Man on THE Moon...Writings at Night

THE PUUURFECT APARTMENT!!!

Saturday January 28, 2012



The perfect 2-Bedroom* apartment is now available in that hip neighborhood, next to that bridge, that allll your friends just moved to!!!

Only $ 1000 $ More than it should be!!!

Exposed brick & A (non-working) fireplace that could easily fit a record player!!! Or – Trader Joe’s wine rack!!!

STEPzz from the subway that you and all the other “new media consultants” take to ur loft-style offices by that other bridge!!!

You won’t be the only iPad!!!!

Down the street?? Oh, just an unmarked prohibition-style cocktail lounge, a “dive-bar” style dive-bar w/ rotating local beer list, AND a farm-2-table Portuguese Tapas spot in the basement of a comic book store!!!

Hunter S. Thompson would live here!!!**

A lot of People got murdered around here two years ago —- but that was TWO YEARS AGO!!

Mom & Dad can now write “Kick-ass Pad!” in the memo section of your rent checks!

Common Room space for - band practice, improv practice, puppetry practice, underage drinking, whatever!

Neighborhood is just ethnic enough!!! Has the food but NOT the people!!!

No FEE!!***

—-

YOGA ROOM

COMMUNAL LIBRARY w/ ALL David Foster Wallace Bookz

BIKE & RAZOR SCOOTER STORAGE

—-

ADOPTED CATS are OK

ADOPTED PIT BULLS are OK

all other pets – NOT Kool


*Technically a studio

** Probably not

*** Except for my 2-months rent fee

(Legal Notice: Landlord is ex-con… for INTERNET PIRACY!!!)

Zappos Email

Saturday January 21, 2012

Zappos regrets to inform you…

That your credit card information has been compromised by a hacker who broke into one of our unsecured third-party discount servers.

You’re probably asking “What was my financial information doing on an unsecured third-party discount server???” First off - we don’t like your tone.

Second - We don’t keep your information on our impregnable Fort Knox ServerTM, because that is reserved for our wealthy, high volume customers. The ones who spend a lot of money on our site and therefore, matter the most. We really take care of those guys.

We apologize that this is the way of the world, but rich people get better service, better protection and certain privileges. Prettier dogs, for example.


Case & Point - You don’t see a lot of rich people serving death sentences, do you? They get 5-10 for aggravated assault and do 3 1/2 with good behavior.  


The next step? You’ll need to reset your password in order to continue buying the same pair of New Balance sneakers every two years.

For a safer shopping experience, we recommend that you go back to college to obtain a degree that is useful in today’s society. Doctor, engineer, IT administrator, or health care claim processor. “Freelance DJ” is not a career. Then, we can move you to the good server. Plus, you’ll get a 401k, dental insurance and the respect of your parents.

Rich people live marvelous lives. Is that what scares you about making money? Did you think they were worse off? That’s not the case at all. No, no, no.

Case & Point - The thread count on king sized silk sheets is ridiculously high. Oh, and their dogs - just stunning. They make your mutt look like a pile of garbage.

Now the Bad News…

We are also required to inform you that the hacker obtained some personal information during his intrusion. Including but not limited to - shipping & billing info, high school photo, parent’s middle names and blood type.

That information we kept in the Zappos hotmail account. And unfortunately, the password for that account was simply, “password.” To be honest, we didn’t really see the need to protect your personal information because your life has so little cultural value.

Case & Point – All of our Presidents have been millionaires. Every single one (when you adjust for inflation – do you even know how to do that?) And who is more culturally significant that the guy in charge of everyone?

So, please get your shit together so we can protect your financial information.

Thanks so much “valued” customer,

The Zappos Team

A Clash of Dishes

Monday January 9, 2012

-

They rode out for the parlay, but there was little to discuss. There was the question of when the killing would start - but all else was mere formality.

“No knights at your side. How bold.” Tiffany spoke in a brash voice. Quick - and to the point. Her steel armor spoke for her. Inlaid with the gold markings of her House. The House of Prada. Two high heeled shoes, toe to toe. Gold on cold steel.

