For those of you who loathe New York City and everything in it, please know that my adopted home town is obscenely hot and humid today. I just returned from a visit to the National Academy Museum and am too limp to blog about it. I’m supposed to go hear an outdoor concert in Central Park tonight and am praying for a timely thunderstorm.
Gloat while you can. Your time will come.
UPDATE: Sure enough, the sky fell, but I went to the concert anyway, got soaked to the skin, and had a wonderful time. The breeze blew the humidity away and the rain drove the malcontents away, meaning that everybody who toughed it out was in a mood to be pleased when the music started. Pink Martini, whom I adore (I have such a crush on China Forbes),
opened the proceedings with a wonderfully polished set, while David Byrne, who is touring with a six-piece string section, filled all the aging scenesters in the crowd with delight. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard several thousand happy concertgoers howling Psycho killer, qu’est-ce que c’est? at the top of their lungs.
No sooner did Byrne hit the stage than fancy footwork broke out in our quadrant of the park–I was especially charmed by two somewhat youngish ladies who spent the entire evening performing what can only be called an interpretative dance–and by the time his set was over, the sun had finally set and the lights of Manhattan were bouncing off the low-lying thunderheads, tinting them a dark reddish-orange.
As I walked home, I asked myself if there were any other place in the world where I might possibly care to live. Answer came there none….