Sick as a dog since Saturday, when a cold snuck up on me. Sinuses, throat, cough, snot and more snot. "Yeech!" as Mad Magazine said in my youth. One plus: my voice sounds like Barry White now. “Because baby, you and me, heh… this night we’re gonna get it on.” Made the trek to Stamford yesterday, regardless. I’m working in a generic office block that sits above its own parking lot, o my America, in the middle of nowhere (to anyone on foot). One bit of difference, the view: a small harbor full of boats and the Sound beyond. That’s good; I’ve got an office, but it’s inside, so no direct view; that's bad. A great congress of crows hangs out on a bit of tree-filled rock. I do love me my crows. They took a beating from West Nile and there are definitely fewer of them in the city, but they’re aren’t dead yet.
Excavating some paperwork this evening, I found the note Micheal Chabon sent me after I mailed him a letter in appreciation of his novella The Final Solution, which I found deeply moving. It was a vary gracious note, though it would seem immodest to quote it. I was struck how his handwriting defied expectations. In fact, I think his grandmother wrote it: it's a shaky, spidery hand, in purple ink.