Today in the Middling City there is a brash warning that has those, like Yours Truly, in need of maneuvering mowers, in throes of joi: the air is in an agitated, polluted state and it has been advised from higher-up meteorologists that heavy lifting and such be avoided. Like the plague. Like touching mower blades. Like petting raccoons.
Yesterday had a marathon Starbucks editing day, five straight hours in their hyper-ac'd place until I looked down and noted that my legs were a neato shade of violet.
Today, for the sake of balance and reportage and science, I am working in a locally-owned coffee joint that has no ac on and I am sweltering.
Lesson learned. Always opt for cold when working on laptop.
When I first arrived here there were three women reading newspapers as a toddler that assumedly belonged to one of them tottered about, occasionally cracking his head on things and then screaming until one of them scooped him up and carried him outdoors. Then they'd knock on the large plate glass window amusing their little group hugely. Me and another laptopper were just not as amused.
Lesson learned. Always opt for cold, and child-free zones.
And never ever forget earbuds again to keep the screeches out, the soundtrack in.
On Thursday night went out with Kennedy and the jazz musicians, Bandmate Scott, and a couple of filmmakers for a post-concert repast. The music, speaking of soundtracks, overhead was a hideous blend of bad rock tunes, short on ironic inflections, just bad. Two of the bandmates are Brits and it was quickly noted that most of the badtunes were from their homeland. Suddenly Billy Joel came on and I noted loudly that now the quote unquote mix had reached rock bottom. Discussion turned to Mr. Joel and I regaled them with my Billy Joel lore: You know, the teleprompter on the piano, the pre-Mr. Joel stage arrival reading of The Rules (no requests, no Happy Birthday, no handing of any tapes whatsoever to Mr. Joel ... he had gone to court over stealing the riff of an aspirant). I then told them of how one of my Richmond Avenue roomies announed to me and Constance one evening that her younger brother had been living in our attic. We had heard music. He loved listening to Billy Joel. We let him continue living in the attic. We charged him dearly for the priviledge. But things took a weird turn when he listened to Mr. Joel louder and louder and Constance and I one night, arm-in-arm sung along to She's Only a Woman as if we were the deepest revellers in an earthy rathskellar. Tom/Attic Boy never spoke another word to either of us. Well, he never usually did. For he never usually left the attic, save for when he went to his engineerng classes. Then he moved back to Pennsyltucky.

Sweaty, working Love.