3.24.26

"I'm goin' down to the Greyhound Station, gonna get a ticket to ride

Gonna find that lady with two or three kids and sit down by her side

Ride 'til the sun comes up and down around me 'bout two or three times

Smokin' cigarettes in the last seat

Tryin' to hide my sorrow from the people I meet and get along with it all

Go down where the people say "y'all"

Feed the pigeons some clay, turn the night into day

Start talkin' again when I know what to say"

-Blaze Foley, Clay Pigeons

A brilliant blue sky over Manhattan this morning.

Funny how these posts have become less political during our time here. Too much real life going on around us, I guess. Surrounded by amazing people, mostly young and filled with irrational hope, within walking distance of half a hundred amazing restaurants, with access to cultural events limited only by time and budget. Oliver Wendell Holmes's archetype of the Bad Man remains in the White House, but the insult to one's senses is attenuated here.

Not so back home in Florida. P and I couldn't wait to turn the truck north and start driving after our Spring Break trip to the Sunshine State. An acquaintance and a politico at the next table at Alice's on Bayview loudly discussing the latest MAGA talking point. A young man I mentored and think the world of, trying to reason around the utter failure and moral depravity of the current administration, a topic he somehow saw fit to raise. It seems if one swims in that toxic miasma down there, it's impossible not to open one's mouth every now and then and get a swallow of the badness all around. Formerly rational doctors listening to country music. A guy I once sat with at Kiwanis blathering about the dangers of shariah law (how is that any different from having First Baptist Church dictate one's policies?).

So, for the good of our mental health, better to be here, notwithstanding the comment from our septegenarian, five times married Elks brother in Perry the other night that there's no way he'd live in a city with a Muslim mayor. I've got news for you, brother--NYC seems just fine without you, and I can't imagine any of the folks around me here would choose Perry.

Meanwhile, Dean has finally settled into Peg's lap after spending the morning running around the apartment and periodically bopping Slane on the head, trying to get someone to ease the boredom by playing with him.

Slane, for his part, displayed his madness first by howling into the spare bedroom like he was trying to wake the dead, then settling in on the couch to compulsively lick the same spot on his back, over and over.

Okay, I suppose I've found the two denizens of the Lower East Side who would in fact prefer Taylor County to their present housing situation.

Last night we traveled to the Met for Madame Butterfly. I don't have words--it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced. And Peg was her most lovely, obviously enjoying the scene almost as much as her $60 glass of champagne.

If you look over her shoulder you can see the gentleman in an orange dress, towering in spiked heels at maybe six foot three. Peg complimented him on his sartorial boldness.

We took a cab home, driven by Jorge from Ecuador. Jorge has been here over thirty years, and owns the cab. He started out in NYC, but moved to Pennsylvania years ago, and commutes. He married a woman from Ecuador and brought her here, both of them working to put their kids through school. One's an architect in San Diego. All these cab drivers and DoorDash cyclists still believe in the American dream, and tell a story my great great grandparents would readily recognize. Why don't my Panama City neighbors want them here?

Time to get to work. Much to do today, but we'll still carve out a little time to go to lunch. Peg's thinking Lebanese.