February 16, 2017:

Mister Salt and Pepper brings a bag of greasy fast-food onto the plane. In this confined space I can smell it three rows away. Dead cow, dead pig: and there he is stuffing fries down his throat with two fingers as he stands, dead-eyed, to let the middle seat pass.

It's two million degrees but Joe Urban has his hoodie up, gangsta style. Clearly he hopes to fly unrecognized. He's got his Beats on and he fills the entire aisle while boarding. I find myself maliciously hoping he'll sit next to Mister Salt and Pepper, but alas the universe has its own sense of humor.

I'm irritable, could use more sleep, feeling claustrophobic in this confined space where I can barely move and 6'4" is really not in the spec.

Thankfully the time change sees me home around noon. I'll treat myself to a salmon burger and still beat the traffic south. We'll consider that today's tiny reward for patience.