Heading south to Ft Lauderdale. Jackie has jury duty which means Kirby boy, Irish Terrier age 18, needs some looking after and I’m happy to be at hand. At the airport this morning, I did something dumb that I’ve done before. I somehow managed to cut my hand while grabbing my bag off the belt at TSA. Started bleeding. A lot. I tried stemming the flow by putting my hand in my mouth while trying to tie my shoes, put on my belt and juggle band-aids and Kleenex. I had this feeling that if I bled on my clothes or mask, I’d be marked by airport passengers and employees as “that poor man,” usually a guy who needs all kinds of assistance. I didn’t. I got the band-aids on. Looking at them now as I sail across the skies of the American southwest, they look as they should. Like they were put on by a one-handed man, rolled up at the ends, smeared with blood. Usually when I land in FL, Jackie and I head over to Bokampers for dinner and a g
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