Do not go gentle into that good night:

For the past few days, the air has felt like a solid and Seattle has experienced alternating bouts of flypaper stickiness and alacritous showers.

My hair has responded accordingly.

When I'm in New York in the summer, I know the rules. My hair might resemble kudzu by 3pm, but there are beef franks at Green Papaya and beet salads at Babbo and long(ish) walks through Central Park. There are contemplative afternoons in St. Patrick's Cathedral and journeys through the Met and luggage-altering trips to the Strand. Shows at Park Slope's Southpaw (preceded by iced soy mochas at the nearby Gorilla Coffee), grasshoppers at the Algonquin, the candy shop at the Plaza, Piano's followed by Katz's, the jewelry counter at Barney's flagship store, 1am jaunts through Times Square, and so many boutiques in the West Village, SoHo and NoHo that my heart dances at the thought. (No, obviously, I don't live this way. I save to splurge when I'm over there.)

So my hair occasionally looks like Brillo. There are trade-offs and no one gets everything they want. But here's the thing: I've come to love Seattle in the past eighteen months or so in a way I didn't think was possible. It finally got interesting again and for the first time, I feel as much at home in my home as I do in New York.

That said, I'm unwilling to deal w/ this stuff on my head just so I can see one more show at Hugo House.

Elements, you've been warned: I call bullshit.