NOOOOO. SLEEP. TIL.........................
BROOKLYN

After teaching 16 classes in seven days (not that impressive actually), I'm in dark, frigid Brooklyn borrowing someone's wireless internet, hoping for a call back from the Patanjali Yoga Shala or whatever it's called these days, and procrastinating on a deadline for a piece (which may very well get killed, considering my recent dismal track record) on Kriti Festival, a Chicago conference for and about South Asian-American writers. No one here gives a flying fukk about the White Sox, by the way. The cab driver was far more interested in our traffic patterns and the size of our yoga shalas (a ploy to distract me while he navigated an HOUR LONG ride from LaGuardia to Park Slope via the ever-clogged BQE and, strangely, Crown Heights). More later.