Stephen Mejias

(all you ever have to know about life is that little girls are taught to dance and little boys are taught to kick it's all over from there my son is going to get a whole bunch of garbage for his birthday and i'll say here boy play music)
—lines from an old poem, "the green water rocks / make me cry," by me

Check one and two, but you won't find any of three in my apartment. Unless, of course, you count Story of O—and you might. I like to think of it, however, as erotica. Then there's The Forty-Eight Ways. Is that porn? Nah, it's more of a manual. Takeout menus are few, and include: Wild Fusion (their green curry is delightful); Frank's Pizzeria (a large regular costs five bucks!); and La Conguita (their pernil asado reminds me of my grandma's). I don't keep a very large collection of Stereophile back issues at home, but I do have a few special issues on the bookshelf in my living room.

I'm still surprised whenever approached by some faithless audiophile — hair thinning, ears sagging, belly bulging — and asked (seriously): "Do you think there's any hope for our industry?"

Though I was doing my best to give passengers room to exit the train, I was hopelessly in the way. On some mornings, it's impossible to stand on the train and not be in the way. Everyone scrambles toward the open doors, as if departing this train, right now — right now! — means the world. The world. I think it's because I hate this, that I try to do the opposite. When it's my turn to depart, I move carefully and slowly, perhaps in some futile attempt to show others how gracefully done it can be. Fellow passengers, there is another way. Watch as I move through these doors with such ease and finesse.