LAST OF THE BIG-FUCKUPS

My pocket buzzes mid-pull of my vodka disguised in a coconut water carton. I pull the phone out and thumb-press the notification from British Airways, which then opens a portal into warning-world anxiety and the big reveal I’d been on watch for: Another Brian Jonestown Massacre tour is starting out in true Brian Jonestown Massacre fashion. For me at least, and in the name of saving a few tour budget bucks, I’ve booked a connecting flight in London en route to Berlin, which now will suddenly have me landing into Storm Éowyn, some type of new global-warming phenomenon they are calling a “bomb cyclone.” The airline would like to suggest that I change my plans if I can, I assume for the unspoken but most obvious reason that first springs to mind, but also the great possibility that I will join the thousands of stranded from the hundreds of flight cancellations at Heathrow.