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I wanted to write this just for you, Uncoolkids.  Our site has become so barren…so lonely…which is really apropos for uncool kids. 

Last night, Prince Street’s McