I’m at a resort on the Big Island. Easy to spot: Just look for the dude sitting on the beach wearing jeans and a black mock turtleneck. And flanked by Katie Cotton and five other PR flacks wherever I go. Noticed a security detail outside a men’s room? Then you just saw me. Except you didn’t.
Also, I’m supposed to be out here writing, but I’m not. I’m just totally fucking off. It feels great. Eric keeps calling me, and I just let it ring through to voice mail. And I’ve created a message that says: “Hi, this is Steve. Please leave your name and number, I’ll have someone on my staff not call you back. Oh, unless this is Eric Schmidt, in which case, don’t bother. Namaste.”