ve gotta close my eyes.
Everyone gets off the plane feeling super lame and even the baby has not the heart to continue singing the alphabet. LAX: 0 stars out of 7
Read about how I act in a different universe at mammajrchoochoo.wordpress.com