DFW

I’m writing this from the international terminal at the Dallas/Ft Worth International Airport. I’m not flying anywhere exotic, unless you count the tofu-fueled lefty weirdos in San Francisco exotic, but I do always head to the international terminal whenever connecting through DFW, which is all the time. 

It angers me how well I know this airport. Today, as I’m bumping along in the Skylink en route to said international terminal, I say out loud to no one in particular, “Jesus Christ, I know this goddamn airport better than the place I’m legally obligated to serve jury duty.” I hate that I know the grilled salmon at Wolfgang Puck’s money grab in Terminal D’s the best on offer. I hate that I know the international terminal’s exponentially more chill than its domestic counterparts, which is why I’m here, writing this thing, at the same fucking powering station, the same stool in fact, where I always sit, twice a month (on average) for the past however many years. I hate that I’m so transparently privilaged and officially THAT asshole - sipping a five dollar coffee while fingers that’ve never known real work tappity-tap one percenter lamentations into unnessary existence. Sigh. 

But I do like what’s in my current line of sight - 7 Eleven. How does the saying go? High fructose corn syrup hath charms to soothe the savage beast? Guy Fieri said that, I think.  

Anyway. BottleRock Festival tomorrow in Napa, first big rock show in a while. Looking forward to enjoying a little vino and having Ryan "Bear" Drozd tell me what to do.