New Yawk

I spent the last few days at the Explorers Club in New York City (46 W 70th), promoting a book, which means wearing a nametag that says 'Author Cameron M. Smith', drinking sparkling cider and wandering around signing books for the 200+ crowd with 20-odd other authors (or 20 other odd authors; as you please). Thanks to all who came! The Explorers Club is a crusty old place, five stories (well, I'm not sure, really; one floor plaque said 'Floor 5 1/2') of odd artifacts, fading framed pictures of polar explorers (one above), and heavily-carpeted, squeaky floorboards. I could imagine ghosts there, or a little old man in a forgotten cublicle, scribbling away on some impossible, endless Tome since 1909, a forgotten, little, immortal man, a kind of Burgess Meredith tucked away forever in the narrow spaces of the Explorers Club...You know, the grey little man who might smile mildly in a Twilight Zone episode and say 'Well, I suppose I have always been here. Yes...Do you know I can't say that I remember having ever been anywhere else? Isn't that odd?'. I'd like to write about this little man, but I don't know the first thing about fiction.

After this shindig I spent time wandering Central Park, or at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which was awesome in the most literal sense: awe-inspiring. I didn't get far from the Medieval, Greek, and Egyptian galleries. Didn't even get upstairs, not one floor up. That's OK, I'll be back. If you get the chance, the Met isn't to be missed!