To update my faithful few readers, I do finally have climate control in my home, and not a moment too soon, as we’re supposed to hit 100 degrees tomorrow. Now watch Brooklyn suffer a blackout like Astoria. My camera batteries are dead, so I can’t take a picture, but my apartment is back to normal, and I spent about 3 hours cleaning it yesterday. Now, of course, I have a sore throat, just in time for my vacation. I just can’t get a break lately…

In the midst of all my bellyaching, I have managed to get some Playing done, though I still have some trouble switching from G to C. Makes me nuts. I often end up pausing half a beat to get myself sorted out. But I’m getting better and I know the transition will be seamless eventually.

I’ve also been Reading. On my way back from the Frying Pan last week, I foolishly neglected to use the ladies’ room before heading the four avenue-length blocks back to the train. When I got there, I realized there was no way I could make it all the way home without some relief and I also realized there was nowhere in the area I could take care of the situation. So I kept walking until I remembered there was a Barnes & Noble in Chelsea that might still be open. It was; disaster was averted (I was in serious pain at that point), and I was so grateful for the use of their facility that I bought Wake Up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames. This is a man seriously preoccupied with his bodily functions, so I figured it was a fitting choice for the situation. I’m almost done with it and will provide an analysis a little later this week.

Last night, there was a little further Reading as we once again dipped into Adventures in Editing by Charles Hanson Towne, whom I have covered here before. In the passage I read aloud, he described one Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox, whose poetry he occasionally published in The Smart Set. He seemed to be condescendingly fond of her and damned her poetry with faint praise:

She believed, I feel certain, that she was an evangelist who spoke in rhyme to her immense audience. The Creator may not have given her a lute; but he had given her a tambourine, and from it she managed to extract a sort of divine music.

Ouch. He further painted her as a benign wacko with too many doilies and cats. I think I would have liked her.