I’m sitting at a table near the bathroom, the only unoccupied spot. Studious folks with computers laptops and pained expressions on their face take up most tables. One, however, is now filled with high school students, reveling in their break. Before the other couple joined them, the louder of the two sets were seated across …
I’m staring at the floor as a podcast blares talk lamenting the existence of lobbyists into my ears. The floor is mottled, melted flecks of red, white and blue plastic in a field of black. I’m idly wondering if that American-flag theme was deliberate, some post-9/11 nod to the country we all supported when this …
I’d wager there are at least 6 different languages being spoken in this train car, and it’s only half full. The 7 is the gateway to some of Queens’ more exotic areas, most notably Flushing: a Sino-Korean annex which surrounds the American shrine that is Citi-Field. Home of the Mets in the midst of a …
It seems strange that this place should be called a “terminal,” as it is no one’s final destination. People flood into and out of here, blood cells in the beating heart of an urban giant. Some arrive with luggage or an instrument case, dreams of greatness and opportunities in their head. For others, this is …
I stand with Times Square at my back, remembering this block as it was years ago. As a guitar, I think the unique and exciting instruments—the real expense stuff—are rarely worth buying but always worth trying. Over the past ten years or so, this block has gotten more and more homogenous. It’s come to reflect …
I surface from the stale air of the subway, all my senses inundated. Salesmen hawking movie scripts and trinkets sit passively as the drivers of horse-drawn carriages vie for the attention of passers-by. The street is full of traffic, the sounds of horns, squealing breaks and sirens blending with the myriad languages of visiting families. …
I have decided in my extremely limited wisdom to render 10 short pieces about my new home here in New York City. The idea first occurred to me while meeting a friend at Port Authority Bus Terminal. It seemed so active yet so neglected. A way in and out, but almost not a place itself–no …
Ol’ Kentucky, it bears belaboring, is not to be confused with regular Kentucky. It is not a land of seersucker suits and wispy mustached chicken salesmen. It’s a land that exist in the misty maybes of nostalgia, the wink of an old woman serving you homemade pie. Her name tag says “Grandma.” It was always …
That’s it. 10 stories based on mental illnesses. If you were keeping score, they were (in order) OCD, Developmental Trauma, Autism, Paranoid Schizophrenia, Depression, ADHD, Body Integrity Identity Disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13), and Xylophagia, a form of Pica wherein people consume wood or paper. Whew. That one was interesting. …
She walks into the antique bookstore, motes of dust falling to the floor in a shaft of sunlight before her. She breathes in the deep, musty smell of books, and breathes out a sigh of relief. She has a very refined palate for someone so compulsive. Her fingers trace fine lines across the backs of …
