Which is insane because I wake up feeling like I'm about to die and the room is spinning when Arthur sticks not a book but a note under my door saying he's decided I can't read the galley and must wait for the revised finished version which he will feel better about. He is, I think, perhaps as neurotic as I am. He hides it better.

I run into folks from Prairie Lights (our local glorious IC independent bookstore) who tell me that John McNally was in a car accident yesterday, in a cab. He's ok, they tell me, but had a gash and a fist-size lump on his head. Apparently a car hit his cab then sped away, and John, blood pouring out of his head, stumbled out of the car and tried to dial on his cell phone for help but was shaking so hard he couldn't press the buttons. Someone came up and offered to do it for him and get him some bandages, then ran off with John's cell phone. In Iowa, it wouldn't happen like that. At least John is ok.

Somehow, through the worst hangover I have ever had in my entire life -- truly the worst -- I manage to get myself to the airport and on a flight for NYC, where my mommy nurses me out of my inebriation which won't seem to wane and I sit down to catch up on my tour diary which I read aloud to her and to which she dutifully listens and laughs even though she's missing who's winning Tony awards on TV in the other room. Some days it's really nice to have your mom around.