Normal Service.

We are in San Francisco right now, on the thirtieth floor of the Grand Hyatt, which is next to a big tunnel, atop which sits a nice bar called Tunnel Top, which serves whiskey in pint glasses, with an inch of coke bringing the liquid level to the top of the glass. My left eyeball is bright red, which tends to indicate a decent night on the tiles, and Jeff tells me I danced an awful lot to bad house music for hours, and span ladies about like whirlygigs. I have no idea. I left that End Up place at ten or something, with the sunshine beating down on me, following a row with the stubbly lesbrarian door lady, who I mistook for a man and called dude a lot, but Jeff was still there at 2pm. He seems in remarkably good shape, however. We got up at nine and went for nice Italian food down by the docks, but I shall go back to bed now, as I am tired and confused, and we have to drive back to LA at 6am. I think I am going back to New York on Wednesday. We have a week of Grammy parties and drawing and making mixtapes and comic books ahead of us. It is not such a bad old life, for some of us.