City stars.

Two women walking toward, then past me in the sidewalk tonight. One sobbing, saying, "that's just so mean. Like, so meeeean." The other women just looked at her the whole time, walking. It's moments like that, when the lives of strangers press in on me, when I remember how big this world is. It's sorta the opposite of when I run into someone I haven't seen in years, and he or she is standing there talking to someone else I know, but from somewhere else, and I start singing "It's A Small World After All" to myself.
While I was walking the dark, unpopulated street to Arwen's to feed her cat a few weeks ago, all the lights in all the windows suddenly came into focus all at once, and my insignificance was suddenly almost overwhelming. Each window, a different life, none of them affected in the slightest by me walking down that street. By me living in their neighborhood. Our neighborhood. But I guess the other side of this coin is that what happened to that poor girl tonight really didn't seem to affect my path, except, of course, for making me ramble on about it for a bit. It has something to do with perspective. Whenever I'm starting to feel like I mean anything, I'll look around at all those windows. It's sorta like the city version of looking up at the stars and feeling insignificant in the universe.

Open letter number, um, three?

I'm not the best one to help you. Maybe it's just a cop-out, but I just can't relate to addiction like that, and always feel there are better, more experienced people around that fill that role. But it really pissed me off when, a year ago, I thought there were plenty of folks over there who had kicked it, and they were just sitting back and watching. But then I realized I was wrong. Nobody kicks over there. So you either leave there walking on your own two feet, or carried on an apathetic stretcher. You've made the right choice in leaving, now just do it the right way. Getting carried is lazy. There's nothing "cool" about lazy.

A picture I took is on the cover of this week's New York Press.

Hmmmm...

Today, I learned that mice are cute, until they're glued to a piece of cardboard. Then, they're art. Living art. Or performance art. Sad art that makes one think about life and existence itself, what it means to be free, and what it means to have power over freedoms.
Hey, back off. I though of it first.

Tens of thousands dead in natural disasters in the last week. (Not in the USA)

There was just a mouse on my desk. The living breathing really cute kind. I left the room for a minute, and came back to find him reading the wedding invitation I got in the mail last week. I wish they would just behave a little better instead of shredding paper, eating holes in styrofoam, and playing my drums while I'm trying to sleep.
Looks like I'm going to LA. George and Jennifer ran off and got married in Hawaii, and the reception's in a few weeks.
I would like to note that I did sound for a band I never heard of on an MTV show where guys I never heard of broke 40 guitars inside a plexi booth for a show I never heard of.
I love all this rain, but I need appropriate shoes.
An american millionaire just returned home from ten days in space. He paid 20 million for the ride. The BBC reported this story, and then went directly into an update on the now 30,000 dead from the pakistani/indian earthquake. How can this fucking american millionaire have a smile on his face while he tells his millionaire friends about his $20,000,000.00 vacation? Wouldn't a better vacation be going to pakistan/india and building somewhere some of the millions of survivors can shelter themselves before winter? Or maybe he could have helped build a few earthquake-proof schools instead of checking out that useless space station. Everyone in this world needs to pay a little more attention to the difference between what one wants, and what one needs.

Running out.

Sometimes it takes all my energy to stop myself from smashing the glass doors at my post office. I was there on thursday, and there were signs and balloons touting the new expanded post office hours. I thought that, finally, the worst branch in the city is getting fixed. Lobby hours on weekdays 6am-7pm. Fantastic! Getting out a bit late to pick up a package? No problem now. Get home at sunrise and want to check my box? Open and ready. So today, I get there a little after 5pm, and there's a guy outside sending people away. The signs were gone or covered over. Was this some sick joke? The employee outside charged with facing angry locals couldn't speak english too well, so he couldn't answer my questions, all starting with the word "why."
"But there were balloons!"
I am running out of energy.

Recently printed picture.