Where to begin. Dear Juliet I dedicate this one to you. though you will never read it. Juliet does send me one of her brilliant yet brief epitaphs, something about whispering into my ear in the early morning hours before dawn that I have secret lover for all time that I can always run into the warm and welcoming arms of. I take it to be her regardless of whether that was the intention of her message or not. I am madly in love with the potential of Juliet and do not feel threatened by it at all because we are separated by well over three thousand miles and entirely different lifestyles. So it is indeed a secret love that can never sour as long as we never take any further than where it is now. perfect. pure.

The poet, our drummer of course, came into town tonight. the first of the guys. tomorrow morning the rest of the guys pull in. we go to the apocalypse lounge to meet some of his friends. East village. Walking around that I feel down there as though any minute you are three yards from an impending drug deal going down from all sides. A grungy area that when I was a younger man I cherished, and now feel more comfortable admiring from afar. Perhaps, I remark to the poet, that as you become older you simply become more uptown, and that's just the way it is. regardless of the plausibility of my words ever ringing true enough to become prophecy, it has certainly happened for me. I couldn’t feel more comfortable on the upper east side, even though I couldn’t look more east village if I tried. This is the dichotomy of character that I have lived with all of my life. but now I am very comfortable in it.

If you are a person who drives, as most of us are here in America, you know that homey comfort you get from getting inside your car. especially if you have a car you really like. It becomes a part of you. and when you are inside of it you feel as though you are in your second home, your home away from home. in New York you don't have that because you don't have a car in New York. Some people I hear, but most don't. you don't drive anywhere but instead you just walk or take a cab or take the subway everywhere.

But what you do have is a coat. You soon learn that you must have a coat in the bit city. and I now have a marvelous coat. Two of them actually. A brilliant long Burberry trench for winter days, and a shorter charcoal petti coat that is more stylish than any mere mortal deserves in one lifetime. You feel so good in your coat that it reminds me of what it is like to own a car. you get in and you are just in that coat like you are behind the wheel of your favorite sports car. all warm and cozy. Knowing where everything is. knowing what is in each pocket. Coats in New York are like cars are to the rest of the country. slip in, get comfortable, and take it for a leisurely ride through town. if it’s a good coat it won't let you down. If it is a great coat, you will get plenty of second glances from passersby. 

Chap joins us at the club and soon the night has rolled into action. One of the poets friends, a marvelous old boy who definitely deserves more than a mention in the transcendent diaries, is extremely loquacious and entertaining and insists that we go back to his place, grab a croquet set, buy a few six packs, and head off into the night to find an open field. In the middle of the night in New York city mind you.

Smoking great big cigars, drinking pabst blue ribbon, better known as PBR, and playing croquet in a big open field in the middle of the thriving metropolis known as the east village at two o'clock in the morning. So let us assume that now as I type this it must well be damn close to five AM I would guess.

The game is going well enough and I am feeling as though I am becoming reacquainted with a dear old friend in this tried and true ancient sport. When out of the blue comes this mad man in his long johns carrying a smith and Wesson hand gun and screaming that he is in the first floor apartment and that our tireless and enthusiastic racket is keeping him and his entire family awake and that if we do not disband immediately from our festivities that he is going to start shooting. It didn't take us too long to gather our gear and high tail out of that field.

A true New York experience if there ever was one. almost shot and killed because of a simple midnight croquet game. The indecency of such an act on such a beautiful night...

The moral of the story must certainly be something close to this: make sure you are well armed on any given night in New York city when you wish to take in a quick game of croquet with a few pals over a few cheap beers.

There is much intelligence here and much to be inspired by. It is endless. We now begin the countdown to the big show.