Well, here I am in San Francisco. Or at least, the Sheraton near SFO. Tomorrow I get to go to a meeting, then back to the airport. At least this hotel has high speed Internet access. It even has electricity, for the moment at least.
Still, it’s weird to be here. Lots of things look like they do on TV. The license plates, the palm trees, the big flat buildings that almost appear to have congealed on the sides of the hills, the scattered pieces of retrofuturistic architecture, the spaghetti tangles of freeway…
Part of the problem is that I’m tired, and when I get tired pieces of my brain forget that I live in America, and get all surprised about it. Hearing people talk about places like Martinez and Orinda is odd too. I know all these names from listening to Negativland albums over and over again, and now here they are on road signs.
Atlanta was pretty much as I remembered it. I called a friend, who much to my surprise wasn’t working and offered to meet me at the airport. We talked about her recent career change from “dancer” to “restaurant consultant”. Running a bunch of Subway stores is apparently hard and frustrating work, but I’m told that it beats dancing naked on tables. Of course, this is somewhat academic for me, as I don’t really have what it takes to dance naked on tables for money.