I was hoping to see Brian before he left on another one of his soul-seeking adventures on “the road to Shambhala,” but he called last week to let me know it probably wasn't happening -- seeing him before his trip, that is, not the trip itself.

Although I stayed at one of the nicest hotels in Las Vegas, I spent most of my time in the building's cement-walled underbelly, which is usually the case with these types of jobs.

And what, exactly, are "these types of jobs"?

I caught a cab to the airport at 5:45 AM, walked through the security check, then made my way to the gate and directly onto the plane without skipping a beat. I had an aisle seat next to two women who could've used an extra seat each to accommodate their ample derrieres.

I was lying awake, reading, when Deborah came to bed. She got herself a glass of water, took her clothes off, crawled under the covers, and sighed. She stared into space, processing the day's events, I suppose.

I guess you could say my father was a Navy brat, but in reality, he didn't move around that much. My grandfather was Commander of a destroyer during WWII, which spent much of its time in the South Pacific. There was only so much following the family could do. My Dad and his mother lived in Key West, Florida, for a stretch, but after the war, they settled in a sleepy little town called Beachwood, New Jersey, and that's where my dad lived until leaving for college.

If I were a dedicated newshound, I'd have photographs of yesterday's tornado, but I was too busy trying to keep the air conditioner from being torn from my window, so all I have is this unrelated image of some whimsical graffiti.

My friend Fee recently moved his architecture firm from a high-rise in Midtown Manhattan to a free-standing house near his home in suburban Queens. I went to the Manhattan office a couple of weeks ago on his last night there. The movers had taken everything except for Fee's slot car set, and we set up the track in the otherwise empty space and raced slot cars over a couple of beers.

"I saw you rolling in on your bike," said Hugh when I ran into him under the food tent where I was huddled against the ferocious rain.

"Your father and I got engaged in Atlantic City," my mother informed us over dinner, when Deborah and I stopped at my parents' house on our way to America's Favorite Playground. I guess you could say that if it weren't for Atlantic City, I might not be here.

Well, at least we weren't escorted into a back room to have our kneecaps broken, but we did nearly get tossed out of the Hilton for taking pictures.

I'm not sure exactly what prompted the last-minute change of plans, but we somehow decided to drive to New Jersey instead of Long Island for a little beachside R&R. As we sat nearly motionless in a freshly paved glue trap on the Garden State Parkway, I began second-guessing the switch. "Whatever," said Deborah, "there'd be traffic no matter what. Besides, we're in no hurry."

I had a hard time enticing Deborah to come outside with me. She wanted to stay inside our air-conditioned apartment and study Portuguese. "I've been slacking off," she said, which may or may not be true.

After waiting a couple of months for a check -- submitting and re-submitting an invoice -- it became clear that one of Deborah's clients had no intention of paying her for the bookkeeping work she did. "I should always go with my gut," Deborah said, referring to the fact that she had a bad feeling about the client from day one. But work is work so she tried to stick it out. In the end, though, she reached a breaking point and it was either quit or go insane. "I don't think it's a good fit," she told her client, although she may as well have told her the truth: "You're a kook."

"Where are you?" asked the bike wrangler, or rather, the agent who had contracted my motorcycle for a photo shoot this morning.

"I'm putting on my helmet right now," I said.

I don't know what the temperature was when I drove back from New Jersey after visiting my parents for a couple of days. It was well over 100 degrees outside, and with no air conditioning in sluggish traffic, it felt like a hundred more in the small cab of my little pickup. My shirt was soaked through with warm sweat, and the stagnant air had the vague smell of cat piss — courtesy of the tomcat that lives in my parking garage. I thoroughly cleaned the car several months ago and seemed to have the cat piss taken care of, but it seems it had only been hiding.

I took advantage of my solo bachelor weekend by having brunch at a diner that Deborah doesn't like.

I drove Deborah to the airport yesterday morning so she could catch an 8:30 AM flight to Pittsburgh. On my way back, while driving along the Belt Parkway, I saw what looked like a giant wedding cake slowly making its way up New York Harbor. Easily ten stories high from what I could tell. I dug out my little point-and-shoot and did my best to snap a photo of it while I drove. I can't remember ever seeing a ship that big before. I thought it might be some kind of optical illusion.

Despite it being only about a half-hour drive from our apartment (or perhaps because of it), Jacob Riis Park wasn't our first choice for a beach-day getaway, but without enough time for a Long Island or New Jersey excursion, it was our best bet. Sure, it's a little unkempt and run-down, but the sand has decidedly fewer chicken bones per square foot than Coney Island, and it's far less crowded. In fact, when we pulled into the parking lot, there were fewer than a dozen cars ahead of us, giving things a certain post-apocolyptic vibe.

My midnight call time the other night was pushed back to three A.M. -- without question, the worst possible time to be called in to work. When my alarm went off, I was completely discombobulated. If someone had given me one of those tests they give people that are are rolled into the ER -- "What year is it? Who's the president of the United States? How many fingers am I holding up?" -- I would have failed miserably.

The meeting in New Jersey finished up by about 2:30 in the afternoon, and after stopping at the Manhattan office to tidy up a few things, I was released until Saturday night. I have a midnight call time on Saturday night for a run-through of the show at the venue. Everything will look a lot different projected onto a sculptural set in Alice Tully Hall than it does projected onto a makeshift screen in a New Jersey warehouse with giant sky lights, so there are bound to be changes. Why midnight? Because the set has to be built first.