This weekend was a delirious frolic, full of beaming summer. I could write about it from now until Thursday and not get close to the heart of the matter, and since that would just piss off my boss – technically “blog” is not part of my job description – I won’t.
But the Mermaid Parade on Saturday was a splashing success, and if the pictures come out I’ll post them over the weekend or early next week; the post-parade sortie into the Coney Island Circus Sideshow was as thrilly and chilly and gross as ever anyone could ask.
Saturday night’s venture to Mr. Choade’s Upstairs/Downstairs burlesque at the Slipper Room, guest-hosted by the deliciously evil arch supervillain Doctor Donut, was a terrific time, not necessarily improved any by that dangerous last glass of Unibroue’s apple-brewed Éphémère at d.b.a. as the night crawled on to morning.
Sunday’s brisk sail into a warm afternoon on the Good Ship Ventura was improved, immeasurably, by the happy participation of Katarina the adorable stage manager, who made my sweet crush from last winter stand up, roll over, fetch, and do a few other neat tricks. By the time we got to the power-down cookout in a West Village strewn with the sweaty leavings of the Gay Pride parade the whole city seemed sheeted in a worn-out solar-powered vacation-time warmth that hasn’t spread over our tense urban bread in years.
Riding home I put my finger on it: this is how summer used to be. Before. I think we’re getting over 9/11, at last. At long last.