I got the usual two hours of sleep (if that) on the LA-to-NY redeye. Whipped isn’t the word. Everything was either a struggle or an irritation as I trudged around Newark airport, frowning and scowling and staring at my iPhone screen. By the time I got to the corner of Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street to catch the F train down to my Brooklyn rental, I decided I just couldn’t lug those fucking bags down three flights of stairs, and then lug them back up again. So I popped for a $35 cab ride. My crib is on 11th Street near Prospect Park. I dropped the bags off and went over to the park and took a 45-minute nap on a bed of pine needles, in a nice shady spot. Now I’m sitting in a Connecticut Muffin on the southwest corner of Prospect Park. Montgomery Clift is buried in a Quaker cemetery not far from here.