i briefly met up last night with my rock star friend from school. it was a nice meeting, not in the way i expected, but all good. he was in town back in March (i think) and he stayed at my place for a couple of nights. A and I went over to Brooklyn Bowl, in Williamsburg. a bowling alley/concert hall. nice space. well-ventilated. everything overpriced and yupster beyond wildest imagineerings, as expected, but at least the air was clean. i’ve had the breathing problem thing the last week or 2, and i imagined that a concert venue might be full of moldy, stale air, filled with the aura-like residue from happy hipsters yupping it up at concerts past. nope. fresh and clean. whoot.
some weeks ago i was woken up by the collapse of some book shelves. one by one the old magazines i collect and had recently shelved fell to the floor, the one by one pace steadily increasing, accelerating until 3 or 4 fell at a time, until dozens fell at once, the shelf collapsed and took the shelf beneath it down, and when i faced the day i found a swirl of books and magazines on the floor. there they sat, for weeks and weeks, until today when i found appropriately sized boxes in which to store the oversized old magazines. i think boxes will be a better way to store those old things, better than shelves. the magazines are just too flippin’ heavy for safe storage on typical bookshelves, and they are surprisingly unwieldly when stored vertically. putting them in boxes should improve access and portability — or so the amateur archivist in me likes to believe.
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i got a weird letter from the IRS today. 2 letters. they both say “REMINDER” and then say something about dad’s estate-related taxes about which i have no memory of receiving correspondence before… but i can be overwhelmed by correspondence at times, and even the most arch and declamatory letter from the IRS could slip under the radar. i don’t know if i missed something, or what happened, but it doesn’t seem to
be unfixable or crucial or critical or antimatter or flipoutable. guess i need to find me a damn accountant. i should owe about $0, but the accountant will snap up hundreds of dollars for to fill out the appropriate single one-page tax form—- more evidence to support my theory that the economics of the financial industry and the American economy make no damn sense.
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i has nothing to says