If I had any chance of watching anything other than The Pacifier (I’m finally going to watch Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?) on the flight from Denver to Boston, I needed to charge my notebook. And since it’s already plugged in, I caved and shelled out the $8 to write this rambling missive.
Overall, the Denver airport seems very nice. It’s the most modern one I’ve ever been to. However, apparently no one abides by mountain time here and nearly everything was closed when I arrived at 9:30 local time. I was hoping to eat something, as is my custom, but had to settle for two beers at the one place that was still open. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but I had about a month’s worth of beer last night and my abused body could use some vitamins or maybe a vegetable or two.
Lastly, most of you probably know that I am a very tiny man. I don’t fly very often, but I am certain that economy seats have shrunk to masochistic sizes. My knees were touching the seats in front of me, and the doughy rolls of the fatty sitting next to me were touching me. It was so awful that I, Mr. Dirt-Poor-Cartoonist, sprang for the upgrade to United’s economy plus, featuring five whole extra inches of bliss.
I’ll quit with the babbling now, before the heat from my laptop fries any future McFaddens who are travelling in my undercarriage. (That’s fancy talk for “balls.”)