Monday Monday

The Ceramist illustrates a long-held theory of mine, and that is that women with white hair, gray hair, salt and pepper hair, look fantastic. It’s elegant, it’s sexy, it’s bold. It happens, chicas, celebrate it.

On the way over to the Slope across the valley of the shadow of the greasy green Gowanus Canal, the last of the sun lit up the beautiful red brick of two old warehouses, both abandoned and perhaps doomed by the developers now prowling the area like hungry jackals. A great egret flapped over me, close enough that I could see its black feet. The sun flared up on its western flank. It was eyeing the canal and considering landing, I think, but the smell of death oozing out of the strange still water kept it on the move.

Earlier in the day, I spoke with the Medic, formerly known as “D,” who also moonlights as a “School Nurse” on movie shoots. She’s had a cold, so her voice was husky and smoky and ever so erotic. She said her normal voice was high-pitched and piping, and I said, isn’t everybody’s? I’ll meet her F2F Thursday night.

Then, after my date with the Ceramist, I spoke with the Metalworker. She was in bed up there in the far north where she lives, and where they tuck in early. I kept her up past her bedtime. We’ll have lunch on Thursday. O boy, that’s going to be a busy day. What shirt should I wear?

The long day continuing past midnight, I spoke with the Poet until her cellphone battery died. I miss her.

Somewhere during the same day, I also saw two of the B musicals showing at the Film Forum. Both starred this oddball 1940’s yodler named Judy Canova, who had a country-bumpkin-hillbilly shtick and a great set of pipes. A fine representative of the old, weird Hollywood.

Not sure how I ever got to sleep after all this, but I somehow managed.