Diary

It’s a slow Saturday night at my usual cafe spot.

I am reading a terrible book.

About as exciting as a solar eclipse, tens of thousands of feet over a cloudbank.

Two men ordered hot chocolate, one with oat milk and the other with almond. They got switched by mistake, but the other man realized it in time, which spared me from drinking almond milk.

A old bearded man taking one step at a time, into the Harlem subway station, where his walker is waiting.

Several blocks south of Columbia, the Palestine protest got heckled: some guy yelling out his apartment window. The students told him to lean out further.

The new Brooklyn Tower juts out the historic Dime Savings Bank of Brooklyn, a black phallus of obsidian and steel with a white marble scrotum.

A neo-art-deco revival rising from a classical foundation—rather postmodern, no?

There’s been scaffolding around the Bank for years; I wonder how it looks inside.

The woman at the table next to me thought her date had gone to the Sundance festival. But he actually said Slamdance festival.

It’s been hard to pretend things are ordinary, these past 48 hours.

Blazers and Bucks…sounds like my team’s winning.