i always wanted to have been born on feb 29th. i also always wanted to have been an accident. it appears i foolishly long for contingency and randomness.

there is a leap day every four years, except when it is a new century (like 1900), unless the century is divisible by 400, in which case you get your leap day anyway (like 2000, in which there was a leap day).

there are some extra apocryphal rules, like that you get a day on even millennia or something, which made me hopeful for getting to experience a feb 30th, since i got to be alive in 2000. alas, that weirdness did not happen either. turns out the only rules for leap days are those in the above paragraph, so says wikipedia. but what does he know, really?

i wanted to read for a while in a bar before heading home. it was friday, dusk and cold outside. i went to the irish bar under the train tracks.

inside it was crowded, and one space was open at the bar. tootsie was on the big screen television, and the tall, grey-haired bartender was pouring beer down below his hips, as the taps are unusually low at this particular place.

while reading, i heard hacking next to me. the old man there was completely drunk—enough so that his hacking made me worry he would throw up right there at the bar, something i didn’t want to see. the tall bartender took his empty drink and put another in front of him. “there you go, pal.”

someone was rubbing my shoulder, so i looked over.

“excuse me, sorry.” it was a middle-aged woman with a lot of makeup. she had a loud, talky voice. “excuse me.” i leaned away a bit and she gave the drunk old man a big hug. “you wonderful guy,” she said to him. “i’m so happy to see you.”

i went back to my book. she tapped my shoulder.

“i just wanted to tell you, you win the award, being able to read in this light. in this light! and you can read with all this going on around you. how do you do that? i’m really interested, how do you do that?”

i smiled. i like reading with a lot of people around me. i do it all the time. it’s easy. i paused, thinking i was going back to my book. but then she said:

“wow, your eyes, your eyes must be wonderful. i can’t believe that, that you can do that. so here, tell me what book you’re reading. i want to know, what is it.”

i showed her the cover. “i can’t read that, i can’t read that. what, do you think i have eyes like yours? oh no, i could never tell what that says. no, so you tell me what it says, i wanna know what book it is.”

it’s everything is illuminated, i said.

“everything is illuminated. and is that fiction, non-fiction, horror, what kind of book is that?”

it’s fiction.

“oh, so you’re a fiction kind of guy, i see. and this here, on the cover, what does that say? i want to know what this part says right here.”

it says winner of the guardian first book award 2002.

“wow so what does that mean? book award, what is that, and why is it there?”

it’s an advertisement, it doesn’t mean anything. it means buy it, that’s all. it’s not important.

“oh smart guy, i see. ok, wait one more question i have, all right, so since you like fiction, how does your taste in books run, what kind do you like to read? when you’re going to read something how do you decide? what’s your taste?”

snobby. i only read things that are snobby.

“snobby, well, ok then, fine.” and she walked away. i went back to the book, glad she was gone.

but, at the end of the bar, on the side part by the window, i saw her with this big guy, talking to him. i only looked out of the corner of my eye, not wanting her to notice me again. her voice was like a knife, and cut through all the noise:

“see that guy there, that’s the devil incarnate,” she said. “see him there, reading. that’s the devil incarnate. that is the devil. incarnate. right there at the bar.”

it's snowing--actually the first true snow of the year. on the ground, sitting precariously on the spikes of wrought iron fences, the snow is pretty. at the coffee cart, my best friend coffee guy was resting, but smiled and stood up when he saw me.

pouring coffee, "you're coming in a little late today, boss."

"i had trouble getting up. the snow's really pretty."

"lot of people not coming in at all today. staying away, staying home."

i just spent a semi-unbelieveable amount of effort trying to figure out exactly what a dram is. actually i spent time pretending to try, and then time making completely uneducated guesses, and then time actually loading wikipedia.

i wanna buy vials, and they come in dram sizes. i think i want ten drams. i mean verily verily i wanteth nine and one drachm size and fourpenny weight something something of a newt's fang.

why do they come in drams?

twice a year it is fashion week in new york—once in the spring, for the fall, and once in the fall, for the spring. last week i went to the armory in midtown to see the marc jacobs show. i’ve gone before, and it’s fun, but this time i went specifically because sonic youth was playing. normally there’s recorded loud stuff playing, but damn right sonic youth played kool thing for the sixteen-year-old marc jacobs models to walk around to.