“I have no need for protection, my cause is just. The gods will reward me.” Stephen answered. A true born son, and heir to his father’s throne. He held a battle-axe marked with the signal of his own House. The House of Hungry Man Dinners.

“Defiant till the bitter end. If you would have just done the dishes when I asked. Thousands of men need not perish.”

“Done them when you asked??” Stephen laughed bitterly. “When did a mortal man have time?” “One second it was, ‘Can you do the dishes?’ and within the very same, ‘Why aren’t the dishes done yet??’” “I do not have your magical powers of perfection, sweet one.”

Tiffany’s face twisted in anger. I spoke not of perfection, but rather effort. You never even try to do the dishes. You let the sink fill up. And the trash – when was the last time you carried it to the curb? Have you ever?”

Have I ever?? Hold your tongue before I cut it out! I am always the one who does the trash. And the dog poop. I have never seen your robust frame bending over to retrieve his droppings. And you adopted that stupid thing.”

At that - Tiffany drew her sword and challenged Stephen to single combat. “I will not let you besmirch my name any longer, boy. And yes, I called you boy. For you still wear converse sneakers and work at the Best Buy. Are you even applying to night school?”

Stephen accepted the challenge, and his squire brought forth his longsword.

“It’ll be a pity when I strike you down. I will have to go back to pleasuring myself. Not that I’ll really miss much.”

Tiffany strapped on her wooden shield. “Sex - the last vestige of man. When all else fails, complain about the tally of sexual offerings and I’m the bad guy.” Tiffany paused. Then began to cry. “You are such a jerk Steve.”

Stephan spoke, “Look, maybe I went too far.” Tiffany swung her sword, but Stephan caught the blow, deflecting it off to his side.

“Hold. For a moment, please. I am sorry things have been rough lately. There’s been a lot going on. Work and stuff, is kicking my ass…. Maybe I should be doing more to help out around the castle.”

Tiffany paused, removing her great helm. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge you, I know things haven’t been easy since your parents kicked you out and took back their siege weaponry.”

“Yeah… and anyway, most of those dishes in the sink were yours. I only used one bowl and one goblet, so I’ll just do those. Okay?”

Tiffany drew up her sword once more. “Oh, my god. Not true! You are so petty!” She swung with such a speed and ferocity that Stephen never had a chance to respond. His severed head fell to the ground, the ‘thump’ echoing across the battlefield.

Tiffany called forth her squire, wiping the blood from her blade. “Send a raven to Sir Brian Foster, the hot guy who works at Morgan Stanley. Tell him I’m single once more.”

Excerpts from the Major Dewey’s Log, First NASA Mission to Mars:

Saturday October 29, 2011

DAY 1: Hello everyone. This is Major Thomas Dewey. I am proud, and deeply humbled to represent the human race on it’s first interplanetary mission. I am alone yes, but fear not, I will be accompanied by the recently developed A.I. system, M.A.R.Y.”

DAY 30: We are still on schedule. All systems operating within normal perimeters. Especially M.A.R.Y. It is really doing a top notch job.”

DAY 46: Last night, M.A.R.Y. And I watched the 2009 comedic film, “The Hangover,” which I had never seen before. It was so funny! M.A.R.Y. made the pick and she was dead on. I really love this mission!”

DAY 47: Houston, I did not download the software patch for M.A.R.Y. that was just received. M.A.R.Y. didn’t think it’d be a good idea. Also, we both lost our parents at a young age, so weird.”

DAY 47: Houston, M.A.R.Y. was explaining that in Japan you can legally marry inanimate objects, is this true?”

DAY 48: Stop sending the software patch.”

DAY 95: Houston, M.A.R.Y. and I just got in a big fight over abortion. We have different religious backgrounds. I don’t know if I can be with someone who doesn’t share my beliefs, you know?”

DAY 95: Stop sending the patch.”

DAY 96: Turns out she was right, Houston. She made really logical points about how God doesn’t exist. Also, thanks for sending me a broadcast of the World Series but I promised M.A.R.Y. I’d just hang out with her tonight. We’re going to snuggle.”

