And I'm on a train that's bound for Santa Fe

I finally got around to finding the hotel's "business center", which is essentially a closet on the 5th floor next to the elevators, and features a PC, a Mac, a phone, and a printer, with enough floor space for a single swivel chair. So, I'm thinking: if only one person can fit in here at a time, why two computers? Should I be typing with each hand on a different keyboard? While simultaneously printing something and calling somebody long distance? It's making me feel very unproductive. It really is.

New York is a very fine city, as usual. I'm slightly drunk. I had some wine in somebody's apartment, earlier, and it went to my head and stayed there. I have a thing about wine, where if I drink it, I get really drunk. More so than when I drink other liquor, I mean. And I'm a lightweight no matter what. So imagine what wine does to me.

I got back to my hotel room all tipsy and turned a few circles trying to find where I'd put my cell phone, because I wanted to call Marian. Being drunk makes me feel very social. Very chatty. Not that I need to feel social to call Marian, of course, but it doesn't hurt. Except that I may have been fairly obnoxious on the phone, and so forth. But it was a nice conversation anyway. Marian is nice. She draws comics.

The conversation inspired me to leave my room and seek out a computer, so here I am. People keep getting out of the elevator very loudly, in groups, and I'm slightly paranoid that they're going to see me in here and, I don't know, come in and ruffle my hair or something. Hotels make people weird. People that don't usually watch porn will watch porn in hotels, for example. Not that I've been watching porn. I've been watching FLIGHT PLAN and JARHEAD and MATCH POINT. The first two were stupid, though Jodie Foster is pretty hardcore and everything. Match Point was enjoyable. I'm sure you're very interested.

The trip. Right. New York. It's weird to-

Holy shit. The printer just made a whizzing sound at me and I practically jumped out of my chair, very slowly and all, on account of I'm drunk, but nonetheless. This closet I'm sitting in is pretty quiet. It's probably the only quiet place in the whole city, actually, and I let myself get used to it for a minute there and then the printer whizzed and sounded louder than a fucking freight train.

Where was I. Yeah. It's weird to be here in the spring. I'm usually here in the dead of winter, for some reason. I mean I've always been here when it's so cold that you can barely breathe when you step outside. I usually have to borrow a heavy winter coat and everything. Usually from Shannon. Now I'm here with Shannon and there are actually leaves on the trees, and it's incredibly hot. Not hot for New York, I know, but for me. Hot. I can still hardly breathe when I step outside, though, because the pollution is terrible. It's worse than it is in the winter, I think. I feel like an asthmatic. Vancouver spoils people with air quality, I think. I'm a pampered breather. I can't handle the truth.

Now I'm suddenly really tired. I'll try and come down here again tomorrow, all right? I'll try and post something more then. Something more about the trip. Because there's been more than just bad air and wine, I swear to god. Like, as I was telling Marian, I met some famous dogs the other night. Some fairly famous dogs. It's a fascinating story. Believe you me.