Thursday, January 31, 2013

Rome in pictures

"The Crucifixion of St. Peter"

I was paying my lunch bill at the counter of a restaurant today, too impatient for this leisurely European way of eating and waiting half an hour to get a check. It was while doing this that I paused, was forced to slow down and to marvel that such beauty exists in this world, and to marvel that for reasons beyond my comprehension such beauty exists in such great numbers here.

One of the guys working behind the counter, a guy busy helping some old lady box up her order of cookies, was the type of beauty that puts you in check. Your hurry to get out of there and do some sightseeing is thrown out the window. You even consider ordering some cookies as well just to continue to be able to look at this man. You are completely blown away, standing upright by the tiniest thread of habit, ready to collapse.

It's the type of beauty, so extraordinary, that lifts your mood, adds a certain poetry to the world for a while, reminds you that there are people in this world who can do this to you, that the sight of something can inspire such a physical reaction.

I have always had a thing for Mediterranean guys. I don't know where this originated - maybe by being a young closeted fag and getting thrills from looking through fashion magazines and seeing the ads for Italian designers - Versace, Dolce and Gabanna - with beautiful near-naked models. It could be from that or there might actually be some objective ideal of beauty that some Italian men come very close to meeting, though I doubt that. I know there are all sorts of problems with eroticizing particular nationalities. Yes, I am aware of this, and still, still, this knowledge does nothing for me when I lose my breath when I pass by a sexy Italian man on the street.

This city has so many beautiful men. It's too bad that they don't seem to go to the gay bars I went to last night. I went to Hangar first which was half-filled with lots of creepy guys wearing their cologne of desperation. Because of this though, I loved the bar. It had the seediness and loneliness that I like when I am by myself drinking at a gay bar. Some guy started sucking my dick at the urinal. I asked him to stop. He kept on doing it, holding on tight with his mouth while I tried to pull away. It was at this point that I left, thought I would check out Coming Out.

This bar was at the opposite of the gay spectrum: young, lots of seemingly teenage girls, a sense of happiness, groups talking to each other. I stayed for a drink but it was a bit much to take by myself.

My friend David arrives tomorrow and I am really excited. Traveling by myself is starting to lose its appeal.

I walk around a lot and look at men and look at couples, of which there are a lot here, happy pairings everywhere you look, making out at this fountain, at this cafe, at this ruin. It does stir thoughts I don't really want to stir.

I saw these two beautiful Caravaggio paintings today in a little church off the Piazza del Popolo. They sit there in a dark corner of the church until someone puts a euro into a machine that turns on the lights for a minute and you see these amazingly crisp paintings full of pain, painted with amazing technique, and again, like you have been so many times in this city, you are wowed, momentarily thrown off your rhythm by the presence of such incredible beauty. Put the coin in the machine and enjoy that minute; believe in the present.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013


I arrived in this city yesterday strung out and in desperate need of sleep. The night before I had met up with Jacob in Istanbul. We went out to Tekyon, the gay club in Taksim and hung out all night drinking Roki, smoking cigarettes, and watching dance moves boys were doing to Turkish pop songs. We left at 4 in the morning when they shut the bar down. We walked back down to my hotel in Sultanahmet, planning on staying awake until we left for the airport, both of us having flights around 7am.

We had sex back at my hotel room and then left in a taxi to the airport. The driver was playing pop radio lightly. It was a Kylie song playing. I asked him if he wouldn't mind turning it up. He turned it up and looked back at us with a smile, giving up the thumbs up. It was a fantastic ride out of the city with this blaring soundtrack. At some point, Taylor Swift's "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" came on. Of course, it did. We sang along.

We parted ways at the airport and very quickly tiredness and miserableness started to overtake me, the drunkenness now morphing into feeling ill and hungover. I got on the plane and woke up in Rome, so desperate for a bed to crash in. Luckily I was able to check in right away and I spent my first day in Rome asleep in my hotel room. I woke up at night and went to a restaurant and ate some pizza and drank some wine. I wandered around these streets, taking in the sight of the Colosseum at night, but excited to see these things in the actual daylight, which I am now off to do.

