“Nevertheless a certain class of dishonesty, dishonesty magnificent in its proportions, and climbing into high places, has become at the same time so rampant and so splendid that there seems to be reason for fearing that men and women will be taught to feel that dishonesty, if it can become splendid, will cease to be abominable. If dishonesty can live in a gorgeous palace with pictures on all its walls, and gems in all its cupboards, with marble and ivory in all its corners, and can give Apician dinners, and get into Parliament, and deal in millions, then dishonesty is not disgraceful, and the man dishonest after such a fashion is not a low scoundrel. Instigated, I say, by some such reflections as these, I sat down in my new house to write The Way We Live Now.” —Anthony Trollope

Didn’t sleep well. Up at 5:45.
Poem. Mediated 15 min.
Left about 9:30, Steve Lacy Evidence on train, read Young on hip-hop. I think he’s better on this and poetry than on some earlier music. Had coffee etc. at City Bakery w/ Allen Callaci (visiting, saw Bruce on B’Way) and our old friend Minju, whom I don’t see enough, about 10-noon. Returned a call to Jenny.
Went across the street to Academy, bought the new Exile on Guyville/Girly Sound reissue, the Earliest Negro Vocal Quartets 1894-1928 (Document - something I’ve heard most of an referenced in my soul chapter), Jaki Byard To Them-To Us, and James Carter Quartet, JC on the Set, Unrest Imperial f.f.r.r. (which I strangely never had).
Found a coffee place on 6th, worked on TPA for about 2 hrs, then some email and online dithering.
Face the Music program at Jazz Gallery - h.s. kids playing Braxton, inc. some of his improvisational languages. Teen Ghost Trancin’, as I texted Jean. Joined by a couple of pros. Don’t have the program handy. Learned about it from this Times piece.
Indulged in bbq and a milk stout at Hill Country. (The Big Apple BBQ fest was today in a park near where I was at, I passed as it was closing, guess I felt deprived - saw a table of what looked like rival pitmasters getting ready for some competitive eating, in more than one sense.)
Read quota and then some of Young on train home - conclusion and into the footnotes.
Home about 8:30. Called Dad before I came in the apt.
Crashed for a while, 30 min. b-w. (One feels faintly silly typing “boogie-woogie” every day.)
Read more Scalapino, which I’ve been neglecting. Short poem and a talk on her use of text/image.
Lights out around midnight.