Scaffolded: A Pity Party

I don't believe in signs. Or horoscopes or hope or prayer or karma. But waking up today to find scaffolding shrouding the lovely landmarked building on a quiet tree-lined street that I call home seemed, at least, portentious.

I've always hated scaffolding. Some may see it as a sign of progress and renewal but to me it's urban blight, an old dame getting one more facelift before the end. I almost died, once, on a claustrophobically scaffolded block (Parade of Heroes or whatever, 19-- or 20-- whatever when the Yankees won the World Series for the second or third time in a row and I felt compelled to join the crowds on lower Broadway. I -- and dozens of others -- nearly suffocated when the police way up ahead stopped the crowd and the thousands behind us just... kept going.)

Today, after heading to work from beneath said scaffolding, I felt bowed by the heat and humidity -- and like I was walking under a ladder I couldn't avoid. Work was work... good distraction and I got a lot done but felt like I was surrounded by sensitive, angry porcupines.

Excuse me, I have to go find some Tarot cards.

No Recount

Well. Okay. Paris it is. (See below, you slacker non-voters.) And Brooklyn too. So there. Last night I watched Recount, with well-founded trepidition. I knew that to relive the horror of the Bush/Gore vote count would be depressing (though the movie was kind of riveting, in a train-wreck kind of way and what's not to love about any Kevin Spacey role?) but I didn't expect having to go to sleep listening to NPR and the whole Hilary/Obama Michigan/Florida (Florida!) craziness being dissected all night. It was disconcerting to say the least.

Rabbit rabbit. June means summer in NYC, and it's already started. I busted out of my cocoon to go to the gym and actually worked out (last week, I went there and signed up, phew, what a workout!). Jello-legged but feeling righteous, I spent a nice couple of hours with S. for a late lunch at a new find, Oscar Cafe, right there on MacDougal Street south of Houston. Delightful menu. A nice, light (kind of) avocado crab salad pleasantly filled my gym-flattened stomach, while a cool fat bulldog drooled onto my sandaled feet as we sat in the sun/shade outside. S., as usual, knew everyone on the street, and those whom he didn't, he befriended right then and there. Amazing. I took many mental notes.

Weekend ends with watching Crooklyn, which I assumed I'd seen way back when, but it turns out I had only listened (and owned, and relistened to) the soundtrack, which is great. I found myself really giving a nod to Spike Lee (one of my heroes in film school) whom I had kind of written off, don't know why.

Au revoir, YSL.