Thursday, December 8, 2011
a cigarette with the saint
I am in New York.
I have traveled forward in time from California.
Flying here I was reminded of two things:
First, it is inescapable that flying on an airplane consistently reinforces my deep, deep hatred for human beings.
Second, why do people at the baggage claim carousel always fall under the hysterical delusion that somehow their luggage may have developed stripes, changed color, shape, or size while in transit?
Why do people not know what their fucking luggage looked like when they put it on the plane?
These shall be my Tantric mantras while I stagger through the days.
I am channeling my inner motivational speaker.
Because I can.
Today, I am going to spend some time over at Simon and Schuster, which, I am told, is in "The Rock." I know a lot of author friends who are published by Simon and Schuster, but, so far, I have only met and spent time with my editor, David Gale. He is one of those top-notch, editors' editors. I realized the other day that I actually met David at an ALA conference back in 2008. It is very weird how paths cross and cross in this kingdom of the perky, over which I rule. I also met publisher Justin Chanda, but only in passing... kind of like the way you'd brush a hand across the garment of a Pope.
After my visit at Simon and Schuster I am going to go for a run.
I run no matter what, every day.
It is what gives me my sunny disposition.
When I was in Florida, one of the kids who waited in line to ask me a question on "The Mike," asked me how I stay so young.
I do not know how I stay so young.
I suppose the alternatives are unpleasant.
This afternoon, I am going down to the Flatiron Building, which is where Macmillan Publishing Group is located. I really enjoy the people I work with there. I will be going out to dinner tonight with my publisher, Jean Feiwel, and editor (chimey chimey chime) Liz Szabla.