Airport biographies are usually true.

(I wrote this on June 23 at the airport.)

Airports always have businessmen doing weird things. I'm across from these 2 guys; both of them are on the same side of the table. Maybe it's because they're both looking at the laptop Mr A has open.
It has something to do with a phonecall, and a woman who may want 250,000 of something.
It may be helmets, or he may have asked Mr B if he wanted Hellman's for his burger.
But who says that, not mayonaise?
***
I'm feeling very Harriet the Spy right now, and also fully aware that, to the Belle and Sebastian uninitiated, my "The Life Pursuit" tshirt could be construed as vaguely religious.
***
Unlike last year, there's no copy of Spin in the newstand, and the latest copy of Lucky is taking its own sweet time to get to my house. I have nothing to read, and my shitty phone is saying digital roaming. I wanted to call Tiff and tell her about the Cathedral of Learning beer stein, and that I got her cds.
The light's too dim for my intended project.
My flight is late. 10 minutes before we were due to leave the airplane still hadn't left Atlanta.
Luckily, I had a bit layover in the ATL airport. Unfortunately, I'm now spending that time in this tiny airport. I wonder if Mr Parking Attendant will give me a ride in his golf cart.
I wonder if Mr Terminal Guy's supervisor knows he was spitting into a juice bottle while he answered my questions. Chewing tobacco-type spitted.