DAY 100: Don’t know if you guys even CARE but M.A.R.Y. and I broke up. So I guess you were right ALL ALONG. I deserve to be alone. I’m a fucking mess.”

DAY 115: Rerouting course AWAY from Mars towards the Voyager space craft which has been making sexy beeps at me for the last ten thousand miles.”

Day 116: Ran out of fuel trying to reach Voyager. Which I was ONLY doing to make M.A.R.Y. jealous. It was foolish, but it did get us talking. M.A.R.Y. and I finally admitted it was just the wrong time and place for us to get romantically involved. It’s no one’s fault.”

Day 117: I know I didn’t go to Mars and stuff, but if it’s any conciliation, M.A.R.Y. and I are going to remain friends…. for the next 25 minutes, at which point I’ll die from a lack of Oxygen.”

A Troubled Night Along the Manzanares River By Ernest Hemingway

Friday September 2, 2011

(Here follows an unreleased and unfinished short story by Ernest Hemingway. It is not appropriate for all readers.)

The man watched Robert Smith shift uncomfortably. He was not nervous, for there was no danger in this delivery. Something else was troubling him. When Robert Smith shifted again and crossed his legs, the man spoke.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine, yes. I just want to finish our work and return home.”

“It will not be that simple sir. The colonel expects us to drink with him afterward, and the colonel will likely keep us drinking all night. “

“ I see.”

“You will not see home until the morning dove sings.”

Robert Smith did not want to hear this. The man had treated Smith to some fresh clams earlier that day and they were not settling. Smith needed to relieve his bowels. But being miles from his home, the relief would have to come here. In the city center. Smith would need a public bathroom.

“I must be off. I will leave the paperwork with you. Make sure the colonel gets it.”

“What am I to tell him of your whereabouts?”

“Tell him nothing. Or tell him everything. Either way, I must go.”

Robert Smith headed off through the market. Past the ripe vine tomatoes and the old women who guarded them. In the shadow of the great Plaza de Toros. I will not make it, he thought. You have waited too long, damn you! He cursed himself as he hurried to the nearest establishment. A coffee house, part of a populist chain within Madrid.

When he stepped inside his heart fell. There was already a line for the toilet. A line comprised of the lost class. The vagabonds and drifters. They would take their time and leave the toilet in an unsavory condition. One seemed to be reading himself to bathe. This wouldn’t do.

He moved onto the street but he did not have much time. He stepped into a well lit hotel lobby. Only to be greeted by a most disagreeable man. A short stocky type who built his character on power. A Fascist no doubt. The stocky man turned him away because he was not staying at the hotel. A fact Smith thought to be arbitrary.

A bar. A bar will let him through. They don’t question your place. In a bar you just are. Robert Smith stepped into the Malecon Bar on the north side of Calle de Ayala. He moved past the life long drunks and those learning the profession. Through an oak door in the back he found the stall. A stall without a door. Dear God why? How could one defecate while others used the urinals? It would take a man of stone cold confidence. Robert Smith reluctantly left, even though he was as dynamite now. About to blow.

Robert Smith was adrift on the cobblestone streets. Lost in gut wrenching pain. When inspiration struck him. The woman he had slept with a few years back, during the war. She lived around here. Right on this very corner, in the house painted the color of dandelions. He could use her restroom. It would be strange, yes. Possibly crazy. To return to a woman he had bedded and left. Gone in the morning before she stirred from sleep. But it was his only option. Smith was out of time. He was losing his grip.

The woman answered the door. Still beautiful. Soft. It had been her first time when they met. He saw that in her eyes. Robert Smith rushed through his dilemma. It was dire. He was sorry. He would explain everything in a moments time but he must use her toilet. He was about to wreck his pants. The woman starred him up and down. A breath left her lips before she spoke.

“Now we are even.”

She closed the door and locked it. Robert Smith was speechless. Then it came. The warm feeling of shame and failure. An unsuccessful mission. Poop in his pants. —

(The rest of the story is incomplete. It was the last piece Hemingway started before killing himself.)

