Good morning, Jeff-Jeff.
I can’t remember if you were going to wake me up or I was going to wake you up, but I’m already up so here I go. I actually woke up with a start because I was listening to my next-door neighbor’s radio playing ‘Morning Edition’ on NPR and thought I heard the announcer say that Kim Delaney–you know, the sexpot cop on NYPD Blue–had died in her sleep. Then the announcer said Delaney was 109 years old and I thought: Either they have the world’s most amazing makeup department on that show, or it wasn’t Kim Delaney. Well, it wasn’t. It was Sadie Delaney, one of those ancient African-American twin writers. And she was 109, and she barely looked 99, but she wouldn’t have played a sexpot cop, no wheres, no how.
By the way, is this a numbered Intel chip? I feel…. unanonymous.
I have never seen a weirder and more horrible juxtaposition than this morning’s front page of the Times–the story about Sierra Leone and the really horrific mutilation program going on, complete with a picture of a now-handless victim of the rebel forces–cheek by jowl with a teaser in the “inside” column announcing the first successful hand transplant in the U.S. Oh. My. God. I don’t think there’s a deeper meaning to draw from this other than: Life is ever stranger and stranger and the world is just weirder and weirder. And weirder.
I was happy to read that Lincoln Center decided not to put its priceless Jasper Johns painting in its garage sale, although I was going to offer a twenty-four piece Tupperware set in a barter deal. I have much more to say on the subject of what should happen to public art but I’ll save that for post-coffee. I’m too fuzzy to be pithy yet.
Wake up, sleepyhead.
Yrs,
S