Monday, January 28, 2013

Istanbul in pictures

Istanbul in words

I arrived in this city bleary-eyed after an overnight flight in which I got little sleep. We exited the plane on to the tarmac itself. I immediately felt the sting of the cold, wet pieces of snow and freezing rain hitting my skin. I rode a taxi to my hotel, dropped off my bags, and wandered around town. I looked at the Blue Mosque from its courtyard, visiting hours already over for the day, seagulls circling overhead. This city has a lot of seagulls, a lot of homeless cars wandering everywhere, and also numerous big dogs, also seemingly homeless, happily trotting along the streets, living their lives.

I walked around the streets of Istanbul yesterday, quite cold, not prepared for how cold this city actually was. I bought a hat on the street. I walked up to Galata Bridge and bought a fish sandwich prepared from the side of a boat. I eventually found my way back to my hotel after wandering around for hours in the cold. I took a long hot shower and wrapped myself in blankets. There was the goal to try to go out to a gay bar in Taksim, but the bed was so cozy and the weather too cold and wet outside. I finally got some much needed sleep.

This morning I woke up early and went inside Blue Mosque, which is a gorgeous and humbling place. I then wandered through the vendors of the Grand Bazaar early this morning as the vendors were still dusting their wares and drinking tea from tiny glass cups on metal saucers.

I took the tram to Galata Bridge where I boarded a ferry for Uskudar, a neighborhood across the Bosphorus Strait on the Asian side of this city. I walked around and this part of town was pretty much free of tourists. It felt more like a real neighborhood where people lived. Cats everywhere. Depressingly like every city, there were a great many Burger Kings and Pizza Huts to be found all over.

I took the ferry back across the Strait, this time to Kabatas. From there, I took the subway to Taksim. This city has a pretty decent public transportation network. I just wish it was more unified. You have to pay a new fare each time you switch from tram to metro to ferry, and that can be often in a single trip. The subway I took today was just between these two stations. There is another subway elsewhere in the city that also only connects two stations. Despite this, it is still an efficient and easy system.

I walked through Taksim down to the Galata Bridge again. I went to the fish market and bought a hamsi sandwich - I watched him fry up the little fresh anchovys and put them on a roll. I poured lemon juice and salt on it and watched as people purchased fish around me. I then walked over the Galata Bridge and watched fisherman seemingly easily catch tons of hamsi from the Golden Horn. I imagine that my meal was recently caught by one of these fisherman.

I wandered through the Spice Market, taking in the scents and the sounds of vendors calling out to passerby to try to convince them to stop. I went to the pet market and looked at a lot sad but beautiful varieties of birds for sale. Also at this market, there were several vendors selling leeches with signs touting their medical benefits.

I went to New Mosque and again was humbled by the beauty of these grand mosques that dot this city everywhere you look.

Jacob has an overnight layover in Istanbul and so in a few hours I am going to meet up with him and explore some bars. Early tomorrow morning, I head to Rome!

Friday, January 25, 2013

Foxygen - "No Destruction"

The temperature is well below freezing, has been so for the past several days, and so when it started to snow this afternoon, it collected as dust, dry bits of white that the wind rustled back and forth across the ground. It was a beautiful sight to see. Usually when it snows in New York, the temperature is right around the freezing mark and the snow is wetter, stays where it lands. Today, it danced around back and forth across the ground, being swept that way and then this.

I walked through Union Square on my way home from work, down to the L train. The park was empty. It is too bad that it takes below freezing temperatures and snow to clear that park of all the annoying people that normally inhabit it, the representatives from just about every spectrum of annoying New Yorkers that normally occupy the space: guys giving out free hugs, chess players, skateboarders, teenagers in groups, hacky sack players, Falung Gong people, Occupy people, smokers without cigarettes asking to bum them from smokers with cigarettes, safe pieces of art for sale under the pretense of something else, a sheen of something approximating an idea of New York a potential buyer may have had when they were into reading the Beats, children being pushed in strollers by rich moms out to look at locally grown produce in attempts to assuage guilt never fully admitted to about their life in this city, the people who with their hostility take up whole benches for themselves and their anger, the folks with nowhere to go who make angry those more insecure about their lack of anywhere to go, and the police on the edge observing it all, making it exist, this collection of crazy formed against this threat of order with arms crossed on the 14th Street side of the park.

Today, though, the park was beautifully free of all of this.

