Good share.
An airport.
Like a hog farm, like a landfill, like a graveyard.
Has to go somewhere.
An airport has to go somewhere.
So why not here?
I nominate you and you and me to roil in our respective beds
while the planes fly so low overhead we
can tell what makes they are, the yowl of the Airbus,
the Boeing's gregorian roar.
At least they drown out the rest of this inexcusably
human night.
Long-necked bottle greeting the side of a passing car,
strange chanting, fist fight too close to the tracks,
the neighbors with their non-stop innovation
in the arena of sex offender registry drinking games.
View the mug shot, guess the offense.
Drink the shot if you're wrong.
11 men in 10 locations, guess which two guys split a duplex?
Drink a shot if you're wrong.
Plug in the ocean in order to find out
if anyone's currently in the ocean
and if you consequently should avoid it.
Do you think you should avoid it?
Drink a shot if you're wrong.
Drink while you can because I heard from a dead guy
there's no alcohol in heaven.
I also heard no alcohol on Earth.
If you're drinking right now, buddy, you're in hell.
Boston has-- there's a lively conversation about airplane
noise and which neighborhoods sort of bear the brunt of it.
And that is a real detail that I read in the paper
that people who live in East Boston, which
is very close to the airport, can identify the type of plane
that is going by.