"The Message" (Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, 12")

I mistakenly chose to take option B to work and ended up taking three trains all equally packed with angry New Yorkers; I forgot not to tangle with any route that crosses near Park Slope, an area of Brooklyn as densely populated as mine with richer, more complaint-prone residents, and just as underserved by the trains as most of the newly populous Brooklyn. Beats the two-fare run I had last weekend going to a gig as a poker dealer, riding to the end of the subway line and taking a bus plus a second bus after I missed my stop on the first.

At least no punk-ass kids were blasting vapid commercial hip-hop from their cell phones, the newly portable form of 80s-style boomboxing, only without the style and the Run-D.M.C., or the sound quality. Another New York thing to be falsely nostalgic for.

On the transfer from the G to the V, the back of my feet got stepped on like three times.

They didn't have any eggs at the lazy-ass cafe around the corner of Driggs. Across the way near the park, they did have that one drunk Polish guy, maybe around 75, maybe just self-aged, who usually sits on the ground mumbling with his shirt off. It's in the 40s today, but his shirt was still off. I'd like some of what he's drinking.

Last night, I had three drinks in a bar and spent $20 on 'em. They were all Yeunglings.

Something about this morning has me thinking of moving.