Airport bars

Love ‘em.  Just love ‘em.  Alcoholics who can’t go two hours without a drink, the 50-year-old businesswoman who’s afraid of flying, the old guy in the corner on an oxygen tank but still tossing back scotch on the rocks.  It’s a better cross-section of drinkers than you’ll ever see anywhere else - in fact, they’re really the only bars that I’ll ever strike up a conversation with someone near me for no good reason.  I mean, why the hell not?  You’ll never see them again and you’re both probably bored as hell, nursing your $7 beers and wanting to kill the screaming child over in the corner where the family has taken up twice as much table space as they really need.

Flying up to see my moms and grandparents - always interesting.  I walked over to the SRQ airport, sweating like a pig because it’s 80 degrees or more outside and the sun’s beating down like a madman.  There’s a high of 45 in Maryland, a low around 25 and a fucking chance of fucking snow on Saturday.  Crazy fucking country where I can travel for two hours and drop 50 degrees or so in temperature.  I can only imagine what it must be like up in Maine.  Suck.