I woke up at 5:14 this morning, then tossed and turned and worried until the alarm sounded at six.

Will this headache go away? Are these chest pains a harbinger? Will my knee heal? Will I finish the marathon? Am I doing too much? Will I get sick next week? What are the lyrics to “Go Let It Out” again? Is Tim Russert going to be cool? Am I prepared for that David Gale meeting? Am I going to work for MTV forever? Am I happy? Ooh, what’s that new pain in my side? I wonder how Sibby’s doing? Did I do the right thing with that descision? Is the West Coast team getting what it needs? Am I a good manager? I wonder how John remembers me? Are we going to land this project? Am I going to be here for The Big One? Am I going to marry her? Are we going to live happily ever after? Is this going to get any easier? Am I going to amount to anything?

Ten years of travel to Southern California have been all about the outdoors: biking Venice, hiking Runyon, running Topanga, swimming Zuma, Griffith Observatory, The Getty, and The Greek. With no thanks to my injury, my job, and my schedule, this trip, though, has been almost completely interior. With the exception of that which lies just beyond the window of my rental car, my hotel room, and my office (which, best as I can tell, is just beautiful), all I have seen this week is hermetically-sealed, thoroughly-considered interior design (click here to see what I mean).

Sure, my closet is bigger than my bedroom, I have two TVs, and French doors. And yeah, I can see the Pacific from my window, and the Hollywood Hills from my office.

But I just spent an hour on an elliptical machine. I just spent an hour going around and around and around, staring at the wall, running to stand still, getting nowhere fast.

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