Friday, August 14, 2015


I'm in the shade standing in the sun off to one side
of the landing. Nearby, there's a golden girl roasting 
peppers on a grill  -  nothing to do with me, but I can
see. These little Village backyards, the run into each 
other, and people tend to mingle grandly here  -  the
flaming gay guy with his trendy fedora and the friends
of his all from the theater. Maybe Cherry Lane people,
Lucille Lortel people, I don't know. Christopher Street
guns me down. The brownstone off to the side has a
hedge-fund guy about 50 and his girlfriend about 15; so
much fun in Desiree Canyon I'm sure. Twisted. On the
side of the building, near the rear, is some sort of old
brick-oven thing built into the masonry, like a bread
or pizza over maybe, from way back when. Curious.
They just use it now for wine, storing bottles in a
dark, cool place. It guess it makes good sense. The
other guy, again, the one with the fedora, is telling
his friend he 'only drinks Creme de Menthe from
terra cotta cups'. I want to cut him short and say
I've heard that line before, from a movie or a
play or a song, but I don't, and I just let 
them play along. Their simplistic
conversation is fun to hear.

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