Beer grease

Sitting here at Gate C-17 in Chicago O'Hare, 6:07 AM local time, 4:07 AM my time, patiently awaiting my connecting flight to Cleveland, less patiently awaiting the return of circulation to my extremities. In about 4 hours I'll meet up with workshopmates Mary and Sandra and Sarah, and then we ride in a car to a ferry which takes us to an island in Ohio, where there will even more mateys.

Hope the airline doesn't lose my bag, cuz it contains about 1,000 pages of marked-up manuscripts. It also contains some clean shirts, one of which I should like to change into since I got Sausage McBiscuit grease (or McSausage Biscuit, or Sausage Biscuit McGrease, or whatever, it was yummy) on the shirt I'm wearing.

Air travel is weird, but not as weird as time zones. It was just a few hours ago that I was killing time in a bar at Sky Harbor, nursing a Fat Tire. And now here I am with breakfast grease on my shirt. Makes me feel so 23.

Anyway, the Suns are up on the Clippers 2-1 in the Western Conference Semi-Finals, and Go, Suns!

I haven't slept in about 22 hours. I am so going to crash.