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

We went to a local art festival last weekend. The most memorial part was stumbling upon this band, the Gypsy Funk Squad. They took the stage right after we got there. It was 90 degrees in the shade, but that did not stop a scattering of intrepid belly dancers from congregating on the dance floor lawn.  The gentle jingle of their golden belts seemed a little incongruous in the humidity but I could not have loved it more.  I think our guests for the weekend were pleasantly surprised by the diversity of entertainment available in the wilds of New Jersey. The beer might be basic out here but appreciators of music are deeply unafraid to just do their thing.

 We moved into our new apartment in March. This new apartment is literally 80 feet from our current apartment. It's in a building two doors down. Tom got himself a handtruck and has been going back and forth for a month now.  He refuses to pay the "move out fee." He's going to do it himself. In 700 or so trips spread out over however many months it takes us to sell the first apartment. Not Tom, but same sort of hauling shit down the street vibe https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/09/nyregion/coronavirus-nyc-Alegba-Jahyile.html I said to Tom he should just get the bellcart, it holds more. Tom shook his head. He said it would be poor form to take the bellcart from the one building, wheel it fully into the other building and go up the elevator and all. The doormen in both buildings now think we're insane. Or at least Tom is. How many times can you go back and forth with a wheelie suitcase and an armload of Fresh Direct bags before eyebrows start to raise?  There are thes...