Well, I had a bit of a spell today with the altitude. Felt suddenly faint, light-headed, and couldn't breathe very well. I had to cancel getting into tights with Sandra Day O'Connor tonight because the whole thing knocked me out (although I did rally with five minutes in an oxygen mask to do another session this afternoon). Thanks for all the advice. Here's what I learned: when they tell you to drink water, take it seriously. I didn't. Drink till you're peeing like Seabiscuit. Then aspirin or ibuprofen. It also helps of course if you don't have chronic asthma (check) and apnea (check).
I'm out of here at the crack of dawn tomorrow and feel and that I didn't really get oriented enough quickly enough to get the most out of all these ideas floating around. But I did have some great chats with Jeff Jarvis and Nick Denton, got a blast of micro-payment gospel from Steve Brill, managed to have a beer (another altitude error) with my old friend, Niall Ferguson, and also had a chat with Sandy Levinson and Jack Balkin about the constitution and the surveillance state. Any conversation with Mike Kinsley is a reminder that very few people you'll ever meet will be as funny or as mordant or as decent. I really was lucky to have him and Marty as my first sherpas into journalism.
So no tights. But next year, I'll be prepared. Goldberg, by the way, got to hang with Tarantino for the day. But I guess he'll have to tell you that story.
The Dish will be collaborative tomorrow as Monday.
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