though it’s only 11:30 i feel totally wiped out. appropriate for the end of an urban evening. my friend marc from skool is in town staying w/ his brother in dupont circle. we met at 5:30, dined at a thai restaurant to the accompaniment of two cosmopolitans (that’s the 2nd time in a row i haven’t been carded. do i look older or in this wintry economic climate does nobody care?) i enjoyed a introductory meeting with marc’s brother. in the midst of siblingish bickering, he looked up at me and said, “you have terrific hair. i’ll bet you get that all the time. have you seen yentl? you know what they’re trying to do w/ amy irving’s hair and it doesn’t quite work? they’re trying to make hers yours.”
after that bit of careless flattery, he headed out w/ his friends to mothertongue, the monthly open-mike poetry reading. marc and i tripped over to the studio theater where a friend of his had promised him two comp tickets to runaway home. an all-black ensemble performing for an predominantly white, older audience — for some reason i find that unsettling. the staging and pacing of the play, and even to an extent the script and the acting, seemed like it would lend itself better to tv than the stage. we enjoyed, tho we weren’t compelled to stay after intermission. instead we moved on to kramerbooks & afterwords for coffee/dessert. they, as you might know, are the geniuses behind the Trent Lotte: separate but equal parts coffee and milk, to be integrated as you see fit.