Today’s soundtrack: and though our health we drank a thousand times, time to ramble on.
Today at 8:02am: unpleasant discoveries


Last night at two in the morning, a street crew is outside my building going at it with a jackhammer. A sidewalk monster sits idly by, waiting to have its destructive force unleashed on the Napoleon cake of pipes and cables that lies beneath every Manhattan street.

I passed the crew on my way into the building and didn’t think much of it. Thirty minutes later the jackhammer was still going and when I tried brushing my teeth, the tap wouldn’t work. When I pushed the knob all I got was a musty gurgling, no water. Figured the pipes were frozen. I went to bed with no flouride.

This morning I’m awakened by the sound of a woman’s voice calling my name. Someone has let themselves into my apartment. Facedown and groggy, I’m trying to think of which ex-girlfriend might have the keys to my place, and not responding in the meanwhile.

“Rainnnnnn.”

Ah, it’s Yuka, my neighbor.

“Hai,” I mutter in my best I’m-asleep-come-back-later voice.

“Downstairs has water but we have no water. You guys have water?” she asks.

“Nai, yo.”

“I better call landlord,” she says, and I hear my door being closed.

I’m almost back to sleep when she returns. “They say it won’t be fixed until tonight.” Fuck.

I drag myself out of bed, figuring I better put a sign on the bathroom before my roommate, notorious for taking E.P.A.-rankling shits, blows up the spot.

Belatedly I discover my roommate’s already left the house. On the toilet is a note in his handwriting that reads “TOXIC” in red letters, and underneath it, in black letters “Do not open lid, no water.” Goddammit. I turn the bathroom fan on and close the door.

I can’t make coffee or wash my hands. Well, at least the heat’s working. If I need coffee I can go to the diner, ditto for the bathroom, and for showers I can trek down to the dojang.

All problems are trivial.

I think the larger problem is figuring out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I think I’d be well-suited to criminal pursuits, something along the lines of bank robbery (intermittent spurts of frenetic activity with large payoffs, offset by long periods of laying low) but there are moral issues and I’m not a good candidate for prison survival.

I guess I’ll chase this writing thing down until I starve to death or lose my life in the wrong end of a jihad event. Doctor Seuss received something like 29 rejection letters before a publisher said yes, and he went on to become the best-selling children’s author for many decades.

If I can finish a body of work that garners 30 rejection letters, then I’ll start downloading bank blueprints and buying ski masks on eBay.

Until then, I type.

I want to wash my hands though.