Tucking In: Thoughts at the Atlanta Airport

I'm two hours into my eight hour layover in the venerable Atlanta airport and, well, there is no end in sight. I spent as much time as humanly possible in the nearby Chili's, and having exhausted my concupiscense for soggy french fries and sunrise margaritas I decided it was time to save a little face and move to the terminal. I can't eat in a Chili's anymore without thinking of The Office. Sadly, there were no Dundies handed out and the closest thing to Jim Halpert was my androgynous waiter named-- interestingly-- Hal. I can't look at "Awesome Blossom" on the menu without cracking a huge, goofy smile (Meghan? Can we get an awesome blossom? Extra awesome?).

I've been travelling since 5:45 this morning, a fact which wouldn't bother me so much except that I am not moving any closer to Scotland; I just keep crawling south and west. I feel further away from home now than I do in St. Andrews. People in airports are always staring and wiping their noses, and the fact that I'm carrying a banjo is something that strangers find endlessly entertaining.

[Side note: I bought myself a banjo for Christmas. Turns out it's easier than the mandolin. Who knew? I fancy myself something of a banjo wizard after a week or so, and it is only a matter of time until my uncle and I go on the road as a family band. Anyways, I'm bringing it back to St. Andrews with me. Why? Comedy, I guess, and because the sun sets really early and I've got to have something to do besides read about furniture and apply to grad school... and party like mad, of course.]

Here I am with my sweet new axe:
Ok, maybe not. But close. I got the rhythm.

I'll include this picture as well because it makes me laugh. I'm taking bets on what this fellow's name might be. I'm thinking something along the lines of "Goat" or "Jezebel." Thoughts? Additionally, he might be my dream man:


Running a Google image search for "banjo" is pure comedy gold. Here's one more for good measure:

Nice to meet you, the name's Jezebel.

So anyways, turns out the banjo is a great conversation starter for mentally deranged men at the airport (and it is always men). Examples:

"That's a HUGE tennis raquet! You got some long arms or what?"
"You gonna play us something? How about DELIVERANCE!? Har har har!"
"Damn, banjo! You my banjo girl? You like the banjo-jo?" (admittedly, this one could have been a little different. I'm not sure. It was in passing on the motorized walkway.)
"You can just set yer banjo right thar, hang out a while! I used to tour with Doc Watson, ya know." (At this point I say really? and he says, no, not really, har har har!)

I've got the banjo-jo at my feet now. I'm tempted to pull it out and practice (I've got the FEVAH!) -- but even though I'm in a deserted corner of B terminal I don't want to risk it. There's a guy with a blonde comb-over in a pair of cowboy boots waaaaay over to my left and adding banjo to that mix might be recipe for disaster.

More later.