It was just me and George Washington atop his horse, his arm raised, stretched forward ahead of him, pointing south. I have always wanted to know what it was that he was looking toward, what in his future, what in our future, it was that he might have glimpsed out their on the horizon that day, what that look is in his eyes up their on the horse, what it is that he sees. Today, with the park clear of most people, the snow falling lightly, and George and I sharing a moment in this nice space, I thought about this even more than I normally do on walks through Union Square.

I stopped in Duane Reade, purchased some toiletries that I am going to need on my trip and then tried to navigate the short walk to the subway entrance from there to avoid the Greenpeace people that try to get you to give money. It's them and the HRC people - perhaps the most annoying people in this city - these fundraisers who block sidewalks and try to stop you when you're in a huge hurry by guilt-tripping you or complimenting you or saying something that they think is clever, something to make you pause, stop, sign, give. I did the same thing in Madison for PIRG for all of two days and know what a terrible job it is. That doesn't mean though that I have time to stop and tell them that I can't give them any money today, sorry, I'm really in a hurry, sorry. Instead, I avert my eyes, try to as look as hurried as possible, that I am on a mission, someone that they should just ignore. I want them to look for another target. I don't want to be the person that they eye walking down the street and say this guy looks easy to convince, someone with liberal leanings that will stop when we mention a liberal cause, will not walk right past us, say that this is the guy I have to stop, this is the guy who will help me meet my numbers for the day. I want to be the person that they ignore as they look for someone sappier looking. Despite this, because of this, a landmine blew up that I thought I had cleard. The Greenpeace guy sidestepped into the path I had been speed-walking in, caught me, said, "Hey, you look like you need a friend."

I had just gone to the gym not too long before this and my body was still pumping with aggression and endorphins. I wanted to tackle this man and punch him in the face. Over and over again. I often have these violent fantasies, flashes of red that cover my vision, when my mood, my ability to get lost in thought on these city streets, is cut short by one of these fundraisers with their annoying shit, with their constant tugging at your already tugged-at attention. The same flash of red came over me, the same brief desire for cartoon violence on all of these people occurred yesterday. Some smiley man from Greenpeace said to me on 23rd Street: "It looks like someone took their handsome pills this morning." I don't know want that means - I don't know where they come up with this shit, but I hate that they have made me wary of any interactions on the sidewalks, that now I have to be guarded, always look busy so that I don't have to talk to every fundraiser on the street. I am surprised there aren't constant news stories about assaults against these people. They, unlike everyone else that normally annoys me, were undeterred by the snow today, making them absolutely the most annoying people in New York City.

I came home and I packed. Tomorrow night, I fly to Istanbul. Two days later, to Rome. I will be swept that way and then this.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

99 Ryerson Street

Today, I made a pilgrimage to a site I have wanted to visit since I first read about it a couple of years ago. This ordinary looking house in Clinton Hill, one block from the BQE, is where Walt Whitman lived for a brief time, a little less than a year. But the year in which he lived there was the year in which American literature changed forever, 1855 - the year he published his first edition of Leaves of Grass. It was to this same house that Ralph Waldo Emerson sent his letter greeting Whitman "at the beginning of a great career. Whitman lived in this house with his father and mother. His father died in this house. It was here that he resided as he readied the final proofs of Leaves of Grass and it was here that he lived when the beautiful book was released into the world. 

It does to take a bit of imagination to strip away the vinyl siding and the third floor which was added later, but once one does, it is a magnificent experience to stand before this building. It is an anonymous building. There is no plaque anywhere - nothing announcing the importance of this spot. It's doubtful that most people walking down this block have any clue who once occupied this house.

As I approached the house, I got chills, thought about even turning back, wasn't sure I was ready. I started to cry a little with joy as I walked down Ryerson Street, knowing that Walt Whitman used to walk down this same street on his way to or from his house, probably with the very first copies of Leaves of Grass under his arm. This is the only house still standing of the many that he lived in during his time in Brooklyn and sadly (insanely) it's not landmarked, given how he lived here during such an important year in his life.

