Monthly Archives: June 2011


Yesterday was yet another gorgeous day in New York City. We’ve had day after day of sunshine and blue skies. There have been lovely breezes to mitigate the heat, which hasn’t even been all that awful. It’s definitely “get outside” weather. I love running errands because it gives me an excuse to wander with a purpose. Walking the streets of New York is electric. I heart heart heart this city.

I had my third acupuncture session night before last and it culminated in a bit of a melt-down. Rez told me that was not abnormal, especially after some serious “trigger point” work, which we (I?) experienced; it’s a very bizarre sensation.

Which brings me to my latest “mood check”: anxious. I’m staring down a three month stint in the desert. The geographical space is vast and spectacular and stunning. I love my crew and enjoy the work we do. But there are moments when I feel trapped. There is truly no respite from that vastness. One day it can be breathtaking and humbling, the next it can be stifling and panic-attack-inspiring, breathlessness in a whole new way.

I’m excited to be taking a “newbie” with me to work. It’s the employee/volunteer version of bringing along a virgin to the event. I’ll be able to experience the excitement of being out there early through her eyes. To be present when The Golden Stake is driven into the packed alkali is definitely incredible.

This will be my tenth year. It’s tough, having worked behind the scenes, not to feel jaded — even more jaded than grizzled veterans ordinarily are. I was watching a video of the Temple build that someone posted and, sadly, rather than feeling awe (or whatever), I found myself a bit disgusted…at the amount of wood and man hours being wasted. This isn’t my usual reaction to playa-bound projects. A friend had mentioned feeling the same way about the CORE Project, the “Circle of Regional Effigies,” saying she thought it was wasteful to bring so much wood from such far-flung places, only to burn it on Thursday. Well, that’s the whole point of the event: burning art. Perhaps not the whole point but most definitely an emphasis.

Anyway, so my blend of ambivalence about the art and anxiety about the ex combined with the love love love I’ve been feeling for my city, right here, has been contributing to these feelings of trepidation. Rez asked, “Do you want to go?” It isn’t an easy question to answer. There are many reasons I do want to go. And probably just as many I don’t. Most importantly, I want to have more fun than I did last year. Which shouldn’t be too difficult. And if I’m ever going to get over this ex, it will have to be in close proximity to him, to eradicate the distant mythology of him. Those are probably the two primary reasons I need to go, aside from my actual commitment to work. It will be what it will be and I will be better and stronger on the other side. That’s all I can say.

Perhaps what is contributing most to my emotional confusion is that I don’t feel like I can really, truly get on with my life until after these three months are over. And I am very anxious for that!

Shooting (Jesus) Fish in a Barrel

In my relentless pursuit of hilarity — as opposed to true love — I’ve continued spelunking on the interwebs, which isn’t news to you, my dear readers. Most recently I joined two sites that are so pathetically cringe-worthy that I’m embarrassed to mention them. Well, not that embarrassed. The first one was SeniorPeopleMeet, which I ridiculed in an earlier post. They continue to send me new “matches” and some of the guys don’t look too objectionable. I haven’t forked over the cash to contact anyone, but I might soon, once I’m out in the desert with nothing but time (and a whole lotta booze) on my hands. Stay tuned.

The second one I signed up for is — brace yourselves — ChristianMingle. I KNOW! I’m about as far from religious as can be AND am well aware that the chances of my having anything at all in common with a man who’d be on that site are probably zero. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be amusing to try. Who knows? Their tag line is “Find God’s Match for You” (TM). I’d be willing to suspend judgement — and disbelief — if it leads to eternal happiness. Or at least life-long happiness.

I haven’t paid my membership dues, so I can only sit passively while God-fearing men visit my profile, give me “flirts” or send me email messages that I’m unable to read. I’m weighing the idea of actually joining.

Making fun of the fat old men in flannel shirts and baseball caps on SeniorPeopleMeet is easy enough; ridiculing the Christians is more like, literally, shooting (Jesus) fish in a barrel. The mere fact that they go to church doesn’t make for great comedy. However, some of their profile info is ripe for the pickin’:

This hot little number describes himself as “full-figured,” which I’m pretty sure was meant to be for women to click. His favorite TV show is the “700 Club. No surprise, then, that he’s a Conservative. Or that he’s never been married.

