The First Thing I Do When I Arrive At a New City

I sleep.

I remember back when I was 24, and had moved into Chicago.  Well, I hadn’t moved yet, but I just signed a lease.  The apartment was completely empty, and, instead of leaving right away, I passed out.  On the kitchen countertop.

The kitchen had a long countertop that three-quarters of the way down was interrupted by the sink.  Then it picked up after the sink for a final two feet.  Probably a total length of seven feet.  I’m 6’2″.

I saw a telephone book (the only item in the apartment) sitting on the kitchen counter.  Looked like a decent pillow to me.  So I hopped up on the counter, positioned the telephone book near my head, and laid on my back.  I slept for about thirty minutes, I believe.

This is not normal behavior.  I’m not a narceleptic, I don’t have problems getting into R.E.M., and I don’t drop tabs of Ativan in my afternoon coffee.  (I don’t drink coffee, actually, but it didn’t sound right to say “water”).  In fact, I’m a great sleeper.  I can outsleep you and your dog (perhaps not the cat).

Last night my girlfriend and I logged a solid ten and half hours of sleep after the wedding and reception.  Then we hopped on the subway, made our way into San Franciso, and ate pizza.  Came back to the hotel and zonked for another two hours.  We went to dinner, just came back and are ready to make huge neeperton jones.  (neeperton jones is what I call sleep, because it sounds like a super cool blaxploitation character.

Tomorrow we do Alcatraz, sightseeing, and dinner with a friend.  I can only hope for an afternoon siesta.  Oh, and by the way, they have special pillows you can order from the front desk.  I’m super excited because I’m have a between the knee pillow coming up and a magnetic therapy pillow.

Goodnight, all.