Reading: A Severed Head

Moving: another reason driving to work is bad

Garden: none of that either

Watching: "Signs" on the plane. STOOpit.

22 November 2002: Cabbie from hell

If you are a cabbie driving regularly from Newark Airport to Manhattan, I suppose you'd be familiar with how much the fare would be, whether tolls would be included, and for pity's sake, where 45 Park Avenue is. It is not, for anyone's information, at 45th Street and Park Avenue, which is, in fact, one of the places they keep Grand fucking Central Station. I called the hotel; the hotel told me 36th and Park, which is, whaddya know, 45 Park Avenue.

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I am a complete sap. RDC was away so I got to violate all the rules and break out the Yule decorations before Thanksgiving. I bought an ornament stand and got to look at all the ornaments and select twelve. Rudolph and some of his friends and Max the dog and my Little Drummer Boy sled are on the mantel. I have to do Yule cards fast. Like now, today, 2 December, except I'm writing about New York.

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Haitch would like everyone to know that my shopping expedition was successful. Dark charcoal grey, not quite black, ribbed v-neck cardigan. I realized when I saw various mats outside doorways exactly what it looked like. But I like it anyway. Doormats don't have v-necks.