This guy could use a better photo. I can’t even see his face. He’s a Catholic and I’m less afraid of them than the Fundamental types and he even drinks “On occasion.” If only I could get a closer look…

Another shot that’s so small I can’t see his face. What is it with guys who pose by their cars? I see it on all the sites. Does it say “Look, I have a car?” Or “Look, I can drive?” Or is just an extension of their penises? Either way, it’s not a good look. What if women posed with their shoe collections? Pets are one thing, as they (supposedly) help to humanize you. Cars just make you look desperate. And don’t get me started on shots beside boats!

Yet another shot of a whole body. Look, I have one! This is the most unfortunate because he actually looks cute. Equally unfortunate, however, is his identifying as an “Ultra Conservative.” The rest of his profile looks acceptable, but his grasp of commas leaves something to be desired: “I am freindly,outgoing,and I love God. I love the outdoors,good food,music and enjoy long rides,” [sic] I adore the fact that he’s “a somewhat fashionable person.” Word. Diggin’ that cowboy hat. “Innewengland,” no less.

On the whole, most of these guys don’t look half bad, to the degree that is’t tough to find fault. Again, not the funniest. That I wouldn’t have much in common with them is sort of beside the point. I’m sure there are plenty of God-fearing women out there anxiously awaiting divine dating intervention.

It’s actually kind of shocking to me that so many people attend church on a weekly basis. Or say they do. If everyone in Manhattan decided to go to church next Sunday I don’t think there’d be room in the local houses of worship to hold them all. Even with staggered services. If Middle America is predominantly Christian, that makes sense. It’s the tri-state area that I assumed was less pious. You know what they say about assumptions. I don’t suppose I need to point out that I live in a bit of a bubble.

I’m also somewhat flummoxed at how few of these folks drink. Many checked “Never.” Never? Really? I could probably get over their church attendance before I could get over their sobriety.

Equally shocking is how many 50-somethings are interested in having children. Do people really want to be in wheelchairs at their kids’ college graduations? Just sayin’.

Okay, so that wasn’t quite as hilarious as I thought it would be. But no less true. Perhaps over the summer I’ll consider becoming “reborn.” Again, stay tuned!

Overall, I’d give this site a shot if I weren’t so afraid of rejection. I mean, once they found out what a heathen I am — in myriad alarming ways — I’m sure I’d get the old heave-ho. Ho-ho. Maybe I’ll create a fictional me and engage in make-believe romancing. Sigh. I’ll look for signs from heaven…

Super Gay Weekend

This past weekend was a whirlwind of GAY! What began Friday night as drinks on the roof deck (but was more like drinks in my living room) wound up being an ebullient celebration of legalized gay marriage in front of The Stonewall Inn. A group of us traipsed over from my apartment and merged with the joyous crowds in the Village. It was an amazing night! And I made it onto TV via the AP reporter who was crammed in with us. My friends and I sang an a capella version of “Goin’ to the Chapel” and joined the whole mass of people for “New York, New York.” The streets were filled with proud New Yorkers, both gay and straight. It was exciting to be part of history in the making.

Saturday I went out to Governors Island in the afternoon to affix the final Figment signage: three art and mini golf maps of Figment (at Liggett) Terrace. After a few quick staplegunnings, I enjoyed a chai latte by the water and waited to meet Jess, who’d finagled tickets to the Governors Island Gay Pride Show at Water Taxi Beach. We had a few drinks and watched the sunset, surrounded by hundreds of sexy, shirtless gay boys, danced to house music and then saw Olivia Newton John. She only sang three songs but she was worth the wait!

Sunday morning I woke up early and got my glitter on in anticipation of the Pride Parade. I met up with Christopher and Bradford and we cabbed it up to 38th and 5th to rendezvous with the rest of our posse. We were a motley group of burners, with more joining us as we marched down Fifth Avenue. It was the perfect day to be decked out in my rainbow sequin cloak with black feather boa trim, but it did get a bit warm while dancing beside the Callen-Lorde float. They had a great DJ and Lynda Carter!

We made it all the way to the end of the parade route, where it became crucial for everyone to get a drink. I couldn’t continue on with the gaiety because I had house guests arriving so I reluctantly crossed town in my sparkles.

The extended weekend festivities made me reflect upon peoples’ politics. While being gay is not a choice, politics are, and unfortunately who you sleep with can be a political statement, whether you want it to be or not. Sadly, there are plenty of people who choose to hate based solely on a person’s sexual preference. I have what I’ll refer to as “a newly minted lesbian” in the family now though I doubt she’d refer to herself in that fashion. I’ve hung around with the freaks for so long that there’s no question where my politics lie (or get laid). It will be interesting to see how — or if — her beliefs change over time. For now, I’ll provide enough gay pride for the both of us!

