Ratatouille and So Long, Marianne

Hot summer early evening in NYC, but low humidity is a blessing. The windows are open; the fans are on; the AC is off, no threat to ConEd here. I am simmering my just-made-up version of ratatouille and, with the laptop in the kitchen playing WMP, up comes So Long, Marianne. And I thought, "how long has this song given me pleasure?" In how many places, starting with Berkeley, now in New York, Traiguen, Harare, San Salvador, and a whole bunch of others in between? I doubt that ever a week has gone by in my life without hearing it at least once, and all these years later I still fecklessly identify with "I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy/Until I let you take me home..." and I still can't keep all the verses straight. But each time I get to hear it, it is a small, welcome gift. Thanks, Leonard -- for this one and so many others.

Some Days You Eat the Bear

And some days bring a different result. Someone stole my bike while I was working up at school today. I came out, walked to the racks where there was one bike -- as there had been (mine) when I parked it hours before because hardly anyone is at CCNY on summer Fridays -- even got out the key to open the lock and then saw it wasn't my bike. Disbelief of course, maybe if I stare long enough this bike will turn into my bike, or maybe it's been temporarily covered by an invisibility cloak and will reappear at any moment, but no, it's gone. Not much of a bike, but I'd had it since Zimbabwe in 1995 and I'd grown fond of it, put on a lot of miles. And then tonight we go to the Stadium where the Yankees, led by another in the endless string of mediocre to poor starts by that Stanford-grad articulate whiner Mussina, contrive to fall behind the D'Rays -- the D'Rays! -- by 10-0 in the first six innings. Yesterday was much better with the advantages of museum membership. It was an early entry to the MoMA for members to see the small exhibit of the centennial of Demoiselles d'Avignon, a fascinating collection of Picasso's nearly year-long and numerous studies for the work, and then as he was composing it, his sudden turn to making two of the faces into African-like masks, and a short description of how the painting came to the Modern. Also there: the 40 year sculpture retrospective of Richard Serra, particularly the huge, curved cast-iron structures in the garden and on one of the floors, disorienting and dizzying to stand between the pieces, like a maze, even with the entry and exit always in sight. But most of all, the delight was having the huge six floors virtually to oneself, shared only by a few dozen others and by the Museum staff.