12:22 a.m. The first time I rode down highway 1, along the magnificent California coastline, I fell in love with this state. All those twisty turns, the long snaky switch backs, breathtaking cliffs to the right of you and crumbling mountain face to the left -- I was just in awe. Agog. I bought a sweatshirt and I've worn it all these years, through thick and thin.

That was back in maybe 1989. Now, a full ten years later and we found ourselves back on Route 1, on our way back down to Los Angeles yesterday from Carmel. It was an entirely different kind of trip. This state is just full of surprises.

By the time the alarm clock had the audacity to ring yesterday morning at 5 a.m., I'd already been up for several hours. As is usual in our part of the world, a typical party was still going strong past one, one-thirty, two, somewhere on our block.

The Hollywood party -- a special type that I can now recognize a mile away just by the sound of it. In this company town, everybody talks, loudly and with animation. Giggle, gossip, bravado, braggadocio; glasses clink, some girls titter and some girls guffaw, and boys will always be boys. You can clearly hear bits of conversation, partly because you've heard it all before and you know the cadence; partly because people keep talking louder and louder and louder to be heard over the din.

So, there I am in bed with my trusty old Cryptonomicon, finally beginning to enjoy it now that I'm up to page 680-something. I wish he'd stop jumping the story from character to character and era to era just as a chapter gets going, but I understand that he's trying to create Art. And by now I've invested a third of a year on this book, so I'm not going to quit now.

I finally dozed off somewhere around 2-ish, knowing I was going to regret having only 3-ish hours of sleep, and believe me, the party was loud even through a closed window ... the bass was thumping and the girls were yelling "Bye" and "Come on," and "Don't tell me that ..." and yet I still fell asleep. But then I heard the slight rattle in the walls, the oh so subtle sound that is not supposed to be there.

Even over the party's relentless din, I heard the quietest of those creaking sounds. In my own house.

... and if I may beg your indulgence, I would like to pick this story up tomorrow, when I'm all fresh and perky. I promise I'll do it first thing. It's just that I'm still trying to catch up on that lost night of sleep and I really have more to say on this and fewer brain cells manning the gears right now than I thought.

Suffice it to say: the trip to Carmel was ... oh, let me tell you tomorrow. Thank you for your kind patience. I've got me some pages to read and some raveled sleeves to mend.