I rode a centrifuge that was meant to replicate zero gravity. Someone I knew was driving it, like a car, and someone else I knew was another passenger. I waited to feel it. But I didn’t, really. I lifted up my hand, thinking it would seem to float away. Nothing was too different, except I kind of wanted to puke. Maybe it would work if I had a spacesuit on, I thought.

I was near Donald Trump—he was getting out of a limo—and I imagined running up and calling him a pig. The praise I would get, the vilification, depending.