Feigning a Blush



I vaguely remember these poke bonnets, or a clever facsimile thereof, being popular on the 10th Street pier in the early eighties. That memory, however, could be blurred from some forgettable happy hour transgression that surely involved a tour of the then raging Christopher Street.  I stray somewhat as my thoughts are now turning to pollination, or at least that’s what the “buzz” is usually about around the salty planks and stained concrete of the wharf.

How inappropriate for a quiet Tuesday evening. Especially one on which the dark skies are at last clear and the intent is not. Beware of ignoble bumper-shoot handles, I always say. The cleverest of maids can maneuver them to their advantage and yet claim a modicum of innocence! At least midnight comes earlier these days, well conceptually perhaps.

And then, on the innocent, though primed side of midnight, all men are equal in the sighs of the Lord, and the size of the Boots & Saddles trough. “Hey, how about those Mets!”

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