punctilious

Tears. Streaming down my cheeks. Semi-hysterical laughter. Gasping for air. After reading the first paragraph of this.

Okay, maybe I over reacted. But I have been recalling this moment of laugh, laugh, gasp, laugh, cry as I negotiate the other yuk, crap things that fill the day. Remember that moment.

Hey, in nine days I'm on an airplane on the way to JFK. Yes, a Friday night arrival.

A steamy, hot, murky-skied Friday night.

I may have to start smoking when I get to New York because the roof-top garden of the loft where I'm staying screams out: SMOKE A CIGARETTE, SIP ROSÉ WINE.

What will I be doing there? There is a list. One must have a list. It includes Diplo and Santogold at SummerStage on Sunday. Nothing wrong with that. Koons is at the Met. Henry Moore is at the Botanical gardens. Tom Sachs is at Lever House. A train ride to DIA:Beacon is in order. There are several interesting group shows. There are several interesting meals.

I'm totally buying flats. Shocking. I will NOT be tromping around in four inch heels on a ninety degree, sixty percent humidity day. Sweet, slim flats for me, me, me.

Already ten days seems too few? And it begins too far from now.

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