So I flew down to Tampa yesterday (long flight, went to Chicago first and had to run halfway across O'Hare to make my connection, but I got to see the Sears Tower in the foggy distance and the ice waves on Lake Michigan, which I've never given its proper due as one huge mother of a lake) and didn't eat for 11 hours due to running Home Alone style from one gate to the one furthest away from it. Good times. I sat next to an Australian on the plane who has been all over the world and has the first name of the character I was writing about on the plane -- a sign from the heavens that I should move to Australia in August if I don't get the fellowship I'm probably not going to get? Hells, yeah!
I saw Notes on a Scandal, as well. Just as disturbing as I thought it would be. No more, no less.
I have no comments on the Super Bowl, as I missed the whole thing by being at 27,000 feet (turbulence required our cruising altitude to be lower than normal).
Started reading Moby-Dick. Not at all what I expected.
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