The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
July 16, 2005

Glassy

Diary, I'm writing from the plane to Seattle. There is a junket for a picture I shot a couple of years back and for once I'm willing to try to ply people into the theaters to see it. I suppose you'll know about it soon enough so no need to belabor it here. I'm writing longhand and Leon will retype it later. You are in good hands, Diary. I know for a fact Leon types with eight fingers. I don't particularly like Seattle, but I do like the way the name rolls off the tongue. The buttery leather of these first-class seats is putting me to sleep, Diary. It's taking me an hour to write this. I'm going to try to catch some live music tonight. A friend of mine who used to be a Hollywood writer and I hope to do some carousing before bedtime. The view from the window is of a brilliant Pacific coast, free from any advectiary coverage. That's meteorologist talk for fog, Diary. I never got the part because they never made the movie but that weatherman research comes in handy in times like this.