There is a Yamaha grand at the public space on 180 Maiden Lane. I just played a Philip Glass piece, and messed around with some Bach, all for about 7 or 8 minutes. No one much was there and I mostly drowned in the din from whatever machine was making a constant noise. But it felt good. It reminds me of the days I spent at the Yamaha Showroom on 57th Street, next to Carnegie Hall. The long-gone showroom housed a bunch of Clavinovas (I think), or whatever the state of the art Yamaha digital piano was in the early 1990s. I would put on the headphones and play on those pianos for hours, silently to anyone else in the room. I loved it. 

The showroom did not last long, at least not after I found it. As far as I know Yamaha still has its offices in that tall black building but that could have changed over the years. YAMAHA is an interesting word to for its mirrored appearance of AHAMAY. I don’t know how rare it is for a word to mirror as something pronouncable. I’d limit the discussion of possibilities to all capital letters, leaving one with a stripped down alphabet of AHIMNOTUVWXY. Hmm, I think I’ve written about this before, mightily.

  Two terrible calls today. A woman, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper, asked if I could find what hospital her husband was taken to. She had learned of his death through social media, and no one could get her any details. What a horrible way to learn of a husband’s passing, or anyone’s. Another call  came from Middle Village, where an angry man reported that a pedophile had solicited his granddaughter for sex the night before, and he wanted to show pictures of this creep to the police. The details of the words used by the pedophile were sickening. “We’ll have fun naked” and “I’ll pay you 10 times what you make working here.” She was working cashier at a supermarket. 

Gotta go.