I meant to blog but then we had a lovely hang out with all the neighbors going from yard to yard, and it was a beautiful warm night and everyone was outside.


This morning at market I spent the first four hours of the day trimming, arranging and bunching lilacs, which Rick had cut from around his farm.  It was a glorious way to start the day–meditative, autonomous, beautiful, fragrant.  I remember years and years ago I took one of those hideous quizzes where they ask you 200 questions and then tell you what you’re supposed to do with your life.  At the time I got Florist.  I thought it sounded insane–what does a weird quiz know about my life that I don’t?  But–here I am, with new eyes seeking and spying the plants on every stoop.  Bunching lilacs and hoping it never ends.


Last night some folks met up at Frank’s Lounge in Ft Greene, that longstanding perfect dive bar with smart lady bartenders and faded tablecloths, all because our Argentinian activist thinker artist friend Laura had come to New York to give some kind of talk this Saturday about something. We never got onto whatever the talk was about.

Laura was here last in 2008, the last of the 2nd wave of Circus Amok shows, the year we had all the giant pink puppets resembling South American heads of state. We were (are) always short handed and she fit right in, good instincts, good flexibility in timing and surprise changes. Of which there are many. After that, she returned to Argentina, built a house on her parent’s land and continued to do the great work of screaming and drinking and fucking and living life with purpose.

Three minutes into the conversation she starts in “I don’t believe that people have a soul; the body is just a machine that stops working.” So much for nice to see you

We all praised Facebook for keeping us in touch in times when it’s important–like when her partner died in a car accident, and the reaching out and receiving was necessary. And we blamed it for all things terrible in the world–false closeness, complacency, the tragedy of babies finding themselves as adults with their childhoods chronicled forever.

Cheers to old friends.


Our friend Chris is staying with us for two nights on his way back to North Carolina. He and Kip are watching the most recent episode of Game of Thrones, and I am sitting on the couch with them. Although this show has taken over the zeitgeist, I have never watched it. So here’s some thoughts about seeing it for the first time.

I had no idea there was a supernatural element. Creepy things emerging from the ground, people communicating with trees, or tree spirits, or whatever it is. I might have been more interested had I know this. It’s not True Blood though. It shouldn’t be–I’m just saying.

I want all the rooms I enter always to be lit by flaming torches and chandeliers. I like a soft yellow light and this does the trick every time.

There are 14 story lines going at once. While I appreciate the kind of juggling a series can do deep into many seasons, I literally have no idea who anyone is and what anyone is talking about. The motivations are unclear to me. Everyone is clearly on some kind of personal quest in addition to the forces the plot lays on them.

Every other scene has 4,000 extras. It is the most beautifully shot show in the history of television. How much does this cost? Jesus christ.

Peter Dinklage remains the sexiest actor working today. His accent is weird periodically–but who cares, he is compelling, handsome, complex, and seems to know how to wield his character’s power in ways that other characters do not. Maybe this is the writing, and maybe it’s only because I find him terribly good looking.

I guess someone dies at the end of this episode, or something like that, I’ve heard a whisper on Facebook. And so, having no investment myself, I look forward to seeing how Kip and Chris react.

Tomorrow I’m buckling down on a zine for May. Inspired by seeing Kiki & Herb last weekend at Joe’s Pub.


Tonight we went to John’s on Bleecker, to eat pizza because Craig & Kim wanted to have a New York pizza moment.  There are a lot of directions to go in–but that is maybe the most well known, in Manhattan at least, so there we were, ordering root beer, coke and black cherry soda, along with two pizzas: 1) sausage, olives and mushrooms, 2) ricotta, basil and roasted tomato.  Then we ate fancy french pastry from some place down the street-Bissou was the name, or something like that.  The night was cool and everyone was out.  Every table at Grom was full, there was a line outside of John’s when we left, and there was a gaggle of families outside of Popbar talking about how someone got free coffee at Starbucks.  “What, did you show your boobs?” someone said.



139 + 140

I didn’t get to yesterday because we, as you maybe read, saw She Loves Me at Studio 54 which was totally fantastic and small in the greatest way.  So after that, we cabbed back down the Union Square, picked up the syrup van, drove home, and I was in bed by about midnight, which is roughly two hours later than I should be on a market night.  School night, market night!  And I could be better about advance planning, but this time of year there is none of that.  In some way, it’s nice to be in the moment.  Even if the moment is overwhelming?

Today was the Dance Parade along Union Square West, which is one of my most favorite things.  All manner of cultural, social, historical and contemporary dance groups and clubs make a three or four hour parade, which ends in Tompkins Square Park–a kind of salad bowl rave.  My favorites are the Bolivian Caporales, the various techno clubs, the Sisters in Motion, and the general rule is I guess the weirder the better.  Let something have absolutely no historical context–or let something have fifteen historical contexts and be a mixed representation or perversion of a traditional dance language.  Those kinds of groups are the most exciting.

For dinner I did a spring frittata–yellow dutch shallots, spinach and muenster scattered with about a half cup of kale flowers before going under the broiler.  A little black pepper, a little nutmeg to go with the spinach.  I mixed some ramp pesto into the eggs because there is still so very much of it and it has to be somewhere.  Then simple roasted asparagus from Cherry Lane Farms.  Then half a pint of Talenti pistachio ice cream.  We’re not totally out of control.


When you do two loads of laundry and run the dishwasher twice in one evening.

Kip’s brother and his wife are coming to town tomorrow, and tomorrow evening we are seeing She Loves Me at Studio 54, with Laura Benanti and Jane Krakowski.  I am looking forward to seeing the set, which everyone has been talking about–both good and bad.  After last week’s The Crucible, there probably couldn’t be any show farther from that one. What fun!

Roberta’s is selling flash frozen, cryovac’d pizzas, which really aren’t all that good.  They only want you to cook it for 5 minutes, because I guess the whole idea is that it retains the wood-fired aspect because it’s cooked in a wood fire–or something.  How sad!

Today I was driving back from Hartford and I was going about 65 in the right lane, which was about as fast as anyone could go because of the density of traffic–this is totally normal.  I could see in the rear mirror some dude in a gray minivan going way to fast, changing lanes over and over, and when he tried to get around me I just stayed the course and waited for a moment to get over.  Then when I did the guy gave me the finger.  The best!


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