August 20, 2012
It figures that the one bar next to Terminal C48 is a Sam Adams exclusive bar. I had to walk, once more, past all the suits, shit-heels, and eye-lookers to get to the next closest bar. [I'm weird because my luggage isn't rolling behind me?]
The best part about all of this: At the destination bar, I still managed to get my beer served in a Sam Adams glass! I ordered a real beer, not a Halloween costume. The only good thing about this is that the glass is bigger and therefore holds more beer than a standard pint glass. Touché, you Sam Adams bastards. I'll be wishing tonight as I drift into sleep that this glass breaks in the dishwasher.
This airport bar is typical:
Wax paper rustling, a baseball game, french fries begging for ketchup come as a side for every dish, oh, and the circus folk. Gnashing away at their food like savages; couples aren't speaking; Facebook eyes; sweat pants and big asses. People who think they are owed a drink because they came from "X" state and they're rooting for the right team. Get rid of your persona, blondie. I bet yr an English teacher or better yet, a ticket-ripper at the local cinema.
From my high-top table window seat, I watched a bag fall off one of the luggage carts in transit from concourse X to it's connection. It sat there on the pavement as 2, no 3, other maintenance and transport vehicles drove right past it and even around it. Suspicious package protocol? Got any?
"No one sees the bag? It's right there!" Instant bad day for someone.
Oh, here comes a luggage cart. What is it, 10 minutes later? [Looking at watch and rolling eyes]
This is who, and what, is handling your luggage. These people don't work together. Rather, they work for the all mighty $. Mere credits -- no intrinsic value. The only thing intrinsic is their drive for more credits. It's a dangerous loop of lifestyle day-to and day-from.
This is our airport security, or lack thereof.
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