sonic youth at marc jacobs. (by this_justin at flickr)

i can’t think of anything more chic and cool and shit than fashion shows, with their rows of photographers out front beforehand, looking bored until some woman in a spangled dress walks up, and they all start shouting her name (selma selma!) while she stomps back and forth in front of them, getting her picture taken. it looks not at all attractive, but somehow the photos come out looking nice. celebrity is all business you might say. reality bends politely to it.

i was there in the moodily-lit, cavernous space before the house was open, watching all the people working, messing with the runway, setting gift bags on all the seats, talking into headsets and checking off checklists. all of a sudden, thurston moore walked past me, in a tee-shirt and jeans, looking like he was off to fetch cable for someone, indistinguishable from everybody else working. in reality, he was probably headed to the bathroom, because i went that way later, and that’s what i found.


sonic youth, etc.

it made me smile. i wanted to run up to the media aisle of photographer people and say, you just missed one of the only legitimately cool people here. there he went. shout thurston thurston when he comes back and maybe you can get his picture.

this morning i stood in a short, cramped line waiting to vote. the booths were situated at the front of an elementary school auditorium, and the line led us through a row of strangely miniature flip-up seats, like the ones in older movie theaters, only little. past the voting booths, i could see the dark stage, with an arrangement of straight-backed chairs and music stands.

a pretty greek girl sat at the worker table, along with two very busy older women. the two women flipped frantically through spiral-bound voter books. the greek girl sat still and calm, looking down. “i don’t know what to do,” she said.

from inside the booth, behind the curtain: “i have some problem here.”

one woman jumped up, “can you find that name, did you find it? coming sir! don’t worry, dear, i’ll show you what to do in a minute.”

inside the booth: “it won’t move.”

“it won’t move, sir? did you vote already? is that why?” she stuck her head in. “did you make your selection?”

there was mumbling. “it’s probably because you already voted, sir.”

“no, it won’t move. i didn’t vote.”

“shit, can we get dave down here? dave! dave, where is dave? did you find that name yet? where is dave?”

the short line was getting slowly longer. i was second in line. we were all quiet, watching the booth, the stage, the woman finding names, the pretty greek girl.

an authoritative man with a ball cap, keys, and a jacket came down the aisle. “what, what?”

“it’s stuck, we got a problem, dave.”

“ok, all right. ok, just let me back here, hold on.”

“he says he didn’t vote yet.”

“ladies! let me work here, ok? just let me see what the problem is, ok?”

“i think he voted, because the lever is supposed to be on the other side. you found the name? well, has he voted before? have you voted before, sir? did you register? this is 60-36. if you voted at a different place before, then you have to go there.”

“no, i voted last year.”

“dear, i’ll show you what to do in a minute. just let us get through this, and when i have two minutes i’ll show you. are you sure you voted last year, sir?”

dave, in his jacket and cap, emerged from behind the booth. “ladies! ladies!” he lowered his voice in a whisper. “this guy’s a republican in there.”

she deflated slightly.

“you gotta ask em ladies! you gotta ask em who they are! ladies! i’m sorry, sir. i’m so sorry.”

“it’s ok, it’s quite all right.”

“what would we do without you dave?”

the existential metaphor (photo by mia)

it's warm one day in february, so you worry about the fate of humanity. it's cold the next, so you're miserable, and you worry about getting sick.

there is much screaming and yelling outside the window right now. groups of yelling people walking down 32nd street. news flash: queens was for new york in the super bowl.

however, it is not as impressive as the day italy won the world cup. that day every car in the neighborhood had an italian flag across the windshield, driving the wrong way down a one-way street, with people screaming out the windows, sprays of beer flying, and perhaps a half-naked girl in scantty clothes based on a ripped-up italian flag. wine in the streets and free love for the astoria queens italian community. fireworks and streets taken over by riotous crowds. the cops looked you in the eye, saw you weren't italian, and motioned you to go by an alternate route. for god's sake, go around the block their eyes said.

tonight: tonight is nothing. just some screaming. wooo!

it’s a rainy friday night, and i’m in a starbucks. if you watch long enough, you notice that everyone at starbucks does that thing where they pour some of their coffee into the garbage can. they take off the top, go for the tin bullet thing of milk, and do a little tip, eep, pour some coffee into the garbage. it’s reflex. it’s what you do, like rubbing your chopsticks together. there is some theoretical justification for these things, sure, but i think it’s more like a ritual. in the collective unconscious, we all have these tasks, and they make us feel more comfortable. when going into the church, we make the sign of the cross and kneel; when putting thy milk in thy starbucks, pour a helping into the garbage. this coffee is for jesus.