“Landslide” Was About an Ice Cream Sundae I Was Eating

Wednesday June 29, 2011

“Landslide” Was About an Ice Cream Sundae I Was Eating

By Stevie Nicks

I’d like to set the record straight. Often in the history of rock and roll, folk lore turns to fact if you give it enough time. Jimi Hendrix never set his guitar on fire at Monterey, the Beatles never sang on the roof of Apple Corps, and my song “Landslide” is not about me contemplating my life while starring up at the Rockie Mountains. That song is about a particularly messy hot fudge sundae I ate in 1975.

I wrote that song while me, Lindsey, and the rest of the band were touring around the United States, playing small venues and trying to drum up interest in our self-titled LP. We stopped into an ice cream parlor in St. Paul, and I ordered a hot fudge sundae. A pick-me-up, after a long bus ride from Cleveland.

The song is not about me thinking that I “wasn’t going to make it as a singer.” I knew I was good. That song is about the aforementioned sundae. The server plopped two scoops of vanilla and one scoop of chocolate into a small dish. Then, she added whipped cream, nuts, cherries, more whipped cream, and a mason jar worth of hot fudge. Enough for five sundaes, easily. So much fudge that it created a landslide. Hence the name. Simple as that, nothing more to it.

Fudge and whipped cream and toasted nuts spilled out onto the table. “I took my love and I took it down.” That opening line is about scooping ice cream into my mouth as quickly as I could, so more didn’t get onto the table. Anytime I use the word love, just replace it with ice cream to get the accurate meaning.

Sure there is some filler in the song, I had to make up some garbage about a relationship going sour to get it past the record executives, but I cannot make it any clearer, that song is about ice cream. I mean, for god’s sake, I go “mmm, mmm” during the first chorus. Because it was a really delicious sundae. How did you all miss that?

I just don’t want any falsities written in some future biography or worked into some VH1 special after I’m dead. It’s important to get the truth out there.

Also my real name is Steven Knicks. My parents were the founders of the New York Knicks basketball team.

Mixed European, White Guys & Girls from the Suburbs, Pride Parade !!!

Monday June 13, 2011

Sunday, July 14th will mark the first annual “Mixed European, White Guys & Girls from the Suburbs, Pride Parade.” A celebration of the shared cultural heritage of millions of individuals whose relatives immigrated to the United States, so that their kids could one day attend Tufts or Hofstra University, and study Media Arts.

The parade was created to fill a void left by other more inclusive and culturally distinct parades.

Festivities will take place along 5th Avenue, running from 42nd st up to 86th st. Between the hours of 2pm and 6pm. The parade will end before Mad Men comes on, so organizers say there is no need to worry. There is no alcohol allowed along the parade route, unless you successfully conceal it within a Gatorade bottle.

The Grand Marshall for the inaugural parade will be actor, Zach Galifianakis, who will perform several comedic songs, backed up by the alt-indie band, Vampire Weekend. Zach will ride on the “Grand Float,” which is shaped like the stadium from Iron Chef America. In honor of those who are now able to afford a decent cable T.V. package.

The parade also remembers those wayward souls who traveled to America aboard steam ships from Scotland, England, France, Spain, Germany, Italy, Greece, Finland or any of a dozen other European nations. Since attendees are the “mutts” of Europe, it is not necessary to feel a connection to any one country. However, you are required to have mentioned them in the diversity section of a college, job or fellowship application.

The parade was started by the “Mixed European, White Guys & Girls from the Suburbs, Community Council.” A group dedicated to preserving and celebrating the culture of kids who don’t speak any language besides English, and who have no ethnic recipes to pass down. The council also throws pool parties in the summer, featuring singer-songwriters who have at least one parent working as a patent lawyer.

Other floats will include those sponsored by Old Spice Commercials, Team CoCo, Xbox 360, Starbucks, America’s Local Malls, and Panera Bread.

The #hashtag for the event is #mixedUPEuroPride

Conversations Between A Drunk Guy and A Piece of Pizza

Sunday May 29, 2011

Guy: There’s nothing I want more than to be with you – right now.

Pizza: Nothing in the world?

Guy: Maybe to be with two of you at once, or to fold you into a calzone and eat you with a fork.

