June 27, 2007

Larry liked to show off when he was young. Back in '64, he was a manager at the bank. He had the first Lincoln Continental in town. Black, with doors which opened in opposite directions. People gawked every time he drove it down main street, which he did a lot.

June 26, 2007

“What is it this time?”, he sighed in frustration. It was his fifth attempt at recording his latest song. The studio had just bought new equipment, and the engineers weren't used to it. He had yet to get a full take down. “Master 36197, take 6” shouted the tape operator.

June 25, 2007

I'm fascinated with lifespans. “1876-1954”. “1909-1968”. “1946-1978”. How did each person deal with events like wars or economic failures? What kind of work did he do? How many children did she raise? Why did he die young? Like books on shelves, which will never be read again.

June 21, 2007 (double posting)

Hank and Sue were teenage lovers in 1957. In the last month of their senior year of high school, Hank got Sue pregnant. They got married the day after they graduated. They had a son, Joe. Joe grew up to be an OB/GYN who specialized in fertility and contraception.

I saw my first war movie when I was 4. It was on TV. The scene I walked in on showed two men on some kind of metal structure, each trying to kill the other. I was too young to understand the concept of pacifism, but I remember being disgusted.

June 18, 2007

We were in Keith's '95 Saturn at a convenience store near the Lincoln tunnel. As we pulled out of its parking lot, Keith accidentally cut off this big, white van. Its driver let fly with a stream of profanities. I said, "I think he just said 'Welcome to New York!'".

June 15th, 2007

Much of life is about learning how to say “fuck off”. Through words, or deeds, or both. To the guidance counselor who says that you're a lousy writer and you'll never amount to anything. To the televangelist who tells you you're going to Hell, because thinking for yourself is heresy.

June 10, 2007

Five Secret Service agents had pinned the assassin face-down on the pavement. His nose was broken and bleeding, but he was laughing uncontrollably. Women screamed. Police held back the crowd. Television camera crews closed in around the scene, camera lights blazing. The assassin raised his head and yelled “Freedom!!!”.

June 9, 2007

I pulled the record from the bin. Black-and-white photo of the artist grinning on the front. Musty smell. Obviously from the 1960's. Some lounge piano player who worked at some resort in the Borscht Belt. The guy signed his autograph underneath his picture. Is he still alive?