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I'm in NYC for a week.

Last night I dreamed that I was staying with [ profile] mulberry_fields (which I was), and that she had a roommate (which she does), and that the roommate's room had a set of glass double doors overlooking a sweep of lawn with steps going down a small hill (which it most certainly doesn't). In the dream I also had very acute eyesight (which I don't), and so, looking to the bottom of the steps I saw a tarantula come out of a hole in the ground. Now, I don't know how many of you have ever seen a tarantula in sunlight, but when the sun glints off of the reddish brown highlights in it's glossy black, um, hair? fur? you know, spider stuff... it's really quite beautiful. So, I called to mulberry and roommate saying that they should come see the tarantula, but they weren't interested. As I turned to try to convince them, I thought I saw the tarantula pounce on a sparrow (I think there really are bird eating tarantulas). I looked again, and realized that it wasn't a tarantula at all, but a black miniature poodle. I looked again and realized that it was really a black standard poodle wearing a beret and vest (in other words, a French poodle, in case you missed that), and that it had the tarantula in its mouth! I wasn't sure who I should worry about - the dog or the tarantula.

When I told mulberry about the dream, she reckoned that it was all that Edith Piaf we played the night before.

AND THEN, AFTER LUNCH, ONE OF THOSE WEIRD THINGS HAPPENED (you know, the sort that mostly only happen to me...)

I felt all kind of normal, being back in New York and all, where I'm anonymous to everybody except my friends, and so I went to the Apple store on Greene street to check email and pretend to shop and enjoy all the a/c. I was waiting for a free computer (free in the sense that no one else was using it, not, alas, in the sense of a gift) when these two youngish (by my lights), moderately hip looking guys came up to me, and one said, in Spanish, something like "excuse me.." as if he was going to ask me a question. I had a second to wonder why he assumed I spoke Spanish, and then he continued...

You play guitar, don't you!
You sing in that mescaleria (a bar that specializes in mezcal) in Condesa, don't you! We saw you you there!

Yes... I came all the way to Soho to run into people who I had sung to, then asked money from in Mexico City. Because that's the kind of girl I am... internationally famous in a weird, not very profitable kind of way.


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July 2010

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