I took some pictures and dreamed about how awesome it would be to live in this house, how lucky these apartment dwellers were. I wondered if they even knew how lucky they were, what they were living in. I wondered if there were any gay guys that lived there, thought about how awesome it would be to have sex in this house, added this to my already quite long list of things I would like to accomplish, and walked back to the subway.

a little priest of fire and smoke

I lay on my couch today and finished the story, "Journal," from Leonard Michaels' Collected Stories that I had started in Florida, read by the Gulf of Mexico there. Bits of sand fell from the book on to my chest as I paged through it. There are moments when I really love Michaels' style of writing - the matter-of-fact statements, the sad relationships among men and women, and the occasional stretch of prose that veers off into poetic rambling. There are moments as well when I get tired of it all and wish for something with more of an emotional core. I can only take this book in small doses. But when he is on, he is really on. I have reread this passage several times from this story and I am wowed by it each time I reread through it:

That quick efficient feeling in the hands, plucking the shaft free of the pack, dashing a match head to perfection. Fat, seething fire. You pull the point of heat against tobacco leaf and a globe of gas rolls into the tongue's valley, like a personal planet. Then the consummation, the slithering hairy smoke. Its danger meets the danger we live with in the average street, our lethal food, poisoned air, imminent bomb. In Morocco and Berlin, in Honolulu's sunshine or the black Siberian night, in the cruel salons of urban literati, in the phantasmagoria of brothels, in rain forests full of orchids and wild pigs where women bleed to phases of the moon and men hunt what they eat, in the excremental reek of prison cells, or crouched beside a window with a gun in your lap, or sitting in your car studying a map, or listening to a lecture at the Sorbonne, or waiting for a bus or a phone call, or just trying to be reasonable, or staying up late, or after a meal in some classy restaurant, hands repeat their ceremony. The shock of fire. The pungent smoke. Disconnection slides across the yellowing eye. True, it's very like but morally superior to masturbation; and you look better, more dignified. We need this pleasing gas. Some of us can claim no possession the way a cigarette is claimed. What wonderful exclusiveness. In company a cigarette strikes the individual note. If it's also public suicide, it's yours. Or in the intenser moment after sexual disintegration, when the old regret, like a carrion bird, finds you naked, leaking into the night, a cigarette redeems the deep being, reintegrates a person's privacy. White wine goes with lobster. What goes with bad news so well as a cigarette? Imagine a common deprivation - say, a long spell of no sex - without a cigarette. Life isn't good enough for no cigarette. It doesn't make you godlike, only a little priest of fire and smoke. All those sensations yours, like mystical money. Such a shame they kill. With no regard for who it is. (202-203)

Friday, January 18, 2013

Matthew E. White - "Brazos"


1.) Start playing Matthew White's Big Inner because you came across it on Spotify and are looking for something new to listen to.

2.) Make yourself dinner as you begin to realize how insanely amazing this album is and start to feel a reaction toward music that you had forgotten music was capable of bringing about.

3.) Smoke some weed.

4.) Sit down and listen to this album as you eat your food and slowly become entirely blown away by how much this music moves you, how perfect it is, how insanely well-produced and orchestrated these sprawling songs are, and how despite that sprawlingness they are still insanely enjoyable, how this is music that makes you dance along to the groove on your couch, neighbors across the way and curtainless windows doing nothing to hide their glances this way be damned.

5.) Put your empty plate in the sink.

6.) Realize how much better this album would sound with headphones, your good headphones.

7.) Find your good headphones.

8.) Hit play on this YouTube video of a live performance of "Brazos."

9.) Turn the volume up.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Free Energy - "Time Rolls On"

In ten days, I will be in Istanbul. A couple days past that date, I will land in Rome. I am thinking toward those days but more so I am thinking toward days past those, about what it is I want to do with this life of mine, how to fashion it into something more enjoyable.

My aunt Molly asked me in Florida if I was happy, meaning in life; we were drunk. I told her that I was kind of happy. She told me that I couldn't just be kind of happy, that I needed to be happy with my life, that it was so short, that I needed to make it a life that would make me happy. We talked about romance, more than jobs, but now my thoughts are swinging more toward jobs. There were more than a couple moments today where I asked myself how much longer I can do this, how much longer I can point on a map directions, or how much longer I can direct people to the bathroom, or how much longer I can tell people that their room is not ready to check into yet. These interactions are really starting to grate on me more and more. I am thinking about what other jobs I could possibly do. I am also seriously weighing whether or not to move to LA. I have never been so conflicted about a decision. I absolutely love New York. I also hate New York. But that's usually the best type of romance to be in, one with wild swings both ways - something that inspires some sort of passion. Can I rip it all up and start over in a new city? There is also a lot of fear about things not working out there or me hating it or a million other things. But then there is also the other side of that - the giddiness that overcomes me when I think about sunshine and a new city to explore and endless Mexican food and all new boys to get crushes on and then to lose interest in. I absolutely have no clue what I am doing with my life, and yes, dear readers, you are saying, wise or cunty things that you are, that that is nothing new, that when have you ever known what you were doing with your life. And touché, I will say. Touché.