Feeling Strong, Now!

Okay, so I’m feeling a little bit better today…the fact that my Mac crashed and cost me a cool $450 (that I totally cannot afford) to fix might have factored into my funk. Thank yous to The Poet, E and Ironman for their kind words. My editor of the “published piece” has advised me not to directly address reader responses. I couldn’t help myself. So from a more positive perspective, I’d like to address some of those insensitive comments here:

bah, she’s the same age as my mom.

Oh. So does that mean that because you can’t imagine your mom having (or enjoying) sex that all women your mom’s age shouldn’t?

Anyone who refers to themselves as “legend”, in or out of print, is anything but a legend.

Uh, I didn’t refer to myself as a legend. It was a comment from a friend who I was quoting. Agreed, a bit self-congratulatory.

WOW! I know who this writer is. She is a drugged up self absorbed Burning Man type.

Yes, yes, she most certainly is! Okay, I’m not completely and totally self-absorbed. And not perpetually drugged-up. Burning Man type? Most definitely.

why is a 52 year old living in the east village? I live in the east village and feel like I’m old enough to be the parent of most of the kids I see walking around. Dude, I’m still in my 20s. Note to writer. Move to UES, and buy a couple cats.

Let’s see. How many things are wrong with this comment? Is there an age limit for living in the East Village? I see plenty of ancient folks pushing their walkers around here. Clearly the commenter can’t afford to live here, which is why I live here. I wouldn’t live on the Upper East Side if it were free! Idiot. But you’re still in your 20s, so perhaps that’s a given…

OMG.. I’m not even sure what I want my sex life to be like when I’m 52. I would rather just be super super super rich and not have one. 

Well, having a sex life is certainly preferable to not having one. And you can’t blame anyone for wanting one! If you’d rather be “super super super rich,” good luck to you! It’s easier for a 52-year-old to get laid than to magically become “super super super rich.”

I know we’re always being told to applaud the older set for trying to be sexual, it’s just kind of gross.

Well, I hope that when you reach 50, your sex life is zilch, zero, zip, nada! Cause that would be, ya know, gross. Karma is a bitch!

And lastly, one comment came from a fellow blogger:
interesting. single and 52 has more masturbating and sexual experimentation than single and 25. i can’t tell whether i’m worried, amused, sympathetic or vaguely grossed out.

I gave her a comment on her blog:
I hope things work out between you and your new boyfriend. If they don’t, you may find yourself single…perhaps even at 52.
I would never have imagined I’d be single and 52, I’ll tell you that! I’ve had a number of boyfriends and was married for a long time but, well, life happens. I sure as hell have had a fucking wild ride (both literally and figuratively) and wouldn’t change a thing.
The fact that you’d feel ANY of those things at the mere thought of a 52-year-old experimenting sexually just points to your young age and relative inexperience. Most “olds” are stuck in miserable sexless marriages. No one knows what the future will bring. You might want to be careful about what you make fun of. Cause 25 years from now, you could be ME! Bwahahahah!

Honestly, the more I look at these immature responses the better I feel. I’m sure I would’ve been disgusted by horny 50-year-olds when I was in my 20s but I would’ve been a bit more sensitive if I’d been addressing their sex lives. Or lack thereof. Ideally, I’ll have a whole new story to tell by the time I get back from the playa!

Self. Absorbed.

This past Sunday was the Coney Island Mermaid Parade, one of my annual High Holy Days. It was, as always, a sunny, sweaty blast, filled with glitter and grog, bubbles and boobs, creative costumes and plenty of beer. I posted all my pix on Facebook except for this one, a self-portrait I’ll call “The Morning After.”

I’ve been obsessed with my body lately. The changes it’s been going through, how it feels to me. How it might feel to someone else. I grew up super self-conscious and over the past few years (or decades, actually) had become more confident. That confidence has been failing me as of late.

I recently had a short piece “published” online. I won’t link to it because, well, it’s somewhat mortifying, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the title the editor gave it, a rather misleading one. What is more disturbing are the many “comments,” reactions from readers. They range from disgust at the mere thought of someone 52 having (or wanting to have) sex to complete dismissal of everyone over 50. Those are just the two most depressing angles of many that sent me into a deep funk. And upon reflection — on sex and dating and High Holy Days and (still) pretending I’m 25 — I can see why women disappear into the country to throw pots or quilt or do similarly “old lady” type things. Society just doesn’t want to acknowledge that women over 50 can remain vibrant beings. Bah.

