Parachutes

Ah, the great American delay. You read me, dear reader, as I sit stranded in San Jose awaiting my flight home to Phoenix. I look forward to a revamp of the whole sky-travel system. One small break in the chain and the whole operation collapses; a few minutes extra here can cost hours, if not days, there. Fortunately, Burger King is no stranger to the local food court and I'm testing the new "Angry Whopper", as opposed to the original, calm whopper. It's only angry, so far as I can see, because of the addition of bacon and jalapenos, which I promptly removed, making, I suppose, a subdued whopper, but a whopper none the less. It's strange that my last two posts should come from airports on either end of my journey. Airports have the tendency to dull the synapses somewhat, so I've no idea whether my prose is at all discernible. I'll have to wait until I've reached a more pleasurable and assiduous setting to review, at which time I'll delve deeper into what I have to say (the whole whopper thing was a bit forced, don't you think?). Prepare yourself for notes from the underground of world swimming, including the defeat of Micheal Phelps following those weird cigarettes.