Sunday evening, after some serious thrills at the new-ish American Wing (goodness), the sale of my childhood home and two hours spent watching Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew left me sour and achey—ill still—no joke. I'm pretty delicate.
So I've been tending my condition with flat cola and saltines and...soap:
—Billy Baldwin Decorates—a painting hung on a mirrored panel and then this sort of line:
"I think an unpleasant atmosphere results from the entry into the obviously 'rich' room—the kind that makes you feel like you're caught right in the middle between the devil of a museum and the deep sea of embarras de richesse. And a thing you can say for Southern women—they're far less guilty on this score than Northerners." (Yes and no...sure. I'm thinking about houses is Memphis and those ways of entertaining [possessing enough natural oldness and eccentricity to be easy about keeping some "regular," even low-low things, foods, habits], but also favorite, accidentally cluttered or accidentally barren New York apartments and what a good time I've had at/with The Met lately.)
—two songs: Rihanna's "Russian Roulette" (I've been critical of the album art [for no particular reason] and last week's Diane Sawyer interview left a bad taste in my mouth, but this track is great, I find...plotting, plodding, as heavy and Eastern as the title suggests, totally transSIBERIAN!) and then also Mary J. "I'm Going Down," yes (musical theater).
—David Hare's screenplay for Michael Cunningham's "The Hours."
—this ad (I mean, yipeee).
—this program too, watched on and off after meeting that confederate spur(er of a new-future collection) in Louisville (featured below)...the interviews are wonderful.
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