Monday, 17 January 2005 | Dear Ted

Thanks again for letting all of us stay in your hotel. The '60s mod décor was exhaustive and charming; I especially liked the light blue refrigerator, and the multi-colored tiles that covered the mantle. I appreciate you taking the time to show us what the other rooms looked like, as well as explaining every intricate detail of the heating system. So, thanks for that.

It was also kind of a bonus, I suppose, hearing about your allergies and your chronic rash, along with whatever tangential subject that popped in your head. I guess, out here, you have to take advantage of all human contact, even if it means sharing information that those of us in communities tend to reserve for close friends. Honestly, I imagine that if I lived by myself in the middle of nowhere, I would lose my ability to discriminate, too.

I'm sorry for thinking that you might murder all of us. Really, that was presumptuous. But just as living in solitude has fortified your eccentricities, living in New York has done the same for me. Instead of smothering strangers, like you tend to do (though not literally, apparently), it seems that I get a little paranoid when I'm in a desolate place. In fact, I even imagined a very detailed scenario in which I was the only survivor of one of your crazy rampages, and I had to escape from the cabin barefoot, slipping on the solid ice and running down the empty highway with you close behind.

But rather than violently taking our lives, you did what you could to make us comfortable, you didn't seem disturbed when we made a lot of noise playing on the ice late at night, and you let us check out of the hotel however late we wanted. You even seemed a little sad when you watched us load our bags into the trunk. (I, on the other hand, felt silly, for being so suspicious.)

Anyway, Ted. Thanks, and sorry. Best of luck with your allergies.

Lisa