A butterfly flaps its wings at La Guardia and it shuts down the entire eastern seaboard. I'm typing this while slogging through a two-hour delay at MCI, waiting to hop a flight to LAX.

It's method writing. I'm going out there for research. Which, until confronted by a gaggle of my peers about it last night ("YOU'VE GOT MEETINGS! ADMIT IT!"), I thought sounded like a perfectly reasonable, completely sound thing to do. I'm beginning work on a book about Los Angeles, and as such, I want to soak in Los Angeles for a while. All my times out there in the past have been business-related whirlwinds and I, being me, was not always in my Right Mind and was not always ready to really see the place for what it is. So I'm going to look for it a little bit, to stay out there and see it and maybe get just a few inches below the surface of tourist and feel the tinsel-y sunbaked heart of the place beating just a little bit.

Apparently nobody does this, and I am retarded.

And when it's done, me and Laurenn make the drive with all her shit from CA to KC as she's relocating. So, you know. I got that going for me, which is nice.