I don’t get out much anymore. Today, though, for the first time in quite a while, I’m flying. As I write, I’m en route to Louisiana on a press junket. I will spend the next four days eating my way through Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

Since I was going out in the world, hobnobbing with my peers, justifying the faith the Louisiana tourism people have in me, I wanted to brush off the dust and reassert my sophisticated urban self. I futzed with my hair, put on my hipster jeans, and headed for the airport.

Knowing I’d have to take off my shoes at the security check-in, I wore the suede clogs I leave by the door to slip on when I leave the house. When I got to the conveyor belt at the check-in, I slipped them off and put them in one of those gray bins provided for the purpose. That’s when I noticed the walnut-sized glob of chicken poop sticking to the heel.

Seems you can’t take the sticks out of the girl.

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