Airport layover in Philadelphia, which seems to be the only time I find time to post anymore. Was inclined to hate this airport. First bookstore I went to closed in my face. Tried the bar across the way, but it was closing and the bartender got pissy with me. Then shoeshine stand was closed, and I really need a shine.

But a new concourse brings a new attitude. Open wine bar, enjoying an Argentine malbec. New Michael Chabon in my backpack. And oh yes, I'm a freelancer now, having ended my full-time employment Friday with no one in the DC office seeming to take notice. Mixed blessing tonight. That is why I can't get out of tomorrow's all-day meeting outside Boston. Much as I'd like to.

That's okay. There will be a quick trip to New York next week to see the KGB reading for Electric Velocipede. "Objective Impermeability in a Closed System" will appear in Hartwell & Cramer's year's best, and I am now a halftime writer with a notebook full of notes for a dozen novels.

Still, tonight I wish I were home with Laura, who just got back from New York herself. In fact, we just missed each other at O'Hare this afternoon. And I wish I were with Ella, who is the inspiration for the Perry Slaughter thriller there amongst my notes.

Man, I'm tired. Saturday was the first day in about seven weeks when I didn't work. Those days are gone.

Amen.