On our way back from spring break vacation in Florida, we had a layover in Kansas City. Tired from having spent a day of frenzied fun at Disney World and a sleepless night stacked up in beds and couches at my brother Eddie’s house in Orlando, we chose to have breakfast near our gate at what I’d call an adult theme restaurant. No, it was not a strip bar or establishment promoting the moral complexities of the death penalty; the focus of the joint was drinking. It was named something like Tequila’s or Boilermaker’s, and everywhere we looked there were flashing lights or colorful signs promoting beer served in fishbowls or orgasmic tropical drinks that hit you like a mini-tsunami. But the establishment was clean, well lit, and did offer breakfast burritos, so we entered.
My wife, Lala, guided us to a table in the corner, away from the biker duo gulping Bud in quarts; the 4 women sipping on Bloody Marys, celery stalks serving as nutrition; and the older couple nursing Manhattans (in the proper glassware I might add). These patrons were here to do some serious drinking, even though it was only 10 in the morning.
Just then, on the TV hovering over us, we heard a familiar strain of music. Like well-trained American consumers, all four of us jerked our heads toward the heavens. Bodies sprayed with spandex backflipped across the screen followed by a throng of short people dressed in plastic heads that are supposed to resemble children but end up looking like the kids My Size Barbie would never dream of playing with.
London jumped. This was his favorite show, LazyTown, one of the strangest children’s programs ever produced. For those neophytes who spend their Saturday mornings hiking, playing soccer or other less cultural activities, LazyTown centers on a girl with a cotton candy bob named Stephanie who stumbles upon a town where the kids do nothing but eat lollipops, play video games, and suffocate inside their rubber costumes. The hero is named Sportacus who sings and does silly little backflips like Ricky Martin if he was an Anglo gymnast. There’s a villain named Robbie Rotten who stole Jay Leno’s chin and spends most of the thirty minutes shaking his fist and wondering about his career choices. That pretty much sums it up.
As the show opened, the channel changed to ESPN where, at that unwatchable hour, they were featuring a Prussian miniature golf tournament. London hung his head. I hung mine too. I knew that such dashed hopes in a three-year-old boy would make this meal miserable and me wanting to drink from the giant promotional Cuervo bottle in the corner holding up the ceiling. I scooped London into my arms and walked to the bar.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
A shot and a beer, I thought, but said, “Is there any way to change the channel on just one television?”
“Nope, change one, change ‘em all. Why?”
“Well, you just turned off my son’s favorite show.” I turned to London who had his head buried deep in my armpit.
“Well, we’re supposed to keep it on sports. What’s the show called?”
“LazyTown.”
The bartender checked his customers; none of them was even remotely interested in the entertainment part of the program. Most were staring deep into a glass or what must have seemed like miseries, delayed or in a holding pattern. In those slumped bodies, I saw how relevant the name of London’s show was to a group getting loaded around the time where most citizens have their first or second cup of coffee.
“Oh, what the heck,” the guy said and grabbed his remote, changing the screen from kelly green to a host of fruity colors and synth music reminiscent of an Icelandic chewing gum commercial.
“Dad, I am so happy,” London said and raised both fists in the air. “LazyTown!” He leapt to the floor and ran back to our table where he would dance our layover away. As for me, I was happy to watch two sides of Airport America festively kill time: one with a jig and the other with a swig.