At closing time we patched our wounds, finished our drinks and headed into the summer night.

Canadian slasher movie with Leonard Cohen in a hockey mask.

Seeing an old friend for the first time since the pandemic. Seeing in his shocked expression what I hadn’t yet noticed in the mirror.

One warm summer night when he was fifteen years old, he lit a cigarette on a dry hillside near San Bernadino, California. After all these years, he still couldn’t bear to confront the  destruction caused by that simple thoughtless act—yet he did, unceasingly. How many times had he gone to bed hoping to not wake up? But dying wouldn’t help; he would need to have never been born.

Number one problem facing humanity: irony.

People described as “lighting up the room.” You are not one of those.

By the time you get her attention, the bartender already seems annoyed. You’re getting that a lot lately. You expect it, really. You give her a short nod, turn and head out into the rain. You’ve come down with your third cold of the season and there seems to be something wrong with your legs. Your father died 20 years ago today. The earnest, dignified man you remember could be your brother now. Limping home in your wet coat, almost comical in your desolation, you wonder. In 20 years, will anyone raise a toast in your memory?

the austere beauty of winter
the power of forgiveness
the market is not the economy
nina simone
the male or female gaze
blah blah etc etc

A vulgar preference for the novel over the good.