Today has been unthinkably hot -- here it is, diary-time, and I can't put two words together without them sliding sloppily off one another, the way soggy-with-glue paper leaves a smearing white trail on the wall. Nothing is bearable in summer, except the Mountain Goats and beer. I sat in the shade in JFK park today, watching the jeunes seigneurs at frisbee. It seems a shame that summer exhorts The Body to glowing, exultant sexual expression but also manages to remove the inclination, like tap shoes that are too heavy to dance in.
I also sat for several hours in *lg**rs coffee house, reading Bernardine Evaristo's thoroughly enjoyable the Emperor's Babe. A novel in verse about a girl in third-century CE Londinium, of course. Except that her parents are from Nubia, her best friend's a drag queen, and she has Caledonian slaves. *lg**rs is an enlightened republic of snooty service, terrible coffee, but an atmosphere which overcompensates for those petty frustrations. [NB: the food is very good. Moreover, "snooty service" is also a desiderandum if you tip heartily and are young and attractive: I was offered twice as many refills as the woman sitting next to me.] It is also of prime importance that the interesting people sit there and can smoke indoors. It is the home of fascinating homespun shirts, artistic jewelry and beautiful humanities geeks reading Deleuze, their cheeks flushed and their bare feet breaking surreptitiously free from their sandals.
LJT has gone far away, to W*st R*x*. I have never been there and hardly speak to those who have. It is worse than her time in Siberia: at least I could email her in Siberia. I wanted to go out tonight, but I was broke and nobody called me. So instead I walked up M*ss *v* to the St*p & Sh*p, took a cooling turn along the refrigerated cases, and went home.