Saturday, July 27, 2013


Brewster train station.

Yesterday, I stopped for a flock of wild turkeys and their progeny to cross the road. It was pretty cute. And there were a lot of them. I was coming around the corner and saw one, then another, pop its head out of the bushes and then rush across the street to more foliage. Cars piled up behind me.

Days later.

And then yesterday on the train, I saw a crane take flight. Now that was cool. And for a moment, my spirits took flight took. Although, of course, that didn't last too long. 

But I do so love taking the train. And Grand Central never fails to please me. I used to walk through every day as I lived on the West Side and worked on the East, and I felt a little thrill each day when I walked through the main room.

It's a beautiful day thus far. I woke up with Cooder purring on the pillow in the crook of my arm, which tells you it is bearably warm, and Emmylou farkeling around near my feet. I am going to see if I can make it to the Brewster Farmer's Market in a couple of minutes, so this will be short.

For those on you on The Brothers Karamazov watch, I am more than halfway through and it is, finally, picking up some interest, now that it is a police procedural. I have until the end of the month to read the rest and now I can take some time to read other stuff. At the meeting of the Kermit Place Readers, Sharon and I lead the pack of not liking the book, although as usual, we found we were somewhere near agreement.

I even found some time to read The New Yorker, something I dearly love to, but rarely do. Adam Gopnik ("Swoon. My hero.") had an article about Edmund Burke. Anything Adam writes, I can read. ... (Wish he would rewrite The Brothers Karamazov... just kidding). There were a lot of interesting points and I hope I get to discussing them here, but here's one for starts. 

"To make anything very terrible, obscurity seems in general to be necessary. When we know the full extent of any danger, when we can accustom our eyes to it, a great deal of the apprehension vanishes."
Edmund Burke.

Not sure I have become accustomed to the terrors of my life situation, (NOT my living situation). 

At any rate, in the annals of obnoxious New York insanely self-absorbed lunacy, (not strictly just about New York), testicles now and testicle grooming now have a store. 

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