Well, here I am in D.C. By the luck of the cheap-hotels-website draw, I'm staying at the Washington Plaza -- a massive, angled, Dead Zone of pastel carpets, dinging elevators, and polyester uniforms. I'm typing from a Kinko's which the bellman described as "nearby" -- a fifteen-minute walk in reality. At home that wouldn't bug me at all, but I expect the rest of America to conform to my stereotype of it: a fat-assed Valhalla where no one walks more than 40 feet for anything.

I always dread doing this NIH thing, even though it's the best thing for me. Short explanation: I have a rare genetic condition which the National Institutes of Health is studying. For the loan of my body a few days a year, NIH takes care of any little mishaps that are caused by the condition (e.g., tumors). So far I think I'm ahead on the deal, but who knows? Maybe years from now I'll discover that every time I came down here, they secretly shot me up with something that paralyzed my ability to earn decent amounts of money and talk to strangers. Well, it would be nice to have an explanation, anyway.

I think I'll go back to the room now and have a nice steam; it may loosen up some of the phlegm. Meanwhile I see that Andrew Sullivan is going after Frida Kahlo. Perhaps this sort of thing will earn him a gig at the New Criterion in his declining years, which should be coming along any day now.