But you're just sitting there waiting for Joan Crawford to put on her black cowboy shirt again

I spent last night in Providence with greygirlbeast and humglum; returned early this afternoon for a doctor's appointment and for rushthatspeaks' birthday observed, which was celebrated primarily with a chocolate cake frosted with blue roses which gaudior had procured from Lyndell's, watching Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman's The Celluloid Closet (1995), ordering takeout from Mary Chung's, and meeting spatch to spend the remainder of the evening at the speakeasy arcade behind Roxy's Grilled Cheese. I played pinball, skeeball, and Tetris, drank something which was too sweet for my tastes but had a flower and a paper umbrella in it, and have an even longer list of movies with queer content to watch than I started the day with, plus a couple, inevitably, to avoid with tongs. I ate suan la chow show with shrimp. I watched both of my partners play Guitar Hero. I turn out not to be terrible at Tetris. I am extraordinarily tired, but this was a good note for August to go out on. Maybe September (hah) will include sleep.