in the neighborhood

Tazza has been closed by the Department of Health and Mental Hygiene. (Mental Hygiene? Love that old-fashioned phrase: makes me think of whitewashing the brain). I like the place, though I don’t frequent it much. The owner makes a good hot chocolate, though, and she’s devilishly attractive. I’m sure it will reopen once they all pass their Rorschach Tests. George, the feline mayor of Henry Street, was in his tree pit, staring down a dog. I hadn’t seen him in ages and was worried about him. It was probably his first trip out all day after the rain. Mine too. (South of Atlantic, the cats on Henry are a couple of street fightin’ toughs who angle between LICH and the abandoned houses on the block looking to rumble.) A linden tree was tentatively blossoming on Joralemon. Fourteen boats in the harbor, including one of those floating motel cruise ships coming down the Hudson. I saw what I first thought was a border collie, but it was one of those Aussie’s without a tail; they tend to get rather rectangular when they don’t have sheep to chase. Troubadour Dan Zanes passed by, looking as if he might be leading the children to the edge of the BQE. Must be something of a burden to always be on for the tots, a part of that tyranny of celebrity. Ling Ling Wing Wing or whatever it’s called has had a makeover. Some damn fool on Cheever Place is still suckered by the POW-MIA myth invented by Nixon and his goons to score points off the anti-war crowd. Sure, in the criminal perversion that is Bush II, Nixon begins to look good to people with short memories. But he was a miserable shit.