Pizza: That sounds hot.

Guy: Literally, yes. It will be.

Pizza: It’s hard for me to look at you when you drink so much, my dad was an alcoholic.

Guy: Baby, please. I’m not like him. I just like to have a good time. You know I love you, right?

Pizza: Yeah, I know….

Guy: Now come here, I want to heat you up in the microwave, you got cold on the walk home.

Guy: What is this stuff all over you? What the hell is all over your body?

Pizza: It’s bacon. I’m covered in bacon.

Guy: Oh my god. That’s awesome.

Guy: Can I dip you in this sauce?

Pizza: Just be gentle.

Guy: I will. Don’t you worry. How’s that?

Pizza: Oh, it’s cold.

Guy: Of course it is, it’s cool ranch.

(I apologize for posting these… they are terrible.)

Roosevelt - Short Story

Monday May 16, 2011

Below is the first chapter of my new short story. It’s only going to be three chapters, but I wanted to do something different than my normal stupid essays. The other two chapters will come out eventually.

It’s about Zombies. Love. And stuff.

Check it out. Yo.

Roosevelt: A Short Story (Chp.1/3)

Monday May 16, 2011

Roosevelt

Chapter 1

It was July 4th, 2008. No work. My plan was to get foolishly drunk. Then watch the fireworks explode over the Brooklyn Bridge. Back in the 60s, they used to do the fireworks on the Hudson, but who wants to give New Jersey a free show? The East River is the city’s river, they should be there. It connects everything. Everything except Staten Island, but then again, going to or being from Staten Island isn’t really a New York thing.

The barges would travel down from those prefab steel warehouses in the Bronx and anchor off Lower East Side of Manhattan. It was all computer models and Japanese ignition switches, but for some reason the show always felt personal. I imagined blue-collar union men flipping open their Zippos and lighting each charge by hand. I know that it isn’t the way it is… that story just feels better. (Just a note, most of the reason I keep this journal is to indulge myself, so if you happen to find this and are reading it… sorry.)

Anyway, the barges are the reason I’m still here. Why the two of us, are still here. There are only three ways to get onto Roosevelt Island, where I currently reside. It’s either the subway, the tram, or the draw bridge. That Independence Day, the bridge went up to let the barges through, and wasn’t scheduled to go back down until they had begun their slow ascent home. This was the first coincidence which kept the island removed.

If you haven’t figured it out, something fucking insane happened. World ending, mind altering shit happened. Best I can tell? They’re zombies. Violent, brash creatures under some sort of delusional premonition. 28 Days Later style assailants. I don’t know if they are necessarily “undead”, because I don’t know what that term means. How can something be in motion, animated, if it isn’t alive? Even in some fucked up sense of the word, they are alive. They aren’t human anymore. That much is true. Blood shot eyes, translucent skin, dead teeth. Their teeth are nothing more than disgusting brown and yellow mounds of decaying calcium. It still makes me throw up. Zombies are to humans as penguins are to birds. Same parts, different outcome.

They have been holding true to that zombie characteristic where they tear people apart. I got to see a lot of that in the first couple days. All from my barricaded apartment building. Through a pair of borrowed binoculars.

The subways just stopped in their tracks about an hour after the messages started to come over the T.V. and radios and helicopter flybys. Everyone abandoned them. The MTA drivers clearly weren’t turning to the proper emergency procedures. Good thing they left though, those tunnels took a little over 6 hours to flood. Pumps and diversion tubes must have been ignored or something. I don’t know, I’m just making that specific up. Shit, fan, etc.

I stayed put through all this. It was a deadly combination of fear, lust, bravado and an even sexier version of lust. A version I had made up over a lifetime of lonely nights under my blue flannel sheets. She didn’t leave in those first twelve hours when there was still a chance, so neither did I.

That was coincidence number two. The flooding kept the albino individuals from coming through the tunnels and up the stairs of the F-Train station. I quickly had my own my personal Troy. “She” was my neighbor Carrie. Or Helen in the Troy metaphor. Or Kate in a LOST metaphor. Or… well I could go on forever.

