Thursday, August 20, 2015

Foul mood Thursday.

Lately, I've felt like Burl Ives' "Big Daddy," in Tennessee Williams drama "A Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."

Fat. Immobile. And angry at the state of the world.

We've been sequestered, us cats, in a hot, crappy apartment in Soho trying to solve problems, collectively, intensely, concentratedly. 

It's been hot as ass-sweat in New York the past week, and I half expect to start seeing gloomy Spanish moss begin to drape off of lamp posts.

The sedentariness of the setting (and sitting) has gotten to me. So today, I had my car drop me off way up on 23rd and Broadway. I was in the mood to walk a mile or two. Though when I finally arrived at our Soho address I was wet like a scuba diver and as pissy as a flight attendant.

But as Con Ed used to say when I was groaning up in the 1960s, 'Dig We Must.' And that's my deportment here.

I may not like any of it.

That won't stop me.

I'll do my best.

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