Actually, the train-riding part of the trip only lasted a month. It was during the middle of November. If it hadn’t been for that hostel-slash-homeless shelter-slash-psychiatric ward I stayed at in Chicago, things might’ve been different. I might’ve gone all the way out to California. But that cold hostel broke my spirit, and I could go no further west. Instead, I traveled straight down the mighty Mississippi to New Orleans—poor, sweet…
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I was 22 years old, and had just made it back to New Jersey from a four-month trip traveling around the States aboard Amtrak trains.
I was 22 years old, and had no idea that high-end audio existed. No idea at all.
As a child, I knew—or I should say: I had the vague idea—that, as you got older, your speakers got bigger. A stereo was something you paid a good amount of money for and showed off to your house guests.
I remember my father’s brother bragging about the new Aiwa stereo system he had recently purchased. It was bigger than my father’s.
Soon, my father went out and bought a Kenwood. It was bigger than the Emerson we had before, and even a little bit bigger than my…
We’ve reached the end of the week.
Presently, I’m feeling overwhelmed by the possibilities. And I’m going to try to get around to them all. I have to remind myself that we have time for this thing to grow. It’s kind of like a marriage. We’ve got a lifetime. Maybe. I think some readers are already screaming for a divorce. You can keep the McMansion in Boca, DBailey; I’m taking the kids and the hi-fi.
I just received an e-mail from Todd. In it, he said: "If I had to do one of these everyday, I’d die."
Yes, I’m sure that I will die someday, brother, but not…
I just want to sit here and be alone and think of her and drink Brooklyn Lager and listen to music and feel the cool new autumn wind blow through my open window—as soft and as right as her hand pressing mine—and forgive me, please friends, forgive me, but I’m tired and I’m happy and is there anything so wrong with that really?
I received a voicemail from Eileen on Friday night, which said something like: "You missed my phone call again, and I’m here with Sean and Omar and Allison and Justin and Lauren and Scott and Cheryn, and we’re all waiting for you, and you’re lame."
It’s not that I don’t like all my married friends. These days, it’s hard to get me out on a Friday night; I’m so, so tired from the week and there’s usually nothing I want more than to just sit down. Not only that, but I’ve discovered that I have very little interest in going to the types of rock shows that I found so necessary all…
Lisa Whiteman keeps a blog. I discovered it on May 12, 2003, and I have enjoyed it everyday since. How many days is that?
Lisa is certainly one of my favorite writers of all time—perhaps my very favorite—right up there with Walt Whitman, Ernest Hemingway, and Art Dudley.
In a recent e-mail, Lisa asked if I’d heard the band Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.
"I’ve been trying not to," I responded, "but it’s getting kind of hard."
I have something against bands with long, action verb names. There’s a thing going around, it seems, these days.…
Melissa is safe inside now. I just walked her home.
She is listening to music—Magnolia Electric Company, maybe—and trying to teach her kitten not to scratch her while she sleeps.
We again met randomly. We do this at least five or so times a month. We make no appointments, but I see her more often than I see many of my closest friends. This time, it was as we were crossing Sixth Avenue at 14th Street. I was on my way into the PATH station, Melissa was on her way into Urban Outfitters.
When you run into a beautiful girl, follow her.
That…
In the conference room, where I have lunch each day with two of my favorite people in the world (I am very lucky), I found myself tapping my fingers in constant rhythm against the long, veneered table. Why was I doing this?
I am almost always conscious of my hands. They are finding comfort by gripping something or they are holding on to themselves or they are simply hiding. At times throughout the day, I’ll firmly squeeze each of my fingertips, slowly, one by one, starting from the thumb and ending with the pinky. Is this odd? But I like the way it feels. It quiets me.
…
We don’t get together as often as we’d like.
Always a special occasion when Art Dudley visits the New York City office, this time, we chose Chez Laurence—directly across the street from us—for lunch.
John had: the salad nicoise; Elizabeth: a tuna fish sandwich; Art: the chef’s salad; me: spinach and mushroom quiche. It was either that or the panini.
One might think that lunch with John Atkinson, Art Dudley, and managing editor Elizabeth Donovan would be filled with talk of only high-end audio.
However—while we did mention audio…
Yes,
it is
true:
it is
true:
I am a lucky, lucky man
I spend my days in the company
of many beautiful women.
However,
for balance, I suppose,
or something similarly intangible and weightless,
the universe has made it so
I should spend my nights
alone.
And,
somewhat sadly, somehow sweetly,
there are many of those lonesome nights
in which I want nothing more
than someone to hold.
Someone to hold.
Oh well.
I go to bed, instead,
with music.