As luck would have it, the Howard Johnson here in the Poconos has wireless. God only knows how much these very words are costing me (well, my employer) to type.

My rental car is terrible. It's a small bright orange sportscar—the kind that has its butt in the air, so to speak, and a large and unwieldy foil (?) on the trunk. The rearview window is miniscule, and almost entirely obscured by that weird thing that I guess is supposed to look cool.

I get very stressed out when I have to drive to far-off places, so I tend to drive like an old person—5 to 10 miles below the speed limit. I see the fury on people's faces as they pass me, but I can't go faster. My heart is pounding too furiously. I didn't learn to drive till I was in my 20s.

Okay, I have to go and be a reporter now. It's fun to play pretend! Meanwhile, read this:

Schizophrenia as Misstep by Giant Gene [NY Times]