Biked with my husband down to the National Mall for fireworks yesterday. Headed out around 2 pm, took our time. Stopped and bought bottled water from a guy on the corner, selling them to cars from an ice-filled cooler. We complimented him on what a good idea it was on such a hot day, and he explained how he buys a case for $4 and sells them off for $1 each: “That’s the net. That’s the net,” he said, total DC-style, the way I remember people talking here. Then he told us a story about a couple of younger guys “trying to strong-arm” him from an opposite corner the previous day.

Further down the road we stopped at a friend’s house near Eastern Market, where she offered us lime-water, sunscreen, and a few more laughs to take on our way. Hit up the last standing Burrito Brothers on Capital Hill, and friends we were meeting called to say they were in Columbia Heights, we asked them to pick up some Cowvin cookies from Sticky Fingers, to eat during the fireworks. Finally made it to the Mall, and after checkpoint Charlie (wow, security has gotten strict since 9/11 and since we moved away in 95), hung with old friends and scenesters near the 41^st Annual Smoke-In stage (we don’t smoke but don’t mind those that do). We reminisced about when it was actually called “Rock Against Reagan.”

Pulled up a piece of warm cement by the Reflecting Pool to watch the fireworks by 9. I’ve never been a big fireworks fan, but DC always does ‘em right. Plus there’s something so peaceful about the minutes after they start, when all of the tens of thousands of us are quietly watching, faces glowing upward toward the sizzling sky. Just the mish-mash of people sitting around us called to mind this Inga Muscio piece I love. The mixture of people and general tolerance of one another is the main thing I miss when I travel out-of-country. Trust me, I have lots of criticism of the US, but here is one thing we do right most of the time.

Later rode bikes to Busboys & Poets at 5^th & K Sts, right by the boarded-up shell of the Safari Club, a place where I once booked Saturday matinee punk shows. Lost track of time with a friend from Northern Virginia, so walked around with him until he could get a cab. We rode home freely through streets usually filled with cars, past dressed-up drunk people stumbling out of bars, and by that McDonald’s where people were killed years ago, over trashed sidewalks, and through neighborhoods still setting off firecrackers. Last year we rode by a huge Michael Jackson dance party, held in alley. We were sticky and stanky by the time we got home early this morning. You have not really seen DC until you’ve seen it by bike at 2 am.

My feet are soaking while spirits are soaring from a pavement-pounding whirlwind 36 hours in New York promoting Robot Hearts, a modern-love anthology I co-edited with Cara Bruce. It was a wild night at Abiola’s Kiss & Tell Reading Series, held in the bordello-like lounge of Madame X. Got to meet some of the fabulous RH contributors and check out the talents of others in the line-up, including amazing Joni-Mitchell-gone-wrong singer/songwriter comedian Jessica Delfino and Let’s Talk About Pep’s Kittie Troy. What really made my night was old friends who crawled out of the woodwork and back into my heart by making the effort to come see me while I was in their town. Note to self: red lights in graffitied bathroom mirrors make me look good. Thanks, New York!