And my jacket, too. Also, I hate my boots, the well worn, floppy ones sitting there forlornly in the corner, the socks, the toilet kit and pretty much everything else.
I’m loading into my suitcase for an insanely packed bounce across America. It’s only two days after my latest book, MEDIUM RAW, was released and already, my pupils float unseeing in my skull, my head is full of mush. I’ve been interviewed about 60 times in the last few days and every time I answer the same question in the same way, I hate myself nearly as much as I hate the contents of my suitcase — whose only crimes are overfamiliarity.
Slipping on my shirt, the boots, packing and repacking over the next few days will, I know, soon come to feel like putting on an old, previously worn jester suit at some rennaissance fair of the Damned. Green Bay, Tulsa, Pittsburgh, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Portland, Seattle, Chicago, Cincinatti, Austin, Miami … Reeling off the names, it sounds like a James Brown song, “Night Train” — which I will no doubt be humming to myself during many pre-dawn drives to airports.