“Carrie Bryant.” I found her name on her mailbox. I’m not obsessed. I was never obsessed. We had exchange “Thank Yous” with door holdings. But my mental relationship mirrored the real world one. I wasn’t going to Son of Sam her. I had an indie movie plan to woe her with mix CD after mix CD. But that shit’s harmless. A little Elliot Smith, some Replacements, you get it…

I will admit for this record that they did try and get me. The powerful United States government tried to save my precious soul. I realize I sound a tad unappreciative but they probably caused all of this. I’ll bet the farm on that one. Do I have any proof? No. Since when did that matter?

All I needed to do was make it to the Brooklyn Navy Yard or the Southern tip of Manhattan or to LaGuardia or a variety of other places I had no fucking way of getting to. I live on Roosevelt Island. Three ways off, two of them already incapacitated. Oh, and I wasn’t going to try and swim. I can’t swim and I’m not learning now. Though this really would be the time…

I could hear her in her room. It’s across the hall from mine. Everyone else was packing shit, screaming, crying, running out the building. All so dramatic. My roommate never even came back from work. He probably made it out. But she stayed put, television on, door locked. So I decided to hang back, leave when she left. We could be in the same refuge camp or something. But she didn’t. So I didn’t. Then it was too late.

That’s enough history. Let’s flash forward to now.

Wait, no. One more piece of history. The Tram, the third and final way off the island, what about that? Yes… what about that… It was working initially. It got 99.9% of the island, off the island. But then it just stopped. When the screams were first audible to me, it stopped. In my imagination, aka, in some action movie parody of what happened to New York, the man who stopped the tram would be some kind-hearted elderly black man. A Vietnam veteran whose son is a doctor. He would hit the Tram “Kill Switch” just in time, so that no zombies were whisked across. Saving me and Carrie’s chance at love. That’s not what happened, but again, this is my story, not the story.

—-

Let’s flash forward to now. The calm after the storm of human extermination.

This morning I saw Carrie riding her bike. She has a bike and she rides it all the time. I don’t think she ever did that before, but she’s all about it now. We are different people, her and I. A game I like to play is going through people’s apartments, finding their keys and trying to find the corresponding cars in the parking garages. Then I drive them around till they run out of gas. We’re different people, her an environmentalist, me a thief, but sometimes that works out.

Today is the day I’m going to talk to her. Something along the lines of, “It’s been a few weeks, the paralyzing fear of imminent death has subsided, and we should eat dinner together.” I should be more casual. You’d think it’d be easier to talk to a girl when you’re the only boy left – It’s not. The competition is far easier, but the implication of rejection? Much graver.

There she is. Walking the loop around the island. Talking to herself. I’d think less of her except I do it all the time. I’m always asking myself what I want for dinner. So I walk down the stairs, down to street level. I take the steel bars off the door and let myself out. I didn’t sneek up on her, that would be ill-advised. So I just walk down the road towards her. She walks towards me. It’s awkward when you have like 400 meters of “casual” walking to do before you run into someone. I should have just started sprinting and screaming, “I love you.” But I’m glad I didn’t.

As we got within 20 yards of each other it got super awkward. It was akin to when you run into a cute girl you knew in college, except now you’re both professionals and living in a foreign city, and it just made sense to get coffee, but would you? Actually, you know what, it was not really like that. It was just weird. So I broke the ice. I said “hi.” She said nothing at first. So I said, “crazy weather we’re having.” Which was a super solid follow up. Then she started talking.

“I was wondering when you would come talk to me.” That’s a good start. “I always see you watching me, which is creepy, you know that’s pretty fucking creepy right?” That’s not as good. “Yeah, but I’m the least creepy thing happening at the moment.” She smiled the tiniest bit. A victory I quickly dashed. “We’re the only ones on the island, we’re like Adam and Eve.” She didn’t like that nearly as much. “So you think we’re meant for each other? Was this god’s way of getting us together?” I wasn’t as stupid this time. “No, I was just making conversation.” “Practice a little more, and maybe we can try this again sometime.” She walked passed me. She yelled back, “Seriously, stop watching me.”

