As I've mentioned on Twitter (of which this marks the start of my second week; I'm lousy at it) I watched Grey Gardens last night. (And does one self-reference? Is this breaking the fourth wall? It's all the same wall, surely, and the mason is narcissism and so is the mortar!) Well, here's what my friend Raha and I had to say: Why? Why bother at all? Not shockingly, the best bits were the to-the-letter recreations of the doc anyway. If one needs a reason, well, the 1930s-50s costumes in the flashbacks are very good. The performances are fine in that impression sort of way that can't erase physical differences, but it only serves to point up the superiority of the Maysles film and make you thank goodness for Real Life where people don't feel the need to screech about their motivations every five minutes.

Everyone feeling duly chastened by Jack Frost, I'm guessing; the tip of my nose has been chilled all day. The bone-cold calls for British spinster-wear.

Yesterday, we undertook the Brooklyn Flea and were sort of underwhelmed, even if I did come away with a dear little lady made of scallop shells and looking awfully good for 70 or so. Slim spent about ten years comparing two WWII-era Swiss navy jackets before buying the smaller (although I like his inconsistent dandyism when it rears its head), three different women were wearing vintage parachute pants, and we saw a baby who looked exactly like our friend Jim, even though he was French and wearing little knickers.

I want to recommend again Clive James's Cultural Amnesia, even if I'm not sure why the sales lady pointed me towards it when I asked for something "fun, borderline trashy and Secret History-esque."