On the way to the office this morning, about nine, I passed the new postmodern MIT Media Lab building, and parked outside were four shiny black Cadillac limos, New York plates, with four big tough-looking drivers standing by, stuffed into big suits, looking intently at the morning. In the middle of the four limos was a dusty white Ford 4X4, sitting low with armor. Wonder what's coming down. Or who.
What's much more exciting, though, is that I'm going into town noonish to buy a new bicycle. Nothing fancy, just a commuter bike. My ten-year-old cheapo is making alarming noises. A man of my years and station does not have to ride a creaky bike. It's a charming eccentricity, but I'd rather glide by on my shiny new Raleigh and have people wonder whether I've entered into a second childhood. (It's the third, actually.)
Closing in on the end of the new novel. I'll write on that for two hours before taking on the stack of student papers.