Mining conference in San Francisco: it can happen here. I am Sherlock Holmes and can tell by everyone’s watches that they’ve flown in from Mountain time. Someone reads the address on my nametag and asks, shocked: “Are you a conservative in Berkeley?” What a jolly laugh I have for him! But later I get tired of people giving me shit about Obama’s health plan.
Chairs set up in the ballroom under the modernist chandelier, which hangs as an inverted ziggurat of translucent plastic segments. Praise it. Look at my adult self: sport coat, wedding ring, subtle argyle weave in my black socks, fresh-printed business cards I’ve been tossing around like it’s Christmas. The air is filtered deliciously, sweet and dry—every sip of coffee seems to bring the shining ziggurat closer—I’m exhausted, finished with everything, rising to heaven.
