I'm your late-night head rush

The introduction of my niece to the park on Capen Street was a success: she wants to come back in summer, when the little sea-sculptured fountains are working. In the meantime, she swung back and forth on the track line of the larger climbing structure and adroitly avoided the bossiness of another child who was trying to order all of her friends to follow her over a prescribed route. We made grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner and she seemed to enjoy the industrial-musical cool jazz of Shirley Clarke's Skyscraper (1960), the interiors of which eventually resulted in my father unearthing my grandparents' Selectric for her to type on, although it will need an intense dusting first. I came home correspondingly fried and spatch hit me with Harry Elfont and Deborah Kaplan's Josie and the Pussycats (2001), which has a genuine pop-punk banger of a soundtrack and suggests Frank Tashlin tackling the '90's anxiety of selling out. A chain of perfectly logical music choices afterward led eventually to the greatest version of "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair" that will ever be recorded. Tomorrow I believe the plan is for a larger park.

Why do you do what you do to me, baby?

We had talked about the Public Garden, but instead I took my niece to North Point Park. We talked about the importance of railways and rivers and she perched like a leopard in the climbing structure. I showed her the fragment of Millers River still running beside the graded dunes of the Boston Sand and Gravel Company and pointed out the former Charles River Dam under the Museum of Science and the current Charles River Dam on the far side of the Zakim. She was indifferent to the skate park, but riveted by the drawbridge and the trains across it. Fortunately, we had a camera.

( I don't mean to bore you 'cause you know I adore you. )

Our upstairs neighbors have acquired a keyboard. We are suffering in not silence.