Uhhh. Dreams. There was a question of a freezer frosted over, a foam of soft ice covering the edges of the door; large slabs of glistening fish sitting on a white platter in the fridge; little yellow and red ladybugs that at first looked like yellow and red robot cherry tomatoes; all the bulbs blown; a drippy ceiling; and—no psychoanalysis, please—me sitting cross-legged on the floor, screaming at my mother: “Listen to me! Just listen to me!” I woke up way too early, curled up tightly under my blanket from the cold. That’ll learn me to keep all the windows open at night.

Or maybe that’s just the effect a pre-bed rock-n’-roll outing has on a girl who’s been reading Michel Leiris all day.

Yesterday evening, after dinner in the garden at Five Front, Jeff and I took a stroll down to the Fulton Ferry landing pier to swoon at Manhattan lit up across the dark water. There were all sorts of things in the sky, planes and stars at first, and then, surprisingly, fireworks. “I wonder why?” I said. And Jeff said, “Just ’cause,” which is one of the best reasons for fireworks. Later, when we walked away from the spectacle, the colored bursts behind us and blocked by buildings, the deep, muffled thumping in the sky sounded like war.

At the Roseland, we managed to stand behind the eight tallest guys there (it is a singular gift of mine to always be behind the eight tallest guys there) (at 157 centimeters, it’s not difficult), one of whom triumphantly waved around a urinal tablet. The urinal tablet was in its packaging, unsullied, but still. We moved, eventually, to stand behind a couple who couldn’t stop making out. It’s hard to say which was worse. You know how when you book a plane ticket you choose aisle or window? When you book concert tickets, you should get to choose if you want to be behind, like, the eight tallest guys there, or the couple making out, or the long-haired girls who won’t stop flinging their tresses about. At one point I said, “Wait, look, there’s someone shorter than me.” “I think he’s younger than you, too,” Jeff said. “By at least half.”

Then the backdrop banner unfurled, and Franz Ferdinand hit the stage, and there was screaming and whooping, and, well, everytime I could see any of their little Scottish heads bobbing up and down, it was good. Drummer Ferdinand was sharp in a black-and-white-striped T-shirt. When the lights were green, the boys looked like sea creatures emerging from the deep. Rock-n’-roll sea creatures. When they were bathed in red light, it was like Franz Ferdinand, live from hell. On the main floor, a group of four messy fifteen-year-olds rocked out, each in a new Franz Ferdinand T-shirt from the merch counter. One played air drums, two air guitar, and the fourth, well, he was just shakin’ it.

All night the guitars were vigorous, the beat was unrelenting, there was jaunty and jolly and an undercurrent of uneasy all at the same time. I will be listening to the album for days.