I was using my laundry bag as a purse and I washed my copy of Paris Review Interviews. It’s hanging on a piece of dental floss I set up between my chair and desk. I miss New York. Well not the city, because what’s to miss in New York in February? I miss people, a person, apartments, beds, a dog. I missed my roommate’s show and Junot Diaz speaking in Westchester. I’m cut off from Facebook, and now my voyeuristic procrastinations are reduced to Twitter, Flickr and Kodak galleries. I find this sad, too. I’m planning a trip to Florida to see my grandmother that’s the equivalent of geriatric catnip. Writing a book is not at all like coming up with the phrase “geriatric catnip,” which is too bad because I am good with those phrases. I’m still figuring out how to write about the physical with any elegance. I recommend the Slate Audio Book Club for all literary nerds.