Hommage à Francis Bacon
For reasons too complicated for explanation on a Saturday night, I found myself in Brooklyn this evening.
We all take incompetent photographs from time to time, but tonight I broke the records. Miffed that I couldn’t get hold of Kathleen on the phone, even more upset that I’d never, in the downpour, get a cab back to Manhattan, and more than a little jellied by two bottles of Chianti, I was not in the best shape to take pictures of the Pride parade that materialized this evening outside Sette, a very good restaurant on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope, just as I was leaving.
These pictures do, however, convey, at least to my memory, a sense of the tremendous fun that everyone was having in the downpour.
I only just noticed, but this is a not-bad picture of my cousin, Bill. Bill lives in New Hampshire. The photograph completely fails to capture his delight at having dinner in the big city — and I must say that Park Slope more than qualified this evening. It was much bigger over there than it was in good old Yorkville when I finally got home, damp as a steam room.
Then the fun was over. As it happened, a young man in the subway station was just about to give me a reason to live. He needed to get to Grand Central, and I was able to say, “follow me.” And he did! I, of course, stayed on the train all the way to 86th Street.
A Pride parade in Park Slope! The world has turned a pretty turn since I lived out there!