AA2260 BOS PHX 0604 0917 738 15A
For some reason, probably price, I booked a nonstop.
It had been some weeks since I'd flown, and when I
got to Logan I found that American had taken itself
out of the second part of terminal B and reunited
with the the formerly US Air operations at gates
B4 to 18. The Uber guy hadn't got the program (can't
blame him, neither had I), and I found myself staring
at a big empty spot where the counters used to be. An
extra five minutes and I was at the new and improved
facility, where the checkin machine and PreCheck both
took several times longer than before.

I didn't want to pay for an upgrade on a breakfast
flight, so Bonnie packed me a bag of her molasses
crinkles, which on the uneventful trip I munched
with the aid of the free Woodford Reserve on the
rocks, of which, being in Main Cabin Extra I was
entitled to unlimited quantities of (I ended up
with only two and then settled for Coke).

My seatmates were a pleasant couple who got their
Extra seats because she worked for the airline. They
were on their way to a baby shower for a grandchild
or something. Our occasional fragmentary chats were
pretty entertaining and kept the time going. We
landed, bumpily, quite a bit early.

Swisher showed up in his shiny new white 2009 Mercedes with
its 380 HP engine; it's one of those Honestly, officer,
I had no idea I was going that fast cars. We were going
to Little Miss BBQ, but when we found it there was a line
out the door and down the block; unfortunately, I'd done
the FIDO instead of scoping out plan B restaurants, so we
decided to pick up some beer at the local Fry's and then
go straight to our hotel, the Homewood Suites Phoenix-Metro
Center, which despite its name is not in the center of
anything. A jolly desk clerk informed us that our room
wasn't going to be available until 3, which was a bit of
a disappointment but gave us some hours to tour the
neighborhood, which is very unprepossessing, an ocean of
strip malls with the occasional island of industrial park.
At some point he spied Giant Pizza and Deli, and decided
he had a hankering for a slice, and I could always get a
meat sandwich. But there was the economics of the situation
- a slice and a soda was $5; sandwiches were like $8+; but
a 14" pie was $11 with sodas a buck and change apiece. We got
a whole one, plus sausage topping and two Dr. Peppers, $17,
so that was 8 slices for the price of 3. We ended up eating
5. It took a good long time - when we put in our order, the
place was deserted, but people kept coming in and picking
up to-go orders; the delay was almost welcome. When the pizza
came, it was: a big, thin but somewhat yeasty bready crust
brushed before baking with garlic butter (actually I believe
mostly margarine), a lot of quite tasteless cheese, a decent
very overpeppered sauce, and lots of crumbles of breakfast
sausage. It wasn't really bad but benefited much from the
red pepper and oregano shakers. There was also a cheese powder
shaker if you wanted that. We munched slowly, taking the
remains with us, but when we got back, there was still an hour
to go. So we found a shady parking spot and broke out the
beer; Modelo Especial for him and Natty Daddy for me. I'd
thought Natty Daddy was a double can of Natty Boh, which I
hadn't tasted in at least 40 years, but it turns out it was a
repackaging of A-B Natural Light Ice, a truly bottom-shelf
wino product whose label used to brag a 6% ethanol content.
So it's this sweetish adjuncty low-class Budweiser that
smells of corn and alcohol. And, wonder of wonders, it now is
more boozy than ever, sporting 8%, falling well into the
territory of what used to be called "malt liquor." So $2 gets
you a can with the alcohol equivalent of 4 regular beers. I
found out that it's nasty by itself but the leftovers go well
with the leftovers of that rather overspiced pizza.

Swisher also brought treats from the west - chicharrones from
the Mexican store at Lake Havasu, which were bizarrely salty
but interesting, the very hard crisp bubbly skin attached to
a substantial dose of well-marbled pork belly that had the
texture of almost jerky. Contrast the chicharrones from Food
City, which were the standard skin-only snack food, only
fresher and more judiciously salted than any I've had in a
long time.

After all that it was naptime. By the time Bill managed to arouse
me from my stupor, it was 8:30, so we'd have had to hustle to
find anything to eat, but neither of us was particularly hungry,
and so we just hung around the hotel with our beer.
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