The Tamale Lady

There is an old woman who travels the Tucson bar scene late in the evening hawking her wares to unsuspecting patrons. She peddles that savory Mexican desire of every drunk's heart - the tamale, six for six dollars (minimum purchase: 6). Though tempting, this is not a pleasure I recommend indulging in prior to an international flight.

Despite my intestinal protests, I did manage to get some sleep on the plane to Heathrow. The conscious portion of the flight was for the most part uneventful - I ruined season 1 of Dexter for myself by watching the first three episodes of season 2, and when we landed, the roof sprung a leak and dripped water all over my head and shirt. Luckily I am sporting a double layered reversible garment and the transition to the backup side was seamless.

Now I'm stuck in London (I know it's London because while we were circling I spotted the giant ferris wheel) for seven hours. I paid 5 pounds to have Internet but I packed my outlet adapters in my checked baggage and my computer is like an electricity vampire that hasn't fed in weeks (alternate Star Wars analogy - my computer is like a mynok). This is causing me to regret bringing only books I should read instead of books I actually want to read.

In Soviet Russia, Internet blogs you.