Peter was mugged two nights ago right on 14th Street, kicked in the head, rescued by some passer-bys. New York, this should not surprise me. It does. This is daydreams of other places. This is daydreams of a sort of white flight.

Le Tigre says finally free. Tomorrow, I work at the Princeton Review. I got the Wayne Koestenbaum novel last night. I am so excited. But first, must finish Vanity Fair, then I have The Plot Against America, which I am also itching to read. I aquire books way faster than I read them. I am tempted to put VF on pause, but know that if I do, I will never finish it.

It's cloudy. I am going to work at the Strand. I am late. What's new?