Here I am at the McCarren International Airport in Las Vegas, leeching. Alone I walk the crowded concourses of the night in search of that magic. I can smell it. It draws me near. I plug in. I feed. I am the energy vampire.

Five hours to kill in this airport I now know so well. And in knowing it, I know all airports, because airports exist in their own homogeneous space, like mini malls. Slowly more and more parts of the world are becoming annexed by this realm, but airports alone are fully encompassed by it. DFW, LAX, LVX, RNO, NRA, Islip... all the same null place. No there here and vice versa.

I like the space behind the pillar better than this bench by the starbucks. The other plug-in is up by maintenance on the third floor. There's also one by the restrooms before you get to C gates. There should be war chalking for plug-ins.

I had every intention of going to the 24-hour fitness. I even packed my gym stuff separate, but skiing today wore me out. I'm learning to telemark. No, that doesn't mean I've memorized a series of conversation scripts designed to waste your time, it's a kind of skiing where only one's toes are connected to the skis. One turns by getting down on one knee repeatedly, and if necessary, genuflecting. It's like aerobic marriage propasal training. What's the point? Beats me but it sure is frustrating. And tiring.

Luckily I have these five hours to kill in this airport to rest before I get on a plane and sit for five hours.