K-I-S-S-I-N-G S-E-X-I-N-G C-A-S-I-O B-O-K-E Y-O-U M-E I
Watching, in a detached way, as my finger presses the doorbell. Over and over, it makes this connection, which causes the circuit to close, emitting this peculiar sound. The dog goes into a frenzy as I do this, wildly barking to no end. It’s pretty funny: he’s outside of the door, watching as I do this, but still he cannot refrain. You learn about Pavlov’s dog early on, and here I see this manifesting in real life. Won’t he ever learn, I wonder? How long could I stand here ringing the doorbell to produce a different reaction? And what good would it really do, anyway? Some intruder would end up breaking in and the dog would just lie there on the ground, not frightening anyone. The house would be robbed and it would be all my fault. I ring the bell once more, and my grandmother makes an appearance in the doorway, asking me what I’m doing. “—Oh,” I say to her, “I’m just kind of ringing the bell.” She shakes her head at me and walks away. She will later relate this anecdote to the rest of the family as the latest piece of evidence in the overwhelming case of insanity she is building against me. Clearly, something seems to be wired wrong up there.
__________________________________________________________________

New York City, you are a big city; there’s probably room for me in you. I like saying shit like this. I’m getting older, now- not quite at the age where I start spontaneously singing commercial jingles like my dad, but old enough to issue forth ridiculous nonsense, addressing places as though they were actual people. And then, hurtling up I-87 and producing forth obscenities as the nonexistent Albany skyline comes into a view, which is, actually, a shopping mall. It’s all plain and natural, now. It always was. The lights are on, but nobody’s home.