After work, I went and worked out for the first time in a week. It felt great. I am sure about very little, but love the feeling of accomplishment, of energy exerted, of purpose, I get from going to the gym. I sat in the steam room after. This guy that I have messed around with a couple of times came in. We soon started jerking off. I moved next to him. I sucked his dick. He sucked mine. He was noisy about it and I tried to make quiet shushing noises, very worried that someone would hear, that I would be thrown out of this straight gym in humiliation. This guy is a weird guy, a muscly exhibitionist, and he did not quiet down at all. I was nervous and yet also incredibly turned on. I came as quickly as I could. He reached out his hand and took my come on his hand. He licked it off his palm and smiled at me.

I ate a burrito last night and was raving about it today to my friend Carlos. He told me I should start a blog about burritos, that half the pictures on my Instagram are about burritos. I had considered a project similar to this when I moved to this apartment, excited by all the new Mexican places to try here, but hearing his suggestion today brought back forth the dream. The motion had been seconded, an excuse to go even more crazy with the burrito eating found.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Miguel - "Adorn"

I was asked to fill out an application in the hall. There were chairs outside her office. It was a long hallway lit by overhead fluorescent lights. The waxed tiles reflected the depressing light back up and I was somewhere between the light and its reflection. I was in elementary school, waiting in the hallway to talk to some authority figure.

She called me in at some point. She was very smiley and perky, but in a totally not real way, a way in which human resources employees are somehow trained to be when they are interviewing you. I have some sort of sickness coursing through my body, my body probably resisting being back in New York, this its way of saying Fuck You And Take Us Back to Florida. I have a fever and a sore throat. I don't think it was actually that hot in her office but I was sweating profusely, my shirt sticking to my chest underneath my sweater, beads and beads of sweat racing down my forehead. Whenever she glanced down at my resume and application, I would do my best to covertly wipe off the sweat soaking my forehead, tried my best to look cute despite the sweat pouring down my face.

She asked me questions, the usual bullshit questions they ask you at hotels. I did my best, despite my sickness, despite my fever which made me very angry with everything she said, with the lighting, with the goddamn heat - I did my best to volley these questions back with thoughtful and clever answers. This was my second interview I have had for this job that may not even be a job. They are still unsure whether it would be a temporary position or a permanent one - it's all kind of dependent upon whether a pregnant employee is taking maternity leave or quitting for good. There would probably be two more interviews she told me - one with the general manager and one before a panel. It seems like a lot of hoops to jump through for a concierge position, but it does pay about twice as much as I make at my current job, and so I guess these hoops are worth it. It feels like a waste of my time though, that I want to be done with hospitality, and should not be putting this much work into it.

I came home, drenched in sweat, took off my clothes, and looked at porn. I listened to my neighbor, my nemesis, scream at my landlord, who screamed right back at her. I looked at pictures of Miami and of Los Angeles and dreamed of running away. I looked at sexy ripped bodies and hard dicks and dreamed of running away.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

the sunshine state

Shortly after noon today, the flight attendant announced over the loudspeaker: "Welcome to sunny New York!" The flight had departed a few hours earlier from Fort Myers and it was very clear upon looking out the windows of the plane that she was joking. It was that dull winter fog that envelopes the entire landscape in a heavy grayness. I had just spent the past few days underneath bright blue skies either lying by the pool or by the beach during the days, and spending my evenings getting drunk with my family.

I had gone to Florida for my cousin's wedding and as soon as the plane touched down, I was smiling ear to ear, so happy to be in Florida. Seeing how dependent my mood is on weather, how great weather really makes me a better person, I really, really began to consider more carefully whether maybe I should indeed move to LA in May with my friend Erica. I thought about this and certainly also thought about love and companionship, it being a wedding and all. Throughout the weekend, I had quite a few aunts suggest that I was going to be the next of my cousins to get married. They think this because I am the oldest of all my cousins. I assured them that most likely their younger daughters would probably beat me to that distinction, that I am very single these days. Were I not in Florida and in such an impossibly good mood, this prodding about getting married really could have sent me spiraling down in a melancholy tailspin.

