9 p.m., Upper West Side

It rained — no, poured — this afternoon, and self got to watch the whole thing from the window of a friend’s place in the Village. Then, just as she headed out to go back home, it stopped (luck, and yet more luck). And the world was born anew. And everything smelled so fresh. And self saw the Angelika Movie Theater across the street begin to fill up, and she got a cab the minute she stuck an arm out, and she went to a restaurant called Fatty Crab to meet her nephew (he walked straight across Central Park and it only took him 20 minutes), and had “fatty duck” and beef rendang and something called “sliders” that turned out to be mini-hamburgers, and while self was walking home, somewhere on 73rd, her phone rang and it was Penny calling from Ohio, from the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, and she told self that she was having a fabulous time, she was having to write a story a day but loving it.

And wasn’t that the darndest thing about the South Carolina governor, who said he was hiking on the Appalachian Trail and ended up being in Argentina, and wouldn’t you think politicians would know by now, especially after witnessing Eliot Spitzer’s flame-out, but people will never learn, or maybe it’s just that he was really in love and it made him crazy, who knows.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.


3 responses to “9 p.m., Upper West Side”

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