Upsetting
Saturday, December 14, 2002
 
Someone screamed, “John Barleycorn must die.”

I thought we were going to have a riot on our hands. People ran around me everywhere, trying to get into security lines at the airport. Everyone talking on cell phones, queued up to eternity, their suitcases on the sidewalks outside. The cops told them they couldn’t stand there, but they couldn’t stand there, either.

Again, someone cried, “John Barleycorn must die.”

Bono looked at me from TIME magazine on the newsstand. He was wrapped in an American flag. It’s funny, but I always though he was from Ireland. Maybe he just used an accent. It seems that he’s an American, hanging out at the Super Bowl.

My trip was not important for all of that, the frustrated people still complaining about the security at the airport. Maybe the same people who said the airlines should’ve done more, were too parsimonious to protect their passengers.

I left. I didn’t want to be around it.

Later, incongruously, I found out that it was only the title of an old Traffic record:

“John Barleycorn must die.”

I set out to find out why.
 
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