"The tree pollen," Robert says, "is crazy." Liven up New York City with pink, purple, and white flowers and it just doesn't know what to do. The island is taking a long, deep, stuttering breath, arching its weary back, raising its heavy shoulders, closing its watery eyes, and having a sneezing fit. Bless you. Gesundheit. Salute!
I've got a headache.
But I'm not complaining. It sure is beautiful outside. Later on, I'll venture out into the pollinated world in search of a suit…
The list violates John Atkinson's "No Smiths" rule, but it does boast "Hallelujah," "Eleanor Rigby," and "He Stopped Loving Her Today"—surely the greatest, saddest song ever. No "Honey" though—which proves its impeccable taste.
Okay, it's because I have a fetish.
You might want to bone up here first.
"There's no change in the basic plan, which is that there is no plan."
I love wandering the hotel halls, listening for music, knowing that behind every door is the possibility of something new and wonderful. For now, my desk is covered in the press announcements, silent unveilings and invitations and enticements.
Among the many I received today, one stands out. A quick and simple note, in no fancy dress, lacking commas and periods and capitalization: "hope all is well" it says. "if you have a moment…