January 9, 2008

Warm on the tarmac

At this point, the only thing to do about male fanny packs is shake your head.

There it goes now, cutting through the land of unlimited amusement - the airport. In my mind, I've filled books with airport observations.

Like the man with the long stride. That's his wife, there. She has tight, worried, marching band steps.

And the woman over there, the one with the pink face and baby in her arms, she thinks the baby is getting heavy but doesn't know who just stole the luggage cart she waited so long to get. (I saw the old lady take it.)

And some guys don't belong in the airport. One wears a beard, a winter coat and a fishing hat. Another has a brown suit. They don't belong, because they're not carrying a thing.

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