I'm at the Hampton Inn in Buffalo, having driven Rob here to participate in the North American Guitar Competition. Four hours in the car last night--we stopped somewhere called Cortland, a town where gas is much cheaper than Brooklyn but seemingly without all that much else to recommend it--and three more this morning and today. The actual event isn't until Monday night--Rob's birthday, if luck counts for anything--so I'm not sure exactly why we had to spend three days here. There was some meet-and-greet today, the competitors get to practice for an hour or so with the backing band tomorrow, and then the big dukaroo on the 19th. Nothing against Buffalo, but this is supposed to be, y'know, me time. And I've got the proverbial crapload of work.
After five hours or so in this hotel, though, I think my concerns were overstated. I spent two hours editing this afternoon, another hour in the hotel gym, came back here, got online, might listen to the Phils in a bit. Wherever we are now, same stuff--same resources, leisure options, cable TV. I'm hardly the first to make this point, and it's probably not even the first time I've made it. But maybe it's the convergence of virtual living (clunky phrase) this weekend that has me thinking about it: Annie's already e-mailed twice from Ireland, a friend of mine has gotten into a pretty hot relationship--phone, computer camera, hours a night, nudity and adult situations--with a girl who lives in Vancouver that he's yet to meet in person.
Aside from not being able to feed our cats, Asshole and Frau Poopenheimer, I'm not sure it really matters where I am this weekend, or pretty much any other time.