The boredom and robbery of air travel.

Bob Hope Airport (though nobody calls it that, everyone just says
"Burbank Airport"), San Francisco, Chicago O'Hare, not single smoking
room in any of these airports. I suppose it pays to travel through
the South. Tobacco's big business down there, so I'm sure they've
still got those stinky little smoke-filled aquariums in every terminal
and concourse. Connect through Vegas, and you've probably got access
to a full blown opium den and brothel for your layover.

These are things I really need to think about when I book my flights.

So what I've got to do is, I've got to follow the signs that say
"ground transportation" all the way to the door out onto the street.
Smoke two cigarettes, strip all the metal and shoes from my body, and
head on back through security to get back to my gate, to wait another
ninety minutes until they start boarding the plane.

Shit, ninety minutes? What could I do with ninety minutes if I
weren't trapped in airport terminal? Let me think about my last day
off...

Okay, so apparently with ninety minutes, I could read the first half
of every article in the latest Rolling Stone, drink nine beers, smoke
fourteen Newports, and not answer my phone eight times.

So I guess it's nor really wasting time if I really wouldn't have
gotten anything done with it anyway.

If they had one of those brothels here, though... Then I could get
something done in ninety minutes. That is, of course, if you include
the eighty-six minute, post-coital nap.