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2008-05-01 - 4:17 p.m.

I helped drink pitchers of Stella Artois last night, at Rocket to Venus, which is a hipster bar. That's what everyone says, anyway. They had art on the walls and the employees all had dark hair that was longer on one side of their heads than on the other. We talked Clinton and Obama and McCain. We talked about sleeping arrangements. Dickie snores and his wife is known to take the couch, that sort of thing. She took a two-month job in New York and so she's coming home on the weekends but doesn't make it to the train station until Friday at midnight. Dickie's doing all right, but he probably shouldn't be left alone. He might get into trouble, which is what I did last night when I did a little bit of the stuff that I do once every two years (not exactly true) that makes me jumpy and eager for complicated storylines on the TV, in a book, in a tightly clenched magazine that is of superior quality.

A while back, I wrote here about shooting guns during a Christmas trip home. Then I saw that this magazine I check out has a feature where readers write something in response to a prompt. I can't resist a good prompt. Who can? I saw that one of the prompts was Guns. So I dug up that entry about guns, tightened the screws on it, painted it, kicked it, cut it in half, dusted the whole thing off with my shirtsleeve, and sent it in. It's up on their site. If you click on "What You're Writing," on the bottom-right of the page, mine is the first one.

There's a free outdoor show tonight. Tomorrow is a show we all want to see. Saturday is a triple feature (from dusk to 3 or something) at the drive-in theater out in Essex. There is an embarrassment of riches in modern American city living, I think. So many options, really, and we are swimming in facts, opinions, art, bad art, stickers on street signs, gyros, free weeklies, sunshine, the single blast from the horn three cars back when the light turns green. Too many options? Maybe. But what a spectacle. What a monument to what we're capable of, pretty and not.

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