One Man Luge> Mango Airways

The air's in turmoil, the rain is soaking the land, and at 45,000ft we're above the worst of it.

We've been on the road for a few days now, travelling across the Heartland into foggy dirty skies of the LA basin and finally up to the northwest corridor where America hasn't yet been discovered.

We used to talk about alternative music, we made fun of the Starbucks junkies, and even threw a few cheap shots at the back country hicks that hadn't yet seen the light...

Between the snowy peaks and the Olympia river valley we let down our 42$M airplane at a place that hadn't seen a plane, much less a spaceship. Tom lent us his '73 suburban for the night. When Kristin asked him about gas prices and the middle east, exhaled from his cigarrette and pointed east towards the Cascades. "It was all so easy then," he began. Like a Kris Kristofferson song he continued, "you must be from New York." He hadn't shaved in over a week and his dickies weren't stained from coffee. "Your politics and your priorities come from those recycled newspapers I bet..."

A few hours and several drinks into the bag we put some more coins into the jukebox. The sawdust on the floor kept her DC shoes from overtaking the pint glasses clanking behind the bar. It was dimlit but the christmas lights brought of most of the gray hairs from Tom's beard.

"If gas goes to $10 a gallon, you're probably still need to go places, hell you might even do some walking like you should."

Her parent's DNA had done her favours and she didn't need to walk much like many of the Florida vacationers, but she smiled and responded quickly in a Brooklyn accent.

"Hell, you easterners complain about the weather, snow, ice, heatwaves, hurricanes, but you can't control em...hell, some kid in all black wearing trendy glasses is probably typing on his apple right now about the injustices of life in the middle east and CNN will run a spot tomorrow on how life across thousands of miles needs 15 minutes of your thoughts. How many times have you people ever just sat back and said, shit," he paused as he sipped his domestic beer, "we've got it pretty good here." He was looking at the Budweiser Clidesdales trotting through a wintry heaven on a bar poster.

Perhaps Tom had never taken a steamer to the Old Land, perhaps he didn't even own a TV, but we spoke that night about the elk and deer in the cascades and his weekly trek into the mountain lakes and streams. His life seemed so simple away from hollow politicians and the intracacies of world travels.

"You can't let these assholes rent space in your head, don't let the bastards get you down. Tomorrow you'll be 20 years older wondering why you never did the things you promised yourself back in your youth. You'll realize the world will always change, and some shit, you might not even agree with."

We smoked cigarrettes and drank dollar pints with people that plowed land, fished the streams of america and painted the american dream in a way we only sell in magazines and novels.

It was a late morning when we finally left, and as we drove back we passed a kid tossing papers into the suburbs. Kristin looked over at me and offered me a smoke, Dave in the back didn't smoke but he lit one up too. We rumbled down the road burning gas and cigarrettes as the sun rose without saying much, each with a quiet grin...I'm sure somewhere NPR was reporting the news but there was a empty hole where the stereo had once been....

-jake