I am sitting in a POPS. A Privately Owned Public Space. I cannot tell what company owns this one but it is at Park and 42nd, across from Grand Central Terminal. This is one of the most dismal, depressing POPS I’ve encountered. The ceiling is so high that all sounds just drown in the heavy space of air above. One feels that their words slow down in this space.

Watching the people pass.  Is CATS back on Broadway? If it is it would not be at the Winter Garden, where I noticed that School of Rock is on the marquee. I’ve told my CATS story many times. No need to repeat it yet again.

I’ve been touring the Links again, calling my Skype number and letting this ace piece of software I found auto-answer the calls and record  street sounds for as long as the connection stay up. I think there is a hard limit of 4 hours on Skype calls, or else that limit is imposed by the Links themselves. 4 hours of a twangy, tweaky sounding VOIP connection night yield as much as a few minutes of intelligible audio. The call quality on those things is just so bad.

I also called in from a couple of the remaining Times Square subway station payphones. Looks like the only subway musicians I got were the Grupo Major or whatever that pan flute group is called. I never cared much that sound and it’s been bothersome that they are so prevalent in the underground.

I am puzzled by the appearance of some payphones in Times Square. I am almost certain they were not there before, when a removal of some two dozen payphones left 2 standing on 48th Street and four others outside the subway entrance on 42nd Street, across from the Walgreen’s. I noticed this months ago and assumed that Links would be popping on every possible corner and intersection. A few links have appeared, not all of them working. But also appearing are what I swear are payphones that had been removed before. Very strange.

…

Having said how much I liked that brief period of time when Tom was in my place and doing stuff I made a calculated decision to not be present today while he fixes my shitter. This is just the toilet, not the beginning of the full gutting and renovation. That’s in 2 weeks. In advance of that he put a giant plastic bag over the wall on which the showerhead and water dials are. It’s amusing in a way. But this problem of mysterious leaking into the place downstairs has been going on since I moved in. The girl who used to live down there would call me on the landline to basically yell at me, which she did until I made it clear I wasn’t doing anything that would cause water to flow. That was probably 17 years ago.

I decided not to be there because I just never know what I’m going to get from him. Nice, almost fatherly persona, or angry old man. I have no use for anger in my life, especially when it’s over something that does not matter or for which I am not responsible. And I could use some away time from that place. I truly do have a whole new appreciation for the apartment, though. I mean really. That place across the hall just sucks by comparison.

…

I am carrying in my bag a copy of The Etude music magazine from 1899. Someone from Washington contacted me to ask if I wanted it. I think she found it among her grandmother’s things. I actually have a copy of this issue but it is contained in a bound collection of all the 1899 issues, such as you would find at a library. I don’t really need an extra copy but the seemed nice and she wanted no money for it.

It was overpackaged. That’s putting it mildly. It was wrapped in bubble wrap (because it’s going to shatter?) and placed in a box with 4 or 5 layers of tape around it. And it was insured. I wonder for how much she insured it? You’d be lucky to get $10 for something like this. But people seem to think that since it’s old it must be worth something. Hah, story of my life.

Going to the library, I think Or just to dick around with more Links. This is my life.