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Someone I know married a military guy and wrote, “I can identify a Blackhawk, Apache or Chinook helicopter by the sound of the blades slicing the air overhead.” (Lily Burana, great writer, that was in an op-ed she wrote.)

I’m so jealous! I want to be able to do that. What a cool skill. No fair. In the circles I travel, it’s very unusual for someone to marry into the military, so everything is very exotic to me. Especially being able to do stuff like that. Except now I’m remembering that New Yorker piece I read, about all the research since WWI into the effects of war upon soldiers. I wish I had saved that. Our soliders are paying a steep price. We need to be taking better care of them when they come home. Damnit. I have to get a hold of that piece so people know what I’m talking about.

We were talking on Echo about empire waists and I told the story of picking a wedding dress, which I didn’t like, but I got married in the days when all wedding dresses were ugly so I had no expectations, really. Except they made an ugly dress ever worse by changing it to an empire waist! At the fitting the waist was at my waist, where I wanted it. It was too late to change it, so I went down the aisle feeling unattractive, and that was that. Actually, it was not the end of the world. I had a good time as you can see from this picture of me and Adrienne, already pretty well toasted.

But now that I look at it, it’s not at the waist OR an empire waist. It’s just completely botched and uneven. I want my money back. Is it too late to sue?

Here’s another view of the worst wedding dress of all time, after Princess Diana’s, of course. This is me and my mother.

I went uptown yesterday to interview the daughter and granddaughter of Eileen Garrett, a medium I’m writing about. I came across this tableau at Abercrombie & Fitch on Fifth Avenue. This guy is store decoration. They are paying him to stand there with his shirt off.

I like Fifth Avenue in the 50’s and above. The stately feel of the buildings, even if what’s going on inside is not quite so elegant. I’ve worked at Tiffany’s twice (Tiffany’s is at 57th and 5th). Once when I first moved back to New York, and again a little after starting Echo, (an online service I created in 1989). I was out of money and I needed a job that didn’t carry a lot of responsiblity. I used to call the modems from the Elsa Peretti counter where I worked to make sure they were all still answering. If they didn’t, I’d say “excuse me, I have to use the ladies room,” then run downtown, fix the problem, and come back up. Needless to say, it didn’t work out between Tiffany’s and me, although they were very polite about it.

I think I told that story in Waiting for My Cats to Die. Great. I’ve become one of those people who tells stories over and over again.

I’m back home and someone is shooting a movie or a TV show in my neighborhood. This happens on a fairly regular basis. Sometimes the crews are rude, and I fantasize about ruining their shot, but never do. Sometimes they are nice. The Sex and the City people were always nice.

But this gives you an idea
of what it looks like.
Trucks of equipment up
and down the street,
then stands, lights, and
cables up and down
the sidewalk. There’s
always a table of crappy
looking food called the crafts
table. I think that’s
what they call it.
My mind is going.

These are my grandparents, Peter and Midge. I never ever, EVER saw this side of them. My grandfather was a judge, who was mostly stern, although not unkind, and my grandmother was a sweet, but very proper lady, and I certainly never saw her up in the air with her hair down.

Where did this couple go by the time I came along??

I had a great time, and met some really wonderful people last night. I have the best family! I left my camera up in my room, but hopefully someone else took pictures and will send me copies. For now, here is a poem by Shelley about the passage of time. It’s called Ozymandias.

It’s a warning. Hoist your loved ones into the sky while you can!!

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear —
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”