Skin, "Getting Away With It" (2003)
I'm off to the US for the Christmas vacation, and so, apparently, is everyone. The plane is a flying sardine can.
There are always a good twenty to thirty minutes before we land, when they turn off the movies on the inflight entertainment system, but the games remain functional. On one flight I play, almost mindlessly, about twenty games of Reversi. I have the option of competing against some equally bored fellow passenger, or against "the computer." Although I was hoping to figuratively kick the ass of the person sitting behind me, to repay him for the way he literally kept kicking mine, he -- and, for that matter, everyone else on the flight -- disappointingly wasn't logged on.
So I play against "the computer." Effortlessly, I win every single game, including three in a row when I totally wipe the computer off the board before we are even halfway through.
I think: I hope this isn’t the same genius “computer” which is flying the plane.
Upon landing, I have to undergo the increasingly complicated procedure of clearing customs. In addition to scrutinizing your passport and papers, for the past year or so they've also been taking your fingerprints and your photo. The latter is of course traumatic, because, seriously, the hair, after 20 hours on the plane?
This time, though, it's the fingerprints that present a problem. I place my left index finger on the little screen. "Hmm. Nothing's showing up,” the customs officer tells me.
“Well, I have fingerprints, last I check,” I think. What I say is: “Maybe my skin is dry. Should I moisturize?” Immediately I felt a little dirty saying it, but at least I didn’t choose the word “lubricate.”
He concurs, and so I reached into my travel bag and locate the hand lotion, rubbing some on my fingers. That did the trick, and I had an identity again. “Good call on the moisturizer,” the agent congratulates me. I don't trust myself to say anything else.
Today's music is Skin covering Electronic. There's a pun in there somewhere, but I'm too jetlagged to put my finger on it.
I'm off to the US for the Christmas vacation, and so, apparently, is everyone. The plane is a flying sardine can.
There are always a good twenty to thirty minutes before we land, when they turn off the movies on the inflight entertainment system, but the games remain functional. On one flight I play, almost mindlessly, about twenty games of Reversi. I have the option of competing against some equally bored fellow passenger, or against "the computer." Although I was hoping to figuratively kick the ass of the person sitting behind me, to repay him for the way he literally kept kicking mine, he -- and, for that matter, everyone else on the flight -- disappointingly wasn't logged on.
So I play against "the computer." Effortlessly, I win every single game, including three in a row when I totally wipe the computer off the board before we are even halfway through.
I think: I hope this isn’t the same genius “computer” which is flying the plane.
Upon landing, I have to undergo the increasingly complicated procedure of clearing customs. In addition to scrutinizing your passport and papers, for the past year or so they've also been taking your fingerprints and your photo. The latter is of course traumatic, because, seriously, the hair, after 20 hours on the plane?
This time, though, it's the fingerprints that present a problem. I place my left index finger on the little screen. "Hmm. Nothing's showing up,” the customs officer tells me.
“Well, I have fingerprints, last I check,” I think. What I say is: “Maybe my skin is dry. Should I moisturize?” Immediately I felt a little dirty saying it, but at least I didn’t choose the word “lubricate.”
He concurs, and so I reached into my travel bag and locate the hand lotion, rubbing some on my fingers. That did the trick, and I had an identity again. “Good call on the moisturizer,” the agent congratulates me. I don't trust myself to say anything else.
Today's music is Skin covering Electronic. There's a pun in there somewhere, but I'm too jetlagged to put my finger on it.
posted by Brittle-Lemon at
6:21 PM
2 Comments:
not so sure about this cover. This is far too dramatic, and i enjoy the non-dramatic-ness of Electronic.
I really love Electronic (and not only because of the NO connection), one of the truly underrated bands.
Do you like that song because of PSB or do you like some other stuff Electronic stuff?
My favourite Electronmic moment is the crazy instrumental break in dark angel
By
Anonymous, at 7:23 PM
I like Electronic. *Whispers* On some days I think I like them even more then NO; at the very least I think their first album is my favorite NO-related product.
My favorite Electronic song is probably "Some Distant Memory," because of the fantastic opening line, and the wonderful ending.
By
Brittle, at 11:34 PM
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