I'll be in New York next week, and on December 2nd, I'll be joining a collection of storytellers at the Cornelia Street Cafe for the Speakeasy series. If you're in NYC, I hope you'll join-- I plan to tell a story that may end up in my new show.
I'm visiting my family in Washington, DC for Thanksgiving-- so far, plenty of political talk, sports talk (Seattle's pathetic show in all major athletic arenas means the sports talk is mostly shittalking and self-flagellation, and the fact that our basketball team is now playing to an ecstatic Oklahoma city only adds to the inferiority complex), and nightly games of hearts.
Today, my sister and her husband are at work and Kurt and I are staying in to read. He's working his way through back issues of the New Yorker, I'm reading about Ted Bundy. Tomorrow we'll rouse ourselves to be tourons. My sister will give us a tour of the capital, and then I'm looking forward to revisiting the National Gallery. I have spent a fair bit of time in Washington since my sister moved here four years ago, and I must say: I love this town.
Now, back to Mr. Bundy. (I read about him till about 4am last night and then dreamed I was a detective strategizing on a whiteboard how to convince my fellow cops that Ted Bundy was our man. In the dream, they didn't believe me. They thought it was Mayor Nickels. But the cops were Sonics fans, so . . .)