I think I may be ill...

Sometime later today I'm going to step off the bus in New York City, wide-eyed bumpkin of the lowlands, and take a cab to the big UPS place on west 43rd (maybe). There I'm going to hand some random UPS guy a tube containing a painting, ask him to insure it for a shitload of money, sign something and then watch as my tube disappears into the maw. At which point I will be more or less nauseous until I receive word that the guy in Houston has received it.

Brief personal aside: It annoys me that Federal Express--if you even call it that anymore--won't insure packages beyond a couple of grand. I have vastly greater faith in their ability to seamlessly deliver a domestic package to a big city than the boys in Brown. Boys here is, of course, a non-gender-specific term.

To ease my uneasiness, I anticipate having a number of beers at the Peter McManus Cafe. But I doubt it will help.

Brief personal aside #2: I always whisper into the tube, just before I tape the end cap on, "Don't let anyone ever tell you you're not a great painting." Then I seal the thing shut and send my boy out into the world. Big emotional lump.