One week in New York, spent at a tradeshow. One day home, spent at the office. Three days in Las Vegas, spent at another tradeshow. My body is bloated from oily buttery meaty restaurant food and my mind is mush from business speak and hotel television. But now I'm home and thanking the gods. Home is quiet time at night and in the morning. Home is my books and desk. Home is real food and water that doesn't come in a bottle. Home is my bed and my pillows. Home is California, where there is a real ocean, actual trees, and the hills always watching over us like guardian angels. Home is Los Angeles, where the sidewalks are not packed with fast-walking, tense-faced assholes shoving you out of the way. Yes, home is Los Angeles, where the sidewalks are in fact blissfully empty. Home is family just a few miles away. Home is the hope that someday very soon I might actually have time to see that family.
You know the thing about New York? It's exciting, it's full of things to do, it's got great restaurants - no doubt. But it's a fucking stressful place to be. New Yorkers in Los Angeles always complain that nobody walks here and nobody interacts and I say, that's right, goddammit, and if you don't like it go back to your sardine can island and catch a goddamn cab to Hell.
You know the thing about Las Vegas? No, I don't either. Seriously, what the hell is up with that place? We were there for three days and never once went outside. And I didn't even realize it until the last day!
But I digress. No, actually I don't, because I'm not really going anywhere with all this. I'm home, I'm well-fed and well-read, and everything is copasetic.