The Freewheelin' Bob...uh...Gordon

Since my first year of college, I have not lived in the same place for more than a year. Yes, I lived in Berkeley for five years, but I went through the annoying process of packing and unpacking all my stuff at the bookends of every school year. I never had the chance to create years of memories in a single house. As soon as one place started to feel comfortable, June would hit us in the face and shake us out. We packed up our hobo bundles and, hitchhikers' thumbs up, ambled down the street to look for yet another place to sleep for the next year. It was always pretty unsettling.

Corporate Whoredom

Let's see how many of you are screaming "bloody sellout!" at the monitor by the end of this.

I'm currently sitting in SFO's brand-spankin' new Terminal 2, waiting to go back home to the medical library. The terminal itself is well-organized and just chock-full of that Bay-Area-smug-hubris that we know and love. Holla, Virgin America: slick purple lighting? Personal satellite TV and games?  Actual leg room? Welcome to the Mile High Nightclub. As Tom Haverford would say, "I have two questions for you. One, are you ready for the investment opportunity of a lifetime? And two, do any of you have pacemakers or a history of epilepsy?" (Because you know I'm gonna be looping the music video to 'Ye's "All Of The Lights" over and over while on that plane.)