I Hope You Like Jammin’ Too

Black man, gray beard, brown shirt. Duct-taped guitar. A few chords begin promisingly when the train sits silent in the Canal Street station. Then:

“We jammin’…”

It comes forth as a quiet croak, as if the man is a young boy with a choked windpipe. I feel joy at the mellow sound but repulsion at the entire performance. Perversion evokes complex feelings.

~

Last night I went to the finale for “Project Runway” at a swank hotel. Watched the last episode with the finalists and hung out with them beforehand. (Commence massive jealousy, my massively jealous friends.) Austin Scarlett had an odd habit of staring at me then smiling until I smiled back and laughed a little. It was incredibly odd, and happened about three times during the night. He seems to wear less makeup in person than on the show, although I have to say his polka-dotted scarf does nothing for him.

Michael had an entourage.

Jeffrey's neck is less wide in person.

Alison, will you be my new BFF?

[Quick shout out to the kids in Brighton. Holla back, yo. Um, yeah.]