Billy Joel's fingers/token friend who's dead

So one day on his way to work this guy takes a dive in front of an oncoming train. Maybe he's fallen asleep mid-step (reasonable in the early rush) or given up (reasonable on way to boring job as a middle manager). What's certain is that the guy comes to and he's a ghost floating above this black and white sign that reads Broadway-Lafayette, looking at himself dead smushed split apart on the ground.

The guy floats up off the track and past the platform where folks are already gathering to gape and freak, floats up out through people toward the exit. From a pedestrian perspective, he's glad to discover, New York subways properly accommodate those who float. It's something he hadn't noticed.

The light hits his eyes like he's hung over but also like it won't stick, like it's going through him. When he gets home no one's there and he hangs out in the kids' rooms a while, thinking how their eyes light up unconditionally when they see him, thinking about his wife when she has something teasing to say to him that reads him too well to deny but still cuts a little but in the end is mostly just funny and goddamn when someone gets you. It hits him what he's done and he tries to conjure some way to get back to life with them but he-of-course-cannot reverse-the-cruel-ravages-of-time-Janus-though-he-may-be.

No one's ever home and every day the guy tries to occupy himself with something different, turns on the radio to listen to that bitch Imus and thinks about the off-season moves of the Yankees or those other jokers, thinks about football and hockey and what a poor substitute they are for the timeless evening of a decent ballgame and the kids arguing through the walls of their adjacent rooms. The leaves are everywhere, instant bullshit metaphors that they are and he makes himself a sandwich, puts on an old Billy Joel record (Piano Man I think), watches daytime TV. But no matter what he does, he's back to thinking about his wife and kids, wondering if their purgatory (if necessary) will be the same as his and how to occupy that time in the meantime. And sometimes his old friends, his mom, his brothers and sisters.

No one ever comes home and whenever he goes out it's fun, I mean, he can go to the movies and see concerts or Yankee games for free, sneak into people's hotel rooms while they're sleeping and watch them sleep or fuck or fight undetected. He can float above the city, its lights curving effortlessly into the sky at night like staccato pounding through Billy Joel's fingers, out over the cold fuck Atlantic, out into space. He's a master, he's in control, like Joe Torre or Derek Jeter or the Babe, or even Billy Joel himself.

It's always bothered me, man, that you turned out to be the token friend who's dead. It bothers me because your work track reminds me so much of my own, because your detachment from the day-to-day is something I find so intuitive. It bothers me because you were trying to cut your cholesterol, because you had little ones to live for, because there was so much that you seemed into, even though there was obviously so much you couldn't even pretend to give a shit about.

It bothers me because you gave me your records, and I just thought you'd given them up for CDs.

in praise of mediocrity

In pro sports they call it parity, on Pitchfork they call it a 7.6 and comb it for stray nuances. At work it's sewn into the culture, so when anything bold or fresh happens we raise our eyebrows and scurry to a Microsoft help file for shelter. And every day some new novelist or worse poet emerges to present a new origami version of the same glinting and fragrant piece of crap.

In politics it hangs in rolls around the Clinton middle, on the Greyhound bus I take to work they actually pump extra quantities of it into the air as a kind of perfume or stimulant. At closing time when folks head home the office parks and parking lots make perfunctory love and by midnight their new spawn have birthed and laid further waste to the landscape. Look at them now, curled up crammed together so thick that in the sodium haze you can barely make out the moon.

My dear, what I really want to say is of course I'll attend your wedding, thank you so much the invite. The save-the-date card will honor my refrigerator always, and when the warranty on that expires I'll get strong clear tape or laminant and fix it to the dishwasher, so that whether loading or unloading I can remember that blessed day. Even if you get divorced I'll refuse to acknowledge it and continue to serenade the milestones as they cascade lovingly by. I'll shout it from real rooftops, hire mariachis, bake anniversary cakes that no matter where you move or hide will find you just in time.

It's strange though, as gushing as I am about the whole scene, as much as I write to praise your once and future happiness, now that you and R. are getting hitched and leaving town (forever and ever one hopes) I feel like I have woken up 50 pounds lighter, as though one of the many blocks against magic and artful function in this world has been lifted. Your presence had become a nagging but almost invisible pain, but had become so commonplace I didn't recognize it. It'll make my world a better place to have you far away.

When looking at wedding dresses keep in mind that some dresses will be better suited to some weddings than others. The type of wedding dress to choose will partly depend on the type of wedding you will be having; your wedding could be formal or informal, take place indoors or outdoors. It could be a grand occasion in a massive cathedral, a sophisticated evening event with a civil ceremony, a simple church wedding, or a beach wedding in the tropics. This will help to inform your choice but should by no means limit it.

