A quick word before getting on my plane to Los Angeles, to connect to another plane to San Francisco, on my way home to what we fondly refer to as B-town in our gangsta way.
I’m in a small food court here in the American Airlines terminal. Its crowded. Lots of laptop computing going on. Starbucks is doing a good business. So’s Cinnabon and the place across the way that’s selling Michelob Ultra. An older (than me) middle-aged couple sits across the table from me with their coffees, unwrapping a couple of sweaty and deflated-looking sandwiches from Subway. “That looks like salami to me,” she says to him. They swap. I’m not letting them in on the fact they’re being quoted, for the record.
Behind them, a bearded young guy in a black hooded sweatshirt, black-and-white do-rag, black roadster cap and a stud in his lower lip sits with ear buds in place, sipping from his Michelob and reading a paperback. He looks focused.
That’s all for this post. Time to get on the plane.