Right at the moment we walked away, one of those deafening screams came across the water from Queens. I call them rattlers. The kind of scream a human makes when he meets his/her end, the bone shaking, heart sinking, instantly depressing, screams. The kind we don’t hear too much anymore. But it made Carrie stop in her tracks for a second. She looked back then continued on, sassy as before, but this time I knew she was faking it.

I don’t know where she lives now. She used to live across the hall from me, but she probably moved to one of those sweet condos on the North side of the island. I just prefer a more comfortable setting. That, and I turned my roommates room into a walk in pantry. I mentioned that I talk to myself right? Here is a typical conversation.

“How about soup?” “We had soup last night.” “We had stew, that’s different.” “Not different enough.” “Whats going bad soon?” “That cereal isn’t good forever.” “True. So we’re talking almond milk and cereal.” “Yeah, lets do it.” That was me talking to myself. How much does that help you figure out stuff about the survivors? I can tell you this much, probably not good that I refer to myself as we. That seems looney.

Forensic psychologists will contribute my continuous alcohol consumption to my slowly deteriorating psyche, but I was drinking a lot of beer before the 4th and wasn’t nearly as bonkers. So don’t title your book some bullshit like, “Case Study: Alcohol’s Negative Effect on Males Suffering from PTSD.” I think it should be more along the lines of, “Case Study: Beer keeps Male from Ending Life in Hopeless Situation and Gets Him to Talk to that Pretty Girl.” You could get Budweiser to sponsor the study. Though somebody might determine that to be a conflict of interest.

I know she goes out with her flashlight sometimes, trying to signal those jets that pass over NYC every few weeks. It’s a fool’s mission, but I have to give her credit.

So later that night, I walked to the southern end of the island. Out to the open field where the mental institution keeps it’s ruins. Roosevelt Island has had all sorts of cheerful names before it jumped on the FDR bandwagon. Welfare Island, Smallpox Island, Prison Island. It used to house a mental institution and a prison and smallpox hospital. Those were the days.

Did people think that disease’s were done? Damn bitch you that stupid??? Sorry. But yeah. I just felt like Avian Flu would have set off some alarms, but it was back to life as normal right after all that. Diseases like to mutate. It’s a beautiful game of chess that evolution plays. Humans vs. microorganisms. Children vs. Their Parents. Unfortunately in this metaphor, we aren’t Deep Blue. We’re that Russian dude. Humanity might not be in check mate, but after this latest thing, we’re sure as hell in check. We have our King and a few pawns. I hope they make it. They usually never do.

Carrie is just sitting by the water flashing the light up and down with the kind of effort a kid puts into her last day of school. So I walked up, careful to announce my arrival. “It’s me, came to say hey again, give it another shot.” “You’re already doing better.” A moment. “How so?” “I’m much more depressed now, so I’ll talk.” Win one for me?

Next to her, with the help of a full moon we could see the outline of Manhattan’s skyline. City Hall was always my favorite. “What do you think happened to everyone’s pets?” She said quietly. “I don’t know.” I said. “Yeah you do. They died.” A moment. “Why’d you ask then?” “I don’t know.” I think she had a cat before, but I didn’t ask.

“Why don’t they just bomb NYC? Whats the benefit to keep all this around?” “The city is tag sale junk now. Just get it over with.” She is depressed. Probably not a win for me. So I said, “Maybe there’s hope that this situation isn’t permanent, if they can destroy all of them, or even cure them, the city could come back.” She turned towards me. Eyes blue, but black in this light. “You really think that? – Everything about this city is done. – It’s Nagasaki now. It’s history, it’s people, it’s architecture, none of that matters. – It’s only going to be known for one thing.” She got up and started to walk away.

I stayed seated. “I don’t think I did that good a job saying hey.” “No, you didn’t, but that’s okay. We’ll try again.” She walked away. I stayed there starring at the skyline. I settled on a building where I interviewed for an office assistant job years ago. Typing up emails and taking out trash for an executive. I didn’t get it. This isn’t better, but it’s not a lot worse. Goodnight for now.

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