I’ve considered the idea of telling people I’m 60.  The problem with that plan is that I’m so far out there as who I am — age, weight, hair color (carpets and drapes!), not to mention every job I’ve had or guy I’ve blown — that making believe I’m someone else or anything but precisely who and what I am would be impossible. So I’m stuck being me: 52-year-old, single, divorced, unemployed, ex-pornographer (and ex-awholebunchofotherthings). I’ll head out into the desert soon, where at least I’m “middle management” with a semi-decent reputation as a capable human being. Maybe what I really need to do is disappear completely, go to some far-off island or remote jungle and volunteer to thatch huts or something. For now I’m gonna go to bed and eat bon-bons. 


Speaking of poetry, this non-sensical sentence that showed up in my spam filter struck me as oddly artistic: “When these pretzels eradicate one should tarnish what they steal or blink their wide nature.”

This past week was exhausting: a series of “customer disservice” frustrations, a day-long photo shoot with Alex Colby and The Mermaid Parade.

Last night was the sort of night that made me wish I could sleep outside.

The LED that I brought home from Coachella is still emitting light!

These random thought fragments are why I love blogging.

I began this exercise in extreme navel-gazing as a way to cultivate discipline, to get into the habit of writing every day. Friends recommended that I focus on one topic: Dating or Aging or Sex. But I’m too much of a Gemini to be that single-minded. I have lots to say about a lot of things. So the blog has become like a diary of sorts, self-reflection and self-help, an arena to air my concerns and neuroses, mull over my troubles and seek reassurance through the ether, as well a very public kind of therapy. It’s an opportunity to think aloud and, occasionally, receive a response.

But something happened recently that has stifled my self-expression, curbed my creativity and impacted my sanity. When I blogged about hearing some unappealing news that, quite frankly, didn’t involve or directly affect me, the post garnered my highest readership yet, probably because it involved drama: sex and intrigue and heartbreak. It inspired a few responses that also made for good reading. Unfortunately it provoked an unwanted comment from the subject of the post, the subject of more than one post, in fact: the ex-boyfriend. And it has left me feeling a bit paralyzed.

I’ve mentioned that I will soon be seeing this man at three meals a day, in an environment where there is, quite literally, no escape. We will have to co-exist for three months in as harmonious a fashion as possible. In the past, that hasn’t been easy. The times when we were in close proximity but not “together” brought drama on a level I had never before experienced. So I am apprehensive. And I have no interest in antagonizing him or escalating the drama in any way. Yet I do feel compelled to write about it because that is how I cope. (And in my self-involved imagination, I’ve felt like I’ve been letting my readers down lately, since my posts have lacked their usual depth. My candor and ability to tell my truth, unvarnished and “out there,” is what my readers tell me they find compelling.)

I was aware that he read my blog because of an email he sent me back in March that made reference to a post. My response to him included two sentences that informed him how I felt about it: “It seems you’re well aware how things are going for me.” and “I find communicating with you to be excruciatingly painful.” That was the last I heard from him, thankfully, and I assumed he had moved on.

Why he chose to read my blog again is beyond me. He has, in the past, complained bitterly about women who have “stalked” him and I found his interest in my day-to-day life to be somewhat stalker-like. We had severed all ties, as communicating with him in my few attempts at friendship had been disappointingly unsuccessful. And hurtful. Perhaps mutual friends pointed him in my direction because he was the subject of the post. In any event, his response rattled me. He essentially wanted to censor me.

Whatever his motivations were, this is my little corner of the web. Mine. To demand that I never mention him again is unreasonable. A great percentage of my readership is comprised of total strangers who’ve found me through mutual interests — or mutual tag clouds. Anyone reading who does know me is capable of making their own decisions on who — and what — to believe, as well as who to like or dislike. None of my words here are intended to inflict damage upon anyone. They’re not lies. Or “yarns,” as he qualified them. They are my experiences and my emotions, my ideas and my opinions. To which I am, unequivocally, entitled.

If he reads this, let’s hope he agrees.

Poetry & Bile

So apparently The Poet isn’t the only one who’s felt inspired by me. I recently received this poem by “South Dakota” in my OkCupid box and when I didn’t respond in a timely fashion, he emailed it to me, along with the preceding note to his friend Steve, who he believes might be a good match for me.

