As I write this, I'm sort of semi-reclined and curled up in my chair watching the news. My little cat jumped up to join me and is now curled up on my lap, purring madly and occasionally kneading my arm and looking up at me with that blinky lovesexy gaze that a contented cat will give you. She just lifted her head and gave my nose a little lick.
The weather is turning crisp, with that fresh apple bite of coming fall. Soon it'll be time to start layering blankets.
Judge Street is quiet tonight, unusual for a Friday. No idling cars with booming bass. No groups of idling teens on the stoop of number twelve, gossiping and giggling in high Boriqua voices.
It's my favorite time of year in New York.
I have to go to Los Angeles next week. I'm leaving on Wednesday and not returning until the following Friday. Nine days, during which there will be a king-sized bed in a luxe hotel room with a fireplace, two gigantic flat screen tv's (because it wouldn't be America without a television no further than ten feet away at all times), Aveda bath products and an ocean view. Nine days, during which I will eat the freshest sushi imaginable, spend some free time walking to Manhattan Beach, and try to spot celebrities on Robertson Boulevard.
On the other hand, no little cat will crawl into my lap, there will be no big chair for me to curl up in, and for nine days the full inventory of my stuff will be defined by the perimeter of my wheely Samsonite.
I don't know why I'm not very excited for this trip. Usually I really enjoy getting out of the office to go on press, but this time...
I dunno.
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