But it being sunny Florida and my good mood pretty much being unstoppable, there was only minimal missing of Jacob, which given that the weekend was in celebration of a wedding was a very good thing. I did cry as the couple exchanged their wedding vows - indeed wanted to hear someone say to me such sincere affirmations of love.

One morning, I borrowed bikes with my sister and we rode along the sides of roads on flat expenses of land. I might have cried during this moment as well. I was swelling with sentimental happiness, recalling the four years I used to live in Florida and memories I had long forgotten about all came rushing over me. We biked to a Publix and we ate some subs. We biked back past squat houses and expansive horizons. I lied by the pool. I watched sunsets. I lied by the beach. I had nice talks with various family members all weekend long. I listened to some booty rap and danced a lot.

On the subway ride home today, I rode a dirty A train back from JFK. The woman across from me had one of those old lady rolling carts. She kept glaring at me in a not very friendly way. I was convinced she had fish in her cart. The train smelled overwhelmingly of fish. I was home after a weekend away and was actually quite unsure whether indeed I was home.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Prince's "Uptown"

He was naked. He had a towel but it wasn't wrapped around him. He was using it to press against his face and chest, to dry off. He was showing off. I was watching.

This was the same guy I had had some encounter at the gym with a few weeks ago. He, again, seemed a little out of his mind, perhaps high on meth, perhaps just high on a love of his own body. He eventually kind of wrapped the towel around his waist and sat down in the steam room. The towel barely covered his thighs, his dick out on display, a quite impressive dick to go with his impressive body. It was in the steamroom, so edges were smoother. Vaseline had been smeared over the camera lens; everything had the nice benefits of fog and soft lighting.

I had already been in the steamroom for quite a while before he came in and had been about to leave. I decided to stick it out, to enjoy the sight of this man's body despite whatever shortness of breath or risks to my heart I might incur. Eventually the crowd winnowed down to a few - a few who it was clear all wanted to jerk off. I rubbed my hand back and forth over this guy's muscled legs while I stroked my dick with my other hand. I came. He wiped my come on his hand, trying to get it all over him. I left and took a long cold shower, trying to catch my breath.

From there, I went to J. Crew to try to use up this store credit I have there from returning some Christmas gifts. There was nothing I wanted there, this my second trip to the store to try to find something to use this credit toward. I found one dress shirt I liked, but it, of course, was not to be found in my size. I found one sweater that I liked and which I got. I wanted to use the rest of this credit but looked at flannel print after flannel print and did not want any of them, did not want to be a part of this J. Crew machine, did not want to wear the safe clothing on offer here, did not want to be made aware as I was in that store of how I already wear safe clothing, did not want to be made aware of how my style is not to far removed from the casual preppiness and boyishness being sold, did not like how close to home the boat shoes and the flannel prints were, did not want to be in this store any longer.

I took the train home with the one sweater I found. The girl sitting across from me spilled numerous cans of cat food out of her tote bag at some point. All of us on the train watched them scatter all over the floor. Not one person, myself included, made the slightest move to help her gather her cat food. We all watched her as she picked up can after can and put them back in her bag.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013


Shortly after midnight, I smoked a cigarette on the back patio of Metropolitan. I had resolved not to smoke in 2013, but the year doesn't really start until you wake up I told myself. 

Coming in from outside, I locked eyes with this guy who was waiting to claim his jacket from the coat check line. Both of us held the stare, smiled, neither shying away. I said hello to him and soon we were making out. I asked him what his name was. He told me and I didn't understand. We made out more. I asked him again. I still didn't understand. Eventually I understood. We exchanged numbers. He got his coat. He left

I went to Spectrum and danced around and the night started to blur more and more. I went back to Metropolitan. There was last call. I made out with some other guy. He invited me home. I said no. 

I took the train back to my neighborhood, my sights set on a breakfast sandwich from Dunkin Donuts. The place was demolished. Someone had thrown everything all over the place. There were coffee mugs and newspapers and shelves thrown all over the floor. I stepped over all the debris and went up to the counter to order some food to sop up all of this alcohol. The guys told me they weren't serving food, that they were waiting for the police to get there. I walked back out, delicately stepping over plastic coffee mugs and bags of coffee.

I passed out on my couch and I woke up in the year 2013. I got up and slept in my bed.