Neon in Daylight Is Great Pleasure

• The over-celebration of life events, a link this guy posts after boasting of his eighteen mile walk around Manhattan.
• View from the other place.
• It dawned on me around mile twelve, where are the rent-a-bikes and rent-a-motorized scooters? the ones omnipresent in DC?
• MoMA was kaboom, especially the Nauman.
• Motherfucking Obama is what I have to say about GHWB's death and people's anger at GHWB's hagiographers' proclaiming GHWB the good old days of presidential decorum.
• Do read that first link in bullet above if you read only one (or, as most of you, only none).
• The Bushes and respecting the dead.
• On seeking deliverance by special investigation.
• Yesterday's news.
• Avedon's links.
• Maggie's weekly links.
• As I type this I am sitting this morning in the breakfast lounge of the Teekman Bowers and two British fucks are eating breakfast (they brought their own bacon) and what fat disgusting pig-noisy fucks these fucks are.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• You can't spell "icon" w/o "i" and "con." 
• Literary magazine are born to die. 
• Die? Look at those blogrolls to the left. I prefer to use the word abandoned, but I'm an optimist.
• After the hundreth block blocks start looking like every other block, so today is Central Park, looking for the disc golf course, which two people selling Central Park maps yesterday told me doesn't exist. 
• Santa, bagpiping busker (thank you, Charlie) playing "Smoke on the Water" in front of Lincoln Center, exists:

 

A STEP AWAY FROM THEM

Frank O'Hara

It’s my lunch hour, so I go

for a walk among the hum-colored   

cabs. First, down the sidewalk   

where laborers feed their dirty   

glistening torsos sandwiches

and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets   

on. They protect them from falling   

bricks, I guess. Then onto the   

avenue where skirts are flipping   

above heels and blow up over   

grates. The sun is hot, but the   

cabs stir up the air. I look   

at bargains in wristwatches. There   

are cats playing in sawdust.

                                          On

to Times Square, where the sign

blows smoke over my head, and higher   

the waterfall pours lightly. A   

Negro stands in a doorway with a   

toothpick, languorously agitating.   

A blonde chorus girl clicks: he   

smiles and rubs his chin. Everything   

suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of   

a Thursday.

                Neon in daylight is a   

great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would   

write, as are light bulbs in daylight.   

I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S   

CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of   

Federico Fellini, è bell’ attrice.

And chocolate malted. A lady in   

foxes on such a day puts her poodle   

in a cab.

             There are several Puerto   

Ricans on the avenue today, which   

makes it beautiful and warm. First   

Bunny died, then John Latouche,   

then Jackson Pollock. But is the   

earth as full as life was full, of them?   

And one has eaten and one walks,   

past the magazines with nudes   

and the posters for BULLFIGHT and   

the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,   

which they’ll soon tear down. I   

used to think they had the Armory   

Show there.

                A glass of papaya juice   

and back to work. My heart is in my   

pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.