Just back, by the way, from a reading - Winnie Cooper's second book, Kiss My Math. I got into a rather undignified fight with a little boy and there was an old man with a greasy iron-gray ponytail who chuckled loudly throughout at nothing in particular, but otherwise uneventful.

In other news, the G smells absolutely foul, and has for the past few days; going to the train is like descending into the bowels of Newgate Prison circa 1790. The lady at the desk (the one with the gourmet foods calendar) told me it's "an E.P. problem" and "they've reported it." I commiserated with her on having to work in such stench; she said that, Medieval-style, she has a bowl of potpourri that keeps her booth fragrant.