Now I'm at The Verb Cafe(in Williamsburg, New York.) I didn't know the name of the place until after I got my coffee and a piece of ginger cake that I shouldn't be having! Fairly appropriate name for a place for a writer from out of town to find himself in, don't you think? It makes me feel right at home, except that they don't have free wifi, and I can't tap into the neighbor's. Also, I'm sitting underneath the speaker; the music is good,original, but it is loud and I'm old. Did I ever tell you that this past summer I left a Tom Petty concert before he and the band were done playing because I had such a good seat that I was too near the loud loud music; and Tom Petty is my man, has been since "Damn The Torpedos." I have noticeable hearing loss, from my days as a music columnist, where I would get my drink(s) and go stand by the monitors all night trying to figure out what the singer was saying. I never figured it, I got drunk, I wrote some really brilliant columns; and I put myself prematurely on the path to a hearing what.

WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!

If you work in tandems, your co-worker can blow your tip for you. The gentlman who is working behind the counter here is real friendly. We chatted about Al Gore, John Travolta and our own personal energy consumption and the role that he and I have in ruining the planet in our own small way. I told him that I was a hypocrite, because, as a writer, I have often cried out for a stop to the madness which is destroying the world that my grandchildren will inherit, and yet I look at the vehicle that I drive and the amount of trash that I carry out of my house everyday and know that I am shitting on the planet just like the people who I cry out to.

Then honey with the tats and the sullen angry look took over on cash register with her don't talk to me i know you want to fuck me attitude ending my chat with the other guy. She handed me a ten and a one and all she got was the one in the tip jar when I had been going to bust the ten in half and lay a five in there. Anyway, Dale just called and I gots to scoot.
---------------------

It's twenty one minutes after midnight, now; I'm tired. Mrs. Dale W. Miller(Breigh) has gone to bed. She's pregnant. The Millers are going to have their second child, this one a boy, in August. Breigh said that she loved being pregnant. She lent me her cell phone tonight. My lousy phone only works in Atlanta. It seems to me that a cell phone that works anywhere you go is almost an essential thing to have in the world today. I have kids to stay in touch with. You know the deal. I mean where would you be without your laptop, if you are lucky enough to have one. I mean, once you have it, you can't live without it and you don't see how you ever functioned without it. When I travel, I always take my laptop. It is an extension of me.

Williamsburg was cool. I dug hanging out there tonight. It's funky; lots of food, lots of coffee. I mean, what more could you ask for. I saw people who live there walking there dogs and I wondered what it would be like walking my dogs in New York City. Morisson would love it. Javi wouldn't care, as long as he was getting fed. I'm going to bed. I think that I'm going to stay at the Chelsea Hotel, Saturday night; you know, the place where Syd shot Nancy. Great writers have lived there and written. Am I a great writer?

ps The Baristat at The Real told me about a Polish restaurant that he said was great. He said that there were a lot of Polish people in the area. Polish people are very white. It is funny to look at someone who you think would have impecable english and they don't. At least it is funny to me, or maybe unique is the word I'm looking for. I'm certainly not laughing at anyone because they are Polish. The menu at the restaurant had burgers on it and chicken dishes. I told the waitress that I wanted her to suggest something Polish to me, and she did. The plate that arrived was incredible. The only thing on it that I recognized was some sausage and a little container of apple sauce. Everything else was new to me and exquisite. I figured that I was driving my blood sugar through the ceiling. I just punctured my finger and dragged the blood across the strip that you stick into the meter; 102; pretty fucking good way to end a great day.
Thanks to The Millers. Thanks to Cynthia B; and especially thank you to my Higher Power for keeping me off drugs, alcohol and cigarettes for another day. Graem is hoping to fly into New York, in the morning. I'm hoping that he and I can go to the Museum of Modern Art, and score some crack. Ha. Ha. Just kidding. Nite. Nite.