So anyway, on Saturday I spent the day with Jessie and Jen and Golden Boy (who is last because he has no URL).

I was mere seconds late for breakfast, but they all acted as though it were 3.30p or something like that. They have the strangest attitude towards time, honestly. Besides, being late all the time is part of my adorable, kooky charm. It is!

Jessie and Golden Boy were the funniest couple, because it's like the Tompkins Square Park punk married the chartered accountant. Golden Boy (whom I want to call Golem Boy after Jessie's typo the other day) looks like Dennis the Menace grown up, or like he stepped out of an Archie comic, and Jessie looks like (as he said) his pet anime character. Later, I dubbed her The Heat Miser, because she has the same hairstyle as he does, but that it's pink rather than scarlet.

Jen, whom I had met last year when she saw my Feydeau, laughed her ass off, then completely forgot that she ever met me, writing an ode about how swell it was, having Mo be the first journaller she met (not that I take her memory loss personally) and who kicked me off of her "other journals" list (she babbled something about how I accidentally "fell off", but I really wasn't paying attention, weeping heart-brokenly as I was) seemed very nice. Even when she ganged up with Jessie and Golden Boy in order to mock me unmercifully. I have a very kind and forgiving nature.

So we were at the place downtown where I had had ribs with Tony and his friend after the Billy Bragg concert last summer and they said that they had a good brunch. They had a pretty good brunch, but they appear to cook without salt, so things weren't as good as they could be, not to mention the tragic lack of hard-boiled eggs, but all in all it was a pleasant experience. You know, besides all of the cruel teasing from my tablemates about my not only only liking hard boiled eggs, but also only liking the whites of them, but I am used to such cruel comments and let them roll off my pretty little back.

Jessie got an order of French toast bigger than her head, that she cut into perfect, exact cubes using a slide rule or something, spearing each cube with a fork, lifting the syrup pitcher, then carefully depositing one tiny dot of syrup on it before deigning to place it on her delicate pink tongue. It was as though she were saying, "This French Toast is almost perfect, almost worthy of being eaten by myself, but it is not quite right, it needs something, now what could it be? Ah yes, one molecule of syrup! Now it is perfection incarnate!"

After the Breakfast of Syrup Dots and Teasing of Kymm, we went uptown to the Museum of Natural History to see the live butterfly exhibit. I needed to get to rehearsal at 4p, but you needed to have an appointment for a certain 15 minute slot, and by the time that we got to the beginning of the line, we could only get 3.45p. I took it anyway, but looked so sad that the cashier, unprompted, gave me a $9.50 discount, which I thought was very nice.

Then we wandered around what I soon realized was the Museum of Death and Depression, because everything in it, every exhibit was either of something dead or about something dead. "Look at those poor Native Americans that they killed and stuffed," said I, "Has not the white man done enough? First they take their lands, then they prop them up in a museum like Trigger."

I kept pointing at the animals and exclaiming how they all dwelt in my backyard when I was a child, not because I was Snow White, but because they built the hideous Oakwood Apartments during that time, and all this wildlife was running away from the construction. Jen would point at a black bear and say how they were in her backyard as a kid, but since her journal clearly states that she lived in the Bronx, this was obviously an acid flashback of some sort. I had spent the previous six days scarfing down her entire journal as though it were chocolate covered cherries, so you cannot pull a fast one on me!

Then we saw the Human Evolution exhibit, or, as we liked to call it, the Tit Room, which was really interesting, besides all if the tits, and brought a journaller who will not be named (it starts with a J) to tears at the overwhelming thought that evolution actually happened, that these poor little creatures, against all odds, became us. It was an incredibly endearing moment.

Then we wandered around and gossiped about journals so hard that at one point I looked around and realized that we were in the Gem Room and had been for about fifteen minutes. Poor Golden Boy was left counting his fingers and toes, because he had no idea who we were talking about, but I'm sure that Jessie filled him in later. We may have been trying to get him to start a journal of his own by peer pressure, as he is terribly funny and a great raconteur, (he told a story about a spider getting caught in his ear that left me cringing against the wall, clawing my eyes out) but apparently, he doesn't write. Too bad, because the he and Jessie could write completely different and contrasting accounts of their experiences and then fight like hell about what really happened!

Finally, it was time to go to the butterflies, which was just great.

It's this long room that you walk through that has the climate of a Brazilian rainforest, meaning hot and extremely humid and I had to use my inhaler afterwards, and there are all of these butterflies soaring and sitting and fluttering and doing all those simple, beautiful things that those butterflies do (got any peyote?). Sorry, Firesign Theatre moment.

I saw two drowned butterflies, and one with a torn wing kind of hopping around in agony, which meant that they were doing their best to be part of the Grand Experience of Death that the rest of the museum offers.

I had to tear out of there and was late to rehearsal, just like I must tear out of here now or be late for work! Isn't it amazing how it works out that way? The circle of life, baby.

Today's horoscope:
You are asked to donate to a political or charitable cause. Check out the company doing the asking; they may keep the lion's share of the money.

One year ago today:
I used to live in the Land of the Clogged Plumbing, aka Park Slope, and Liquid Plumbr never did anything but cost $10 a bottle.

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Last Updated Thurs 1 February 10:03:09 2001