There are many wedding dresses to choose from for all types of weddings, so it should not be difficult finding one you like and that fits the occasion.

the basic properties of light

When we were kids we had a way to send somebody off, grandparents or an aunt and uncle who visited. You stood at the front door and flickered the porch light and they honked their horn and you kept the light going until they were out of sight, so they knew you would keep the lighthouse going. The point was for them to have no doubt that if they returned unannounced day or night you would still be standing there flickering the light like an idiot. It was a way of saying distance is an illusion, we are here together no matter what, we love you.

Another way we had in the summer was to run alongside the car until it got out of our development. This way they knew that we loved them so much that we were stubbornly clinging to their presence. Sure, you could do it alone, but it made more sense to do that in groups, my brothers, my sister and me, so we actually had a theoretical chance of catching the car, lifting it in the air and returning it to park back in front of the house. The point was for them to have no doubt that if they looked to the side of their car 20 or 30 miles down the road they might see you sprinting alongside, getting pretty good mileage out of only love and cheap pro Keds.

Using a paper-and-pencil test consisting of multiple-choice situational questions which also require reasoning for the choices made, common misconceptions in light were identified. It was found that most of the students understand the basic properties of light at a knowledge level but had difficulty applying these concepts in novel situations. (And fuck, doesn't growing up mean ending up twisted/distracted/scattered in a hundred directions, subjecting that theory of long-distance communion to the harshest conditions).

My grandfather, the last of those visiting loved ones still capable or willing to make the trip, might be an agnostic by this point but if you press him at an opportune moment he'll articulate a fine vision of heaven. The soul, he says, is wisp of light, and when we die we return to the source, to be together with those we love.

what we expect when we talk about expecting

first trimester (0 - 14 weeks): Baby may occasionally react to specific meals with belches or hiccups; on occasion a tiny "fuck yeah!" rings forth. small hairs produce wolfman-like appearance. is small enough to leave your body on stealth excursions, e.g. for barbecue wings or midnight movies. does not yet see ghosts nor communicate with them. baby should not operate heavy machinery or use the internet unsupervised during this period.

second trimester (15 - 26 weeks): You are going to be hungry as shit now. Example: you may eat a dog or other mammal whole. baby's hiccups, more active now, are capable of triggering world disasters, e.g. floods, wars, famine. now has capacity to yell "motherfucker!" at room volume in quiet or awkward situations. may briefly become a fan of the Dallas Cowboys; typically recedes as a normal part of your child's mental development. first traces of cynicism (sample conversation: You: Baby, how do you feel about the recent national election? Baby:____ You: I mean, will Obama run the country like he ran his campaign? Baby: (may kick) You: But seriously, come on, level with me here. Baby: As long as you view Obama in a ruling class context, you won't be disappointed.) Later, baby may express profound hope about the glacial thawing of our racist national heart, tempered by reminders of imminent bombing, etc.

third trimester (27 - 40 weeks): Baby now capable of revealing your innermost thoughts in stealth calls to your parents, friends, or the national media. typical in-flight wing span now exceeds three feet. baby is typically born during this period, a simple and foolproof process after which follows tidal waves, tsunamis, the complete redrawing of the national map with texas occupying the area formerly known as canada and ohio greedily occupying the rest, the reversal and/or multiplication of gravity to several times its intensity, dizziness, hallucinations, vomiting, waves of confusion and happiness and telegraphic love, a scrambling of the periodic table whereby unstable elements occupy the first 12 elements and form the others when fed after midnight. during this time tic-tac-toe may become an immanently winnable game for you or your partner. relatives reappear. marital conversations reduced to grunts, sighs, and storming out of the room (helps to prevent an immediate second child which christ knows you could not handle at this point).

Baby may exhibit alien vampire tendencies and attempt to drain mother of all bodily fluid. also may develop acne but should not at this point be left unattended overnight.

nina simone

it's silver's birthday and while we were waiting for myrtle (who bought all the presents and made this perfect hand-drawn birthday card one could base an entire ultra-depression-proof park slope card boutique around) she played nina simone at full volume and we split a bottle of wine.

because i was drunk and hell bent to explain how i appreciated the infinite despite my bureaucratic trappings, i launched into this whole tirade on why i liked the music so much. what i ended up vaguely articulating (besides dumb shit like "that piano is bright fish skimming the ocean floor" or "she's an angel sent to remind us we're alive") was the idea of african rhythms searching for freedom within a western idiom. something i'd read once in a jazz text and have been trying to make my own ever since.

silver's commie response was that all people are searching for freedom within whatever imperfect system they've had the misfortune of existing into, and that while people are capable of the worst atrocities you could imagine, they're also it must be stressed capable of busting through their fuck-all cages to express their infinite contents, letting the totality of their beings shine forth in whatever milieu they happen to exist.

hopes for mr. obama.