I boarded the plane, huffing and sweating but beyond relieved to have my “entertainment bag” back on my person, squinting my way along the length of the aircraft. I found my seat only to discover someone already sitting in it. It was a rotund, moon-faced woman wearing a knit cap that was too small for her head. “Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder, very gently. It was obvious that the woman was faking sleep, her eyes shut tight as she no doubt prayed to her gods with all her might that I–the window-seat occupant–would not show up…
This is the eighth and final level of the Big City levels, which means I’ll be leaving the urbana, i.e. the trash cans, behind after today. What sort of new milieu lies ahead? Who knows. This is also one of those once-every-four-levels boss fights with Donkey Kong. First impressions of today’s level: it’s a fairly traditional-looking level. It has three tiers of girders, Pauline (screaming, per usual) at the top, Kong in the middle, and Mario (me) at the very bottom. Let’s begin. (more…)
After squinting my way through security and customs, and after breaking the record for the fastest consumption of a $9 Whopper at an airport Burger King in history, I reported to my departure gate, gave my ticket to the attendant, then began my long walk down always-shaky enclosed jetway towards the plane. Which, if you’ve been following along, is the moment when I realized that something didn’t quite feel right. And that something, of course, was that one of my bags–specifically my shoulder bag–was no longer on my person. (more…)
[If you’re new here, 1. welcome, 2. get yourself up to speed by going back to Day 1 where I explain why I’m playing 101 levels of Donkey Kong in 101 days. You good? OK. Let’s move on.]
At the eleventh hour, I finally decided to make the three thousand mile trek back home, eyes be damned. The day of my Christmas flight, I packed my mismatched socks and my various bottles of prescription eyedrops into a suitcase. Then I put on my Ronnie James sunglasses and went down to the street to make one last-minute holiday shopping trip around the city. (more…)
Feeling more doomed and blind by the second, I rang the doctor’s office in the hope of procuring some answers and/or getting to yell at some people. I got a woman on the phone who spoke in either an Australian or English accent, I couldn’t be sure which. I tried yelling at her, but it didn’t work. Everything she said to me sounded like science fiction. (At one point she mentioned potentially putting tiny implants into my eyes to stimulate the tear ducts.) All of this, naturally, only made me feel more blind and sorry for myself. “Can’t I just…
After the surgery, I donned the pair of retirement home-style sunglasses that were inside my recovery kit and went home to begin what I was certain would be a glorious convalescence. I got into bed straight away, anxious to start listening to one of my audio books–Swamplandia by Karen Russell–and sleep and do nothing for several days. “All right, eyes,” I said to my eyes. “Go ahead and get busy healing.” (more…)
Having the Clockwork Orange eye-spreader thing in my eye feels as if an oversized butterfly with sandpaper for wings has flown into my eye and decided to breakdance there. No, it is not a nice feeling. But I knew, in advance, that it would not be a nice feeling. So what I keep telling myself once the eye-spreader is in is this: The sooner I make my peace with letting the butterfly do its breakdance, the sooner this will be over. Also, if you are contemplating having corrective eye surgery, do yourself a favor: move on with your day and do…
When you try to get off a plane what happens is this: the agent at the gate, a man with carefully coiffed hair and tired eyes, asks for your boarding pass back. That’s the only way he will allow you to return to the airport. (more…)
No, it was not the greatest of holiday seasons for me this year. The holidays are never easy for people at my station in life, i.e. the people who do not have families of their own, the people who now reside on the opposite coast from where they were brought up. I did what I always do: I flew the 3,000 miles back to Upstate New York. Not because I necessarily wanted to, but because I had nothing better to do. And because I don’t have enough guts to tell my 65-year-old mother that I’m not coming home. And because part…
