Art and cocoa

Such a lovely week-end. Jake was in town, and we traversed the city from top to bottom, as unseasonably warm weather permitted. Jake brought me a packet of bright red envelopes from Chinatown--how did he know?

Usually I cook in, as you know, but we splurged on Malaysian dining in Chinatown, "Night and Day" for brunch because of their excellent coffee, the Half King for beer and salmon burgers, and ended up at the Cocoa Bar twice for dark chocolattes. Normally I am neither a coffee drinker nor a chocoholic--Jake tells me he suspects his psyche is female, and I am starting to believe him. He is starting a campaign for a Cocoa Bar in Philly.

We puttered around Chelsea, taking in the usual suspects. Mr. Golub was shouting into his cell phone at Mary Boone and failed to recognize me. The rather randomly curated exhibition featured a mirrored floor which made one a little queasy; the quease factor quadrupled at B. Gladstone; I forbear to comment, except that I entered the H. K. soon afterward feeling rather lightheaded. There were some mildly interesting photos at Gogo.

Sadly, on Sunday evening after Jake left I was confronted with the dreadful news that my photographer has been definitely diagnosed with ALS. I spent the remainder of the evening moodly Googling the syndrome. The soul is immortal, as well I know, having experienced so many glorious lifetimes, but some moments out of eternity are grimmer than others.