2001-01-03 - Night
The air stinks of brush-fire today. A couple of thousand acres out in East County went up in flames this morning and now the sky is stained an eerie, it�s-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it-and-I-feel-fine shade of brownish orange. So what do I do? I go to Krispy Kreme.
OK, now I know--sort of--what all the fuss over Krispy Kreme is about. See, I�m not a big fan of donuts in general. I�ll pig out on them when they�re put in front of me, but then I make myself sick (fat-induced nausea immediately, sugar-induced migraine an hour later) and I avoid them for the next six months. But my friends who grew up in the South would sell their grandmothers into slavery for a hot glazed, the Krispy Kreme hype in San Diego has been deafeningly loud, and I�m basically a marketing slut at heart. So, off I went.
The good:
* The cool donut maker assembly-line. Just watching it makes me want to bust out into the Oompah-Loompah song.
* The donuts themselves. OK, they�re not manna from heaven, but they�re pretty damn tasty as donuts go--much lighter than the sugarcoated bricks of fat you find at Winchell�s.
The bad:
* The coffee. Weak, weak, weak. And why do fast-food places insist on superheating their coffee to lip-blistering temperatures? Is it to disguise the taste, or lack thereof?
* The six-year-old kid with the flu who sat staring at me from the next table. Dear Parents: Letting your kids gawk at crippled people is rude. Letting them gawk while their faces are covered with a translucent paste of snot and donut glaze is just gross.
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Check out the lamest music list ever. In what evil parallel universe are the Mighty Mighty Bosstones considered a punk band? Who did Blink-182 suck off to get ranked above the Stooges and Black Flag? Or is this just one of those Internet-based reader�s-choice lists like the one for authors that deemed Ayn Rand greater than Shakespeare?
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Apparently DFW isn�t the only airport designed by retarded chimpanzees on crack. To get from the parking lot to Terminal 1 at Lindbergh Field you have to go up an elevator, across a footbridge spanning eight lanes of traffic, and down another elevator to the baggage claim area. This is all well and good--unless you use a wheelchair, the out-of-town visitor you�re meeting at the gate also uses a wheelchair, and BOTH ELEVATORS ARE OUT OF ORDER.
Anyway, that�s another way of saying I�ll be busy entertaining this week and may not be writing much. Unless our escapades are noteworthy, in which case I�ll post something. Or not.
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