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.…
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…
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.
…
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…
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.
"I did something stupid," she said.
Exactly what she did is not important now, but I must disagree: it was out of love and, therefore, not stupid, but honest, brave, and necessary.
Sam Beam sings:
And love is the scene I render
These are not the words to this song.
I mean to say: this is not the entry I planned to post. But things don't always go as planned, and—if you haven't already noticed—I tend to let things twist and turn and skip and jump in whatever fashion they please. Something always comes of it.
And I felt this should be mentioned.
This morning, upon entering Manhattan and climbing into the loud and blurry concrete war, I was surprised to…
And that about says it all.
My personal favorite concerns The Fiery Furnaces. If you read it, I think you’ll see why it’s my favorite.
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In his blog, You Can Go To Jersey Or You Can Go To Hell, Jim Teacher is afraid he's forgotten how to communicate, and, so, decides to sing to the trees and animals.
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I really love this, but of course I do: Sean Langon has created a slide-show documenting past Multi-…
I clench my eyes as though they were fists, and rub small circles into my temple with my knuckles. I wonder if Elizabeth notices. Our mutual workspace is cut in half by a short, beige wall, which stands almost exactly a foot higher than our white desk. If I roll my chair six inches to the right, we will be staring at one another. I hear her while she eats. She eats all day long: salads, sandwiches, carrots, apples, candies—Mike & Ikes, usually. She, on the other hand, is forced to listen to whatever music I have in the office.…
I was at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square again, having just left my heart on the L train, and was now looking for something to come home with me. They have a small "Indie" section now, you know, and that's where I was, peering ever-so-intently at the pretty albums before me. When I felt a presence to my left.
Turning, I was…