Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Why my father kept this poster-sized cursive chart stashed away for decades could be considered a questionable choice by some: Cursive chart found in my parents' basement before they moved last year. I was there when Pop tried to gift his find to Jack and Ella, otherwise known as his grandkids. They squarely refused to take it.  It soon came to light that kids these days no longer learn cursive in school. They can't write it. And they can't read it. It didn't take too long for me and my pop to capitalize on this learning. We tormented the children for the rest of the afternoon by writing secret notes to each other "in code." I'm pretty sure the kids took the chart after that.

Take a look at this find: "Always be polite."  Written 100 times in 1952 by my mom. It was discovered at the bottom of a box at my grandmother's house.  Not everyone would have kept the evidence her eldest's incivility for 70 years. But my grandma was always an iconoclast when it came to collectables. She lined multiple shelves with empty Aunt Jemima syrup bottles. She piled up every National Geographic printed since the end of the second world war. Maybe she liked the symmetry of multiples (?). In any event, while the caliber of her archives is unrivaled, I have one small grievance with this latest unearthed family heirloom. "Always be polite?"  Seriously? I want to know what my mother was doing, exactly, that warranted such a grueling just dessert. For example: I will not spank others. I will not aim for the head. I will not conduct my own fire drills. I will not prescribe medication. I will not eat things for money. No one is interested in my underpants.

Walking back from outdoor dining on the UWS with Bruce and Nardo last week, something reminded me of an incident, ages ago, in Chelsea. A man in a full-on purple suit stopped Tom on the sidewalk. He asked Tom if he knew of a club that was open, and also, did he want to come along to this club. It was 8am. Tom was holding a bagel. A club, pre-pandemic totes obvs. We all laughed and recalled the good old days before the pandemic. A decade before the pandemic. When the clubs were legal, indoors, and open until 11am. Bruce said he used to go clubbing.  My eyebrows shot up. Bruce goes to bed at like 9:30pm. He's one of those annoying early morning risers. Bruce gives me a look like I've completely underestimated him. He explains his clubbing routine: Go to bed at 9:30, as usual. Get up at 5am, as usual. Eat breakfast, put on a slinky outfit, and head out to a club. I stood corrected. I told Bruce it sounded like a brilliant strategy. Bruce said it was. He was the freshest one in the