Secret Pop

Jun 8, 2005

I'll be dead by Christmas.

Two hours sleep last night. Four hours the night before. Tonight, I will maybe get two and a half. I realize that I am in New York City, and that is what one does when one is here. At least when one is me. So do not misconstrue this as complaining. It is nearly five in the morning, and I've been out all night with one of my most precious friends, whom I've not seen since a brief airport rendezvous in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-six. He took me barhopping and stoop-sitting, and it was never nearly enough time. And I sometimes wish I could collapse the continent. Fold it right down the middle and bring my lovely friends closer to me whenever possible. I also managed to shatter a small candle and splash wax all over myself and him. At least he won't misremember me as someone not clumsy. Because that would be erroneous.

Today, I ate a plate of raw arugula with no dressing and a few raw oysters and yaki onigiri. I drank at least my own volume in iced coffee. And it's humid as all get out. And I wish I wasn't going to feel like I was never here when all is said and done, but there is a grave risk of that. Every time I step out onto the turnip-smelling street, I have to pause for a moment and go, "Oh, yeah. I'm in New York. Huh." Once I fully figure it out, I'll be back in Los Angeles, and convinced it never happened.

I should have packed a different wardrobe. I'm not at all pleased about my wearable options tomorrow. I like a Gershwin tune just fine. But New York in June is probably a bit lower down on my list. How about you?

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