Flip the clock to 'wake' and it says 9:05. My watch currently says 12:59; it'd be in my best interests to make good on my weeks-old threat to get at least some sleep before attempting to roll directly from my bed to the car.

"oh my Lord
why's it taking you so long
to give me grace
and the dignity to right these wrongs"
- Jonatha Brooke, 'Deny' (bonus track from _Steady Pull_, 2001)

It's a chorus, really; voices in my head taking on the voices of two particular friends, taking their words, doubling, tripling them until the sounds of their voices drown out my own.

"Just a little nap in the sun," I said, sneaking off to the deck to crank up the sunshade and recline on a deck chair. No nap yet, but it's a few hours later, and I think the miles of this week are rolling off of me like beads of sweat.

Could be worse. At least it's not hot out here.

One-twenty-eight a.m.

It's time.

They call it Hotlanta for a reason: hot, muggy, steam confused and trying to figure out whether it should stream up or down. That's Atlanta on Labor Day weekend.

At this point, it's just plain silliness: the cutting of a spare house key or the run to Kinko's for sixteen color copies. Or, as said to Suzan the other night: "We do all this planning ahead of time so that when we finally get on-site, we can walk away from our lives for nearly a week."

We twisted our way through downtown, into the appropriate parking lot, and signed in. Brian was in the green room, and after a few minutes of discussion, we headed for the studio. For some reason, I expected quiet, but then I remembered that this was a live show, and that my expectation was - insane.

On the other side of the door, I found myself facing an older gentleman with a wide smile and a strong Caribbean accent. "Dey's no accidents in TV. You's here, you have to contribute. You gonna help on camera?"