It has a certain tang of bitterness and I’m not quite sure why. It’s obvious that he’s read my blog and  I will assume that he doesn’t approve…of me or my lifestyle. He’s careful not to out-and-out judge but the judgement is there nevertheless. In our private correspondence he’s asked about Burning Man and seems skeptical that people aren’t all there for “the ritual,” as though it’s some Wiccan sex-fest. Which I suppose it is, for a specific slice of the burning demographic. Anyway:

Hi Steve:
What do you think about this poem that I wrote for that girl that I emailed you about sometime back to your OkCupid mailbox.  Yeah, the one that matches me zero percent and that is a 71 percent enemy just like you according to their rating system robot, the one Mary and I were joking about setting you up with, if she ever did get around to telling you, since Abby is looking for a guy to come join her in her West Village NY apartment.  I sent it to her but she hasn’t commented yet, she’ll probably like it, but she may want to slap me! lol

A Sweet Saturday Poem For Abby, by TK
Written June eighteenth, Twenty-Eleven

Life is an exhausting afterparty:
Butter and mayonnaise with crusts cut off,
You want a little?  I will give you some
Frosting of my already tasty cake.

Knock, a steady stream of gentlemen knock,
Go away boy-toy, I’m no longer young,
Sheesh, ya wippersnapper, go somewhere else;
I am more than a Mommy fantasy.

Please forgive my extreme navel gazing;
Where now are all the lovers on my list?
I’ve been mulling this over and over,
Friends are just lovers without all the sex.

Salivating seniors with wrinkled paws,
Bwahahaha, I’m available, not!
Older or fatter or starting to bald?
Not wanting to settle, up turns my nose.

Drinking and tanning were part of my life,
Rollar skating is my lovely fetish,
Star Spangle Banner chokes me up inside,
I don’t feel so terribly fetching lately.

Kiss me oh tall hairy toothy giant,
Love me sublime one, oh perfect someone,
Be faithful to me, I’m your sex goddess,
Celebrate with me now and feel my pain.

I love Burning Man loves your inner slut,
I volunteer, my eye is on the crew,
I worked my ass for free, but not for pay,
Forget your troubles, just party with me.

Hot dogs and burgers and bright-eyed newbies,
I’m in a great mood, not a smidge of snark,
Look at my corset and high-heeled boots,
The place is packed and people jam the mic.

Familiar faces wore my pajamas,
Release me from this sick hypnotic spell,
Thankyouverymuch it’s time to go home,
Pray for me cuz I’m trying to find love.

I’m not your wife and I’m not your girlfriend,
Would rather die on an island alone,
Than bend the knee and merge my heart with thine,
I’m told I’m hot and sexy all the time.

We play spin-the-bottle and truth or dare,
Passion and reason and games of the heart,
I pray for someone who will love me back,
Life is what’s left when we get done crying.

Out there somewhere is the man of my dreams,
Forever to love and never to part,
I yearn to know when at long last we’ll we meet,
Teach me sweet muse how to look at the heart.

And my response:

Morning, Tim!
I hadn’t responded because I was out enjoying the summer sunshine, the Mermaid Parade and, well, you know….being hot and sexy!
I’m not sure I’d call it a “sweet” poem. It has a healthy measure of bile in it. I wonder why you sound so bitter.
And who is this Steven person? Do you think we’d be a 70% + match? Wink.
Anyway, I see that you’ve taken some time with this, so I appreciate the effort. Hope you’re cool with me posting it to my blog! Heh.

Sunshine & Poetry

I had lunch today with The Poet. It was our most enjoyable afternoon yet. The first “date” was the most awkward, being a blind date and all. He brought me to tears. Our second meeting wasn’t really a date, since we’d decided that we’d be friends and nothing more. I brought him to tears. Today there were no tears. Just a whole lot of deep discussion, advice and conjecture. And lunch! And errands! And iced coffee in the park! It was probably the most beautiful day of the year and I was happy to have someone to share it with. It doesn’t hurt that The Poet says very nice things to me. (Or that he buys lunch. Thank you!)

He’s been a long-time reader of my blog and I asked for his advice on a specific situation that’s been kinda hangin’ me up and holdin’ me back. I’m not quite ready to act on his advice but at least I’ve got my motivations straight and know that when I do, my head and heart will both be in the right place.

