…coming to you live from the dial-up connection of an iBook perched precariously on a 60-year-old card table located in the guest bedroom of my mother’s house deep in southeast Missouri, far beyond the reach of any high-culture events not being carried on commercial TV.
Translation: I’m home for Christmas, after a thrilling early-morning battle with a very orange LaGuardia Airport, where lines are long and tempers were already pretty damn short as of six this morning. I shudder to think what it’s like by now, which is one reason why it’s nice to be in a small town this afternoon. Here’s another: it’s quiet, and there’s no one on the streets. The trees are bare, the sky slate-gray. The nearest mall is 30 miles away. I really do love New York, but it’s good to get away (especially after just having seen three plays in three days), and I’m definitely away, and glad to be (except that I’m having a hell of a time getting used to dial-up again).
I should add, however, that I got two hours of sleep last night, and I have a piece to write tonight, so I may not start nibbling at the mail until tomorrow. Nevertheless, my antenna is up, and insofar as this slooooow modem allows me to surf the Web, I’m reconnected to the blogosphere. Like the song says, you’re gonna hear from me…later.
In the meantime, hello to Maud, Mr. TMFTML, Old Hag, Cup of Chicha, 2 Blowhards, Sarah Weinman, Cinetrix at Pullquote, Bookslut, Modern Art Notes, Felix Salmon, and all the other cool big-city bloggers whose thoughts you can access by ooching over to the right-hand column and sifting through the blogroll. They’ll take up the slack while I readjust to small-town life. And a big old wet kiss to Our Girl in Chicago, who is safely installed among her family in an undisclosed secure location, from which she has promised to post something or other, sooner or later.
Now for a nap.