Disco Nap

At about the time I had earned sufficient notches in my proverbial partying leather belt, close to when I could begin to drink legally in this country, my mother began to preach and enumerate on about the values and wonders of the disco nap: that spell between a late dinner and a late night of dancing, when a doze serves to perk you up and freshen the senses. As I grow older, with even more notches, albeit ones that are further and further apart it seems, interspersed with calm expanses of responsibility, her dated lesson proves to be completely tried and timelessly true. I have surrendered to the deliriously desirable propensity to find some secret soft couch, at a bar or a party, and rest my eyes for a few moments. Following those precious moments, I am unstoppable, either in my continued worship of the landscapes of Queen Mab, or in my renewed energies to socialize. There are few who will appreciate this anecdote and this exemplary photograph more than my dear sister Elizabeth. Cheers.

Earlier this gray and rainy and pathetic afternoon, my dreary spirits were raised as a I stumbled upon an editorial featuring a slumbering Truman Capote engulfed by feisty party girls in the late Studio 54; the general theme was respected and admired grave authors in rather dubious and goofy and uncanny positions. In this case, a pose of extreme tedium, lackadaisical and condescending, the image seems to perfectly document the aura and attitude of the esteemed writer; in another shared, Hemmingway kicks an empty beer can gleefully, like a boy, watching it rise and fall. Perfection.

Tuesday afternoon soundtrack: "The Belway Brothers" David Bowie

(image taken from Flavorwire)