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Hey happyrobots,
I'm tired of the internet. It's becoming television. So I think from now on I'll only post after I've had a few drinks. Which is often, so maybe I'll post more. Notice Rich signed me up in 1999, and my first post was in 2003. I'm slow. People went to college and amassed a lifetime of intense memories of sexual experimentation in that span of years--meanwhile, I casually went about my business and have little to show for it, hardly any experimentation at all. Not enough, certainly. Wait, what are we talking about? I've had like three too many.
Tonight, I went to a reading for Merge Records' 20th anniversary book, Our Noise, at Housing Works. It was a pleasant affair. Mac sang, Laura hypnotized me and most everyone else with her laser beam-yet-somehow-aloof sexiness. The guy who arranged the book, John Cook, did a fine job. He mentioned he used to write for Brill's Content, and this reminded me of a party I went to sometime in 1999 or 2000.
It was a pink-slip party at a Soho loft, in those early rounds of layoffs during the first shake out. I went with my wife and a few friends and after I found the bar and ventured back loaded with drinks, some guy had zeroed in on my wife. He shook my hand and said he worked for Brill's Content. My wife said, "Evan works for The Wall Street Transcript," and I added it's a niche industry financial rag in business since 1963. He smirked and said, "Never heard of it." Then turned his energies back to my wife. I chased him off somehow, but what I didn't have a chance to say was, well, fuck you Mr. Brill's Content guy. Your shingle crumbled the next year, after a wobbly three-year lifetime. Mine is still mucking an issue together each week, paying for the livelihood of a good number of hard working people, who are not so prone to smirk, for 46 years.
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