Feeling Pale in South Beach

September 28th, 2006

What a very odd time I’m having. Austin, Atlanta, now Miami. I’ve never been in Florida before. It’s, like, HOT. Who knew? My glasses steamed up when I went out last night for a walk. In my corduroys and jacket, an instantly regrettable ensemble.

But get this. Yesterday before I left Atlanta, I had lunch with Bob Mankoff, the cartoon editor for the New Yorker. He happened to be in town and was being driven by the same literary escort service as me. I don’t know exactly how it happened, I guess the escort must have mentioned she was driving around another cartoonist. And Bob (I call him Bob!) had recently heard about me from some other New Yorker cartoonist (I’m not sure which one, some guy who apparently also wrote for Six Feet Under) so he suggested that we meet. And so we did. We had lunch, see?

He invited me to start submitting stuff to the magazine, so I can join the august ranks of cartoonists, including Roz Chast, who get their work rejected on a regular basis.

I haven’t even been able to process that yet.

Right after lunch with BOB I was whisked off to ATL. Where I made this short film entitled, Why Am I Always the Only Lesbian at the Airport. In the long and badly managed line to go through security, I noticed this curious instructional display of things you’re not supposed to pack.

Did you know you weren’t supposed to bring chainsaws on the plane? What about circular saws? Or hedge clippers? Or shoulder-fired rocket launchers for that matter. Why stop with chainsaws?

And now here I am this morning in South Beach.

The ocean’s like bathwater. The beach was kind of sad. There were homeless people sleeping and changing their clothes, some daring to sit on the fancy furniture put out by the ritzy hotels. Speaking of which, I’m actually staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Very lovely, but disconcerting. All these guys opening the doors for me as I walk in or out. Now I’m gonna go get some work done.