Monday, August 29, 2005

Please note that American Snapshots gladly accepts all submissions. Just email them to


Las Vegas Nevada, the "Shutters" bar within the Rio Hotel & Casino, 5:30am early Sunday morning:

Two extremely drunk 20something men sip $6 beers and discuss the fact that they both have flights out of Las Vegas coming up in the next few hours.

Man #1: "Dude, this flight is going to be so fucking painful.
Man #2: "The flight out of Vegas always sucks ass."
Man #1: "I wish there was some kind of, like, magical powder you could take where you could just wake up in a different place and have no memory of how you got there."
(long pause)
Man #2: "There is. It's called crystal!"

(laughter; high five)


Submission courtesy Scats:

In the magazine/cigarette shop one morning a tall, lanky, silver- haired, disheveled but not homeless looking man frantically waves a tattered copy of the NY Times, outraged and shouting:"Where's all the news that's fit to print?! Huh! I mean where the hell is it!?! Huh? HUH!?!"


Thursday, August 25, 2005

The intersection of La Cienega Boulevard and Century Boulevard, 9:45am. A large middle aged man in a "Breast Cancer Awareness" t-shirt stands on the concrete island dividing the North and Southbound lanes of traffic, holding a fistful of long plastic tubes filled with colored sugar. "Pixie Stix, bitches!" He shouts at cars stopped for the red light. "Two for one Pixie Stix!" As the light turns green and I begin to pull away, I see a woman in a black sedan extend her arm out her window and begin waving a five dollar bill at the man, who rushes into traffic to complete the sale.


Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Submission courtesy Blicero:

Matterhorn Lounge, Seven Springs. 1:15 a.m. Rock 'n' roll cover band (name unknown) playing to an audience of about 5. The following "banter" occurs between the lead singer/guitarist (a middle-aged man) and the keyboardist/backup singer (a woman in her late 30s).

Singer: I grew up on a farm. Raised chickens. We had this friend, one time we were out in the chicken coop, he dropped his chewing gum. Took him three tries to pick it up. (Laughs.)

Keyboardist: That went over my head.

Singer: After that we named him "Chicken Pud."

Keyboardist: I still don't get it. You're going to have to explain that one to me.


Keyboardist: (Laughs uncomfortably.) I don't get it. I'm a city girl.

(Buzz of feedback.)


Monday, August 22, 2005

Agoura Hills, California.
Transaction at the register of a Mini Mart at a 76 gas station.

Customer: "Pack of Marlboro Reds."
Cashier: $5.15, please."
Customer: "Oh, and a book of matches."
Cashier: "We don't have matches, but lighters are only .50 cents."
Customer: "But matches are free."
Cashier: "But most places charge a dollar for a lighter."
Customer: "Okay, fine, a blue lighter."
Cashier: "The blue ones are a dollar."


Tuesday, August 16, 2005

In one of the men's rooms of Chicago's O'Hare International Airport, somewhere between United gate B7 and an "Altitunes" shop, one might find a stall featuring the words "Columbine Ass Faggot" carved into the wall in large, rusty type.


August 14 - On a flight from Chicago to Los Angeles, I am jolted awake as the plane falls into a mini-tailspin. It's more than typical turbulence; the lights flicker, like in a disaster movie, and people begin screaming. A few of the overhead compartments fly open, which I fixate on as the roller-coaster sensation of gut-to-gullet kicks in (how in the hell did those open? Aren't they mechanically latched?). The whole thing lasts two seconds, tops, and we level off. The guy next to me, who is wearing a "Got Freedom?" t-shirt, turns on his cell phone and tries dialing a number. The pilot comes on and apologizes, saying that our plane crossed into the wake of another flight that they hadn't been made aware of. The last half-hour of the flight passes in complete silence, with the exception of a few sniffles and sobs from some traumatized passengers.
As the plane lands and begins to taxi, an impossibly perky stewardess grabs the p.a. and begins to speak:
"No extra charge for that fancy flying back there, as we welcome you to Los Angeles International Airport...," she says. Her speech is cut off abruptly, as a woman in the back of the plane hysterically screams "FUCK YOU!" at the top of her lungs. The chirpy flight attendant calmly puts the p.a. mic back in its cradle and sits down.

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