It's OK, Ma, I'm only whiiining

Dear Diary,

Am through the first 23 chapters of P&P. Upside down as things are, I cannot help but be darkly drawn to Darcy. And mistrust Whikham's goodness. I am Elizabeth, though, if anyone other than Mr. Bennett.

Last night saw Antony & the Johnsons @ Town Hall. Musically, hard to imagine a better concert. What a fabu orkestra the Johnsons are. Had seen Antony perform maybe three times before, in Hal Wilmer productions and co-hosting a Winter Soldier period fund raiser with Mr. Reed & Ms. Anderson. But with the Johnsons - wow! Attracts a distinct audience, too. (Why Antony but not Johnstons?)

But before the concert was an early dinner @ Koi, starting with some roasted shishito peppers. Did I mention I've been ill the last week and that I slept three hours the night before and that my back had been spasming so that half the sleep I did get was sitting in a chair? Where was I? Shishito... Two of the first three were HOT! Wewy wewy hot... Get ready to rumble. Hey, let me tell you something about the stalls in the men's room at Town Hall - these are the same stalls, I'm sure, that were installed in the 20's. Six foot tall marble walls, wooden doors. Kind of echoey, but still, really a comfort to a man in need.

And after we got home and I lay me down to sleep, the back started seizing up again and there was no Imodium in the house and I ate enough ibuprofen to poison myself, I say, then did I cry out my tale of woe to Lorita. And Lorita said, Hey, we have some Ben-Gay! And, oh, baby, did we slather it on, and then I found the softest surface in the house (the living room couch) curled up, and passed out.

Now, part of the illness of the last week was a wicked cold (thank you, niece Jillybeans), and really I haven't been able to smell much since getting it. During the week I could not smell my beloved Yu-Be, and last night I couldn't smell the Ben-Gay.

So, slathered and sense-numbed and rumbling and sleep deprived as I was, I passed out and was dead to the world until the sun came up. Hallelujah! And after sitting meditatively and praising a bit, a word floated up unbidden in my consciousness: naptha. Naptha. I smell... naptha. Then I thought, What is naptha? and, How do I know what it smells like? I cupped my hand over my mouth, you know, to see if the smell was coming from inside me. No - thank god. Then I thought, Maybe it's oozing out of me, like sometimes when you're really drunk your body gives off that sort of sour smell, you know? (Don't lie - you do too know.) Mmmm, no I don't think so. Then I got a little freaked out and worried it might be coming up from the cellar, but no. Then I stopped thinking about it and threw some clothing on and went out and moved the car. (If you're not from NY you might wonder why.)

When I got back in I headed upstairs and started to undress and, WHUMP, NATPTHA! I happened to be standing in front of my closet and realized, Oh, moth balls! (which are no longer made from naptha). But of course there are no moth balls in the closet. OK, enough, a little later I realized that it was the Ben-Gay and my sense of smell is back. When I showered the bottom of the stall looked like when a thunderstorm washes down the street after the gasoline tanker crashed. I mean, man, Lori must really put on a lot of the old BG when I was whining away last night. And I'm glad she did.

Bye.