Today’s soundtrack: She said, "When they get to Dover they'll be be taking over"
I said I'd come to her defense and then she pulled me over
Today at 4:49am: I can’t sleep.


For a non-religious guy like myself, Redemption and Salvation are not things we can look up in books.

Instead we have to seek them out in bars and coffee shops and on sidewalks or the six-train during rush hour, when you’re lucky if you can get a seat wedged between stinking piles of sinful humanity. Thoughts of freedom and the larger questions of life are often supplanted by more immediate concerns like What the fuck happened to my metrocard, Does this sneezy guy have SARS and Why isn’t my voicemail working.

I can’t help but think about the ships I’ve missed, others I’ve passed on and still others I’m unaware I already have tickets for. I think about the times I’ve spent sitting in planes, trains and taxis while the clock hands revolve faster than planet and my bank balance goes up and more often than not, down.

All of this stuff can cease to matter to you in a heartbeat. I saved someone’s life once, she almost got hit by a taxi because she wasn’t looking and I brushed her back. She never said thank you and I can’t remember if she was pretty or not.

The Clash, “Spanish Bombs”
Sinatra, “You Brought A New Kind Of...”
Willie Nelson, “You Were Always On My Mind (Live)”
Stereolab, “Lo Boob Oscillator”
Billie Holiday, “Summertime”
Elvis Costello, “King Horse”
New Order, “Slow Jam”
Esthero, “Superheroes”

The soundtrack to my life is on the blink. My MD player has begun to crap out, rendering sidewalk excursions depressingly music-free at random moments. On a 30-block crosstown jaunt the last thing I want to hear is ambient noise. There’s a reason you can’t download construction workers catcalling women, wailing ambulance sirens and the homeless shilling for change.

Tonight, a Sunday night I took myself out for dinner around 11pm. I sat and had an eagerly anticipated meal in my favorite restaurant only to discover it’s no longer my favorite restaurant. I don’t even recognize the East Village anymore. If the East Village was a person I’d say “You’re not the man I married...I don’t know you” to it and pack up my things and leave while it cried and begged me to stay for the kids.

In early May I’m flying out of town again but this time it’s for me, I’m on a Super Secret Super Mission. I’ve been on lots of planes that, like relationships, had their turbulent ups and downs but this is the one time I really, really need the aircraft to touch the runway in one easy piece. Just get me there safe and I’ll do the rest.