Saturday, November 28, 2015


We were in NYC at my sister's on the Upper West Side (I just like saying it. Hello Joe. Hello Box Kite. Hello Zabar's. Great seafood selection from our dwindling oceans Citarella!) for the Thanksgiving Day parade, a hot dirty fabulous mess of filthy lucre, corporate culture, and helium in the shape of Paddington Bear.

We saw Paddington Bear's crotch as he floated over our heads, and no the bear was not wearing underwear, as DS, 10, raptly pointed out. "Commando!"

It was as fun as whippets, which I've never done because I believe in using nitrous oxide in the manner nature intended -- for the extrusion of whipped cream from cans.

It was as fun American things usually are: kinda bad for you (Levain Bakery song), kinda cheese-in-cans, but also big, extraordinary, golden, the kind of thing freedom means, so let's stop being afraid of each other; immigrants were my Husb.'s parents in the '60s living in El Barrio, and my 15-year-old great-grandmother in the 1900s on the Lower East Side sent to marry a distant cousin in Pittsburgh.

The leaves on the trees in Central Park were like a Paul Simon song so "Let's marry our fortunes together."

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