Marked safe from America's Birthday.

PTSD lingers from 2012. I wore an American flag bustier crop, spray tan and Jessica Simpson wedges. Hot as hell.

Jul 05, 2024

In NYC, I typically honor the July 4th traditions by avoiding them at all costs. More introspection. Less sparklers. This year’s agenda was simple. Take advantage of a weekday off to do a typically reserved for the weekend activity, hide from the masses and be home in time to protect Zeppy from her (my?) firework anxiety. Then it’s a Camino sleep gummy and it’s time for some real freedom—July 5th (made it!) No jorts in sight.

Sips matcha, contemplates the future of technology

My friend Mar (who just published a children’s book) and I kicked off our day of patriotism with matchas at Ciao Gloria. Our conversations will always make the silly little things list, because I typically leave them smiling from her positive energy, and usually, am left with some profound idea to muse over. This time it was the quote “I am not who you think I am; I am not who I think I am; I am who I think you think I am” - Charles Horton Cooley or Instagram. Can we ever be sure? We (I) spiraled a bit about AI, because what pairs better with a day of democracy than a discussion on artificial intelligence? Imagining the dystopian near future where my robot assistant, a replica of Zeppy, of course, projects my substack on the wall through her retinas while I dictate my 2028 installment of silly little things. Anyway.

My favorite typically reserved for the weekend activity is a museum bop. This time, it was the Brooklyn Museum to check out Giants, a curation of works from The Dean Collection (Swizz Beatz and Alica Keys.) It was a celebration of large format pieces by Black artists, with a spotlight on The Dean Collection’s principles that all aim to support emerging and underrepresented artists. 10/10 recco.

Barkley L. Hendricks corner gallery wall

Can someone explain Beatlemania?

We spent approximately five minutes in the Paul McCartney exhibit and chose not to engage with the hundreds of black and white photographs of bowl-cut-culture. I have no other context to add, but this photo from their Miami era did in fact, spark joy.

John, George or Ringo drinking a cuba libre, with a cigarette, Paul McCartney

My camino awaits

With only about 5 hours left until my serene night in would be shattered by mini explosions in the name of patriotism, I decided to spend most of it moping. And mentally preparing myself to assemble a shelving unit. Once I meticulously unpacked all 48 unlabeled pieces from the squeaky, crumbling styrofoam, I realized I didn’t own “tools”. I didn’t want to build it anyway. So silly!