in my cd player... Ride Nowhere   on the page... Paul Auster Moon Palace   into... bright golden daffodils the color of forsythia; unusually serious conversations with Todd; warm sun on my typing fingers; Laine's whispery secrets over the telephone   robbed... I wrote to LA Michael this morning to tell him that I saw Pollock last night and that Ed Harris was so so so so robbed of that Oscar that I couldn't even talk about it.   the dead letter pile... It's impossible to explain to you how funny it was that I took a picture of my mother's endless industrial- sized container of saran wrap (a box she's been using since I was 12 years old and an endless source of folklore and amusement for my family and Todd), pasted it onto the back of a postcard, and told Todd that I hoped his recovery didn't take last this long.   But the sad part is that he never received the postcard. Lost in the dead letter pile of some random post office between here and Boston is the funniest piece of art I've ever created.   Damn it.   glamour... Laine wrote to tell me that my adventures in DC's club lands sounded so glamorous. I had to laugh. It's just like when she tells me she's working late and I think of her alone in her enormous office, diligently pushing something forward under a deadline, and taking a taxi home through all the glistening Manhattan streets and I get a little jealous. To me, that sounds glamorous. It's all in the wistful little details we paint into those corners that make it so.   subtle pop... Tonight is more glistening pop at the Black Cat. A double bill of two local favorites, Aden and True Love Always. The possibility for more randomly instigated conversations. And a chance to practice those skills in talking to strangers that got so lost and unshapely during my Boston tenure.