Few things are more eerie than trundling through a Las Vegas casino at 5 a.m. while a vacuum cleaner whines in the distance and every few hundred feet you pass some poor, solitary Midwesterner sitting at the slots, trying to coax a fortune from the blinking lights. What happened to all the shouting and jingling chaos that filled the place three hours ago?
(BTW: If you must play the slots, I’ve found The Munsters is your best bet. Between Marilyn and Grandpa, everything will be alright …)
During a recent layover en route to Albuqueruqe, I’m sitting at the food court in the E concourse of the Atlanta airport, wolfing down a burger while a man in a suit plays Christmas carols on a piano amid throngs of somber business travelers and military men in fatigues. There’s something horribly morose and sad about the scene, and all I can do is hope those soldiers are heading home and not overseas …
After several smooth trips, including notice that for the first time I’ve flown enough miles to earn frequent flier status on two airlines, Texas has proven my downfall.