Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing to you from an anxiety attack in a restaurant on the 7th floor of a Holiday Inn that, if Holiday Inns were narcotics—this one would be Tranq. Picture windows offer nothing but addled traffic and a line of steroidal crucifixes along the highway big enough to nail up King Kong. The crosses are constructed of what appears to be aluminum siding and run the whole way back to Knoxville. I'm frightened to order because the entire place smells like an old folks home from 1978—absorbent, disposable undergarments and stewed cruciferous vegetables (perhaps a theme). Luckily, I've got the new issue of Art Forum and they're letting me order a second glass of orange juice to take back to my non-luxury compact SUV. I need to get out of here before Don Henley shows up to write a song about the place.

In solidarity—

Damian