For now, I’m feeling spent and ready to sleep. Another big day tomorrow of logistics at my sister’s new apartment, trying to get these two dogs adopted and a crafting gathering with friends to work on our Mermaid Parade costumes! For now, I’ll leave you with the latest from The Poet:

When I first met sweet Abby
She claimed forty-nine
As her age on a profile
Her pictures divine

We had a few laughs
And more serious thoughts
While chatting online
True lovers we sought

We talked of romance
And the smells of attraction
And of heartache and longing
Of desires and passion

We had two friendly lunches
On sunny weekdays
And then I soon learned
She had a birthday in May

The friends celebrated
No time for her slumber
They shared in her birthday
Seems fifty-two is the number

I must honestly say
That she looks great even now
She is sexy and stacked
Not a hint of a dowd

So when you see Abby
Tell her she smells great
And don’t be surprised
If she looks thirty-eight.

Abby of a Certain Age

On Saturday, someone referred to me as “grandma.” Not in a “Hey Grandma!” mean-spirited sort of way but in a situation with my niece, as in “Her grandma is over there.” Sigh. Do I really look like a grandma? I certainly know I’m old enough to be one; if I’d had a kid when I was 25 and they had a kid when they were 25, my grandchild would be 2. GAAAAAHHHH!

I feel as though I’ve crossed some sort of rubicon. It’s been a very slow process, as aging is, I suppose. One day you’re 12. Then your 22. And all of a sudden you’re 52. Wha’happened? I’ve always believed women only have a few somewhat amorphous ages: kid, teenager, vaguely no longer living at home but not quite yet a woman, a woman, a woman of a certain age and old lady. I am officially a woman of a certain age, a euphemism for old broad, which I prefer. It’s used for women who are no longer “young” but aren’t quite bent over and ancient. Yet.

I’ve been worried about becoming invisible, being the woman too old to matter, no longer turning heads,, inspiring whistles or receiving admiring glances. I’ve watched these invisible women as people talk over them, bump into them and generally disregard them. I don’t want to be that. Thank heavens I still have “a nice rack,” as my friend Austin puts it, that at least gets me some attention.

Regardless of how much of an old broad I am, I’m still not ready to date an old man. I see fat, balding, totally objectionable dudes with surprisingly pretty women, women who, are, um, similar to me…in age, looks, lack of enormous middle sections and stringy grey hair and orthopedic shoes and…well, you get the picture. This one guy in particular, who I will assume is suuuuper impressed with himself, caused me concern. He was on his way to Figment in his stylin’ kilt. He had all his hair. And a belly the size of Santa’s. But his lady friend was tan and trim and attractive, with auburn hair and a fashionable outfit. I could tell by the way he was conducting himself that he thought he was a real catch. I mean, look at all that hair! Who cares if he has an extra 50 pounds folded over the waistband of his stylin’ kilt? The thought of fucking that guy made me gag. I’d rather not fuck anyone. Which may, actually, wind up being the case!

I’m gonna go dye my hair…

Figment & Broadway & Mars, Oh My!

It has been a busy week! Wrapping up signage for Figment, helping my sister by sweating in her apartment with no air conditioning on the hottest day of the year, unpacking all her new dishes and glasses, shlepping to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy sheets and blankets (Have you shopped for that stuff lately? Sheets are expensive!), arranging her flat screen TV to be installed, going over the list of things in the place that needed to be fixed. Like the AC! Oh, did I mention it’s a brand new building! And it cost a fucking fortune? You’d think everything would be perfect. Well you’d be WRONG!

Anyway. She paid me for all that help, which is a big help. I’ve been living off my parents for months (among other things…and the occasional gig) so any income is welcome. But back to my busy week! Figment was a big job, with multiple aggravations. In the end, everyone loved the signs. I’m still waiting for my tickertape parade!

Friday night was beers on my roof deck. It was a perfect evening — not too hot, not too cold. The weather has been insanely changeable. Saturday I made it out to the island early so I could see the event in action before I had to be in Times Square for Book of Mormon. Wow. It was amazing! Great music, hilarious script, incredible performances and surprisingly inspiring. From there it was 11 kids being shepherded through expensive shops and then to Mars 2112. Loud. Very loud. I was exhausted and retired to my couch to watch the Saturday Night Live re-run.

Today I dashed out to meet the Conte posse for breakfast, all of us crammed into diner booths. A cloudy day and a trip to the island to get reimbursed for art supplies turned into a longer  afternoon and sunshine. That was followed by the big “Thank You” afterparty at Beckett’s, which was most enjoyable. Now I’m home and, again, exhausted. I need to go back out to the island tomorrow and make sure our signs are stored. And make one more. Then it will really be a wrap!