Saturday at the Metropolitan with William: lame-ass exhibit completely misrepresented. Would've been fabulous had we not been expecting so much more. Still, Cezanne's green apples were quite nearly palpable. Or maybe they used some sort or green apple air freshener, that tricked me, I dunno.

We giggled going through the samurai armor, though I don't remember what was funny. William's dissertation on the protective power of silk, perhaps.

Saturday night Breath-O-Fire Susan called, inviting E and I to a rooftop barbecue at Michelle's. Mary was there. She has the sexiest mouth I think I've ever seen. Michelle was a grand hostess and very Gilligan's Island in her overalls and string bikini. A boy named "Sprinkle" with magenta hair and tired eyes showed up after five and announced he would never drink again. He had a glass of wine before the night was over, I think. We watched a guy on another rooftop dance to that Cher song. You know the one.

Shal from The Bouncing Souls was there, too. Why does it always surprise me that smart-ass punks are more often than not overwhelmingly sweet?