Damn, I love this city.

I wish I could stay here for the rest of my life, or at least until I actually got sick of the place--something unlikely to happen within the next 9 months. So far there aren't any good tenure-track jobs locally, and next summer, if I'm not moving for a t-t job, I'll most likely be moving to be closer to Big Urban.

With fall finally beginning to descend around these parts, I'm remembering all the great things about this city--things that it's easy to forget during the summer, and particularly after going almost four months without a paycheque. Earlier this week my long-lost friend Bert came up to Historically Black Neighborhood and we went out to a local joint for soul food--I ordered The Rev. Al Sharpton, otherwise known as smothered chicken and waffles, and he had chicken and dumplings (d/b/a The Atty. Marvin Pettus) and red velvet cake. Then we sat out on my stoop in the dark for a while, sharing a cigarette and catching up.

Last night I had a cultural experience of a rather different sort, joining D and Mr. D at the opera--Renee Fleming and an unknown-to-me tenor (who D and I agreed was actually more impressive than Fleming) were in the lead roles. I used to attend the opera pretty regularly, but it's been a good two years since I last went; last night I was reminded all over again of why I love the opera: it's the ultimate example of high art meets low art. Gorgeous music, immensely talented artists--but all in the service of the trashiest, most tabloid-ready stories imaginable. Gotta love it. Plus, the people-watching is first-rate: nearly everyone dresses nicely, but the individual interpretation of "nicely" varies widely: men in full-on black tie and women in evening gowns bump up against men and women in suits, girls in lacey skirts and combat boots, unshaven guys in t-shirts and rumpled seersucker jackets, women in saris, and people who utterly defy description, like the small white woman in a pointy, Mongolian-style embroidered cap and bolero jacket.

Unfortunately, this particular opera was really quite long, and by the second intermission I could tell that I was fading--I should know by now not to make big plans for Friday night, after a couple of classes, four hours commuting time, and a week's worth of sleep deficit--so I skipped out on the ending. Does this make me a bad member of the culturati? Possibly. But I already knew the chick died at the end.

Today I got up late, lounged around listening to NPR for several hours, and then went downtown to meet D at my favey-fave discount department store where I stocked up on numerous pairs of plain and exotically patterned tights. I also found a lovely Old Hollywood-style silken nightgown for those evenings I feel like dialing the glamour up a notch from my usual PJs (Brooks Brothers men's pyjamas).

Afterwards we repaired to D's rooftop, where we ate pizza and Doritos and guzzled wine.

I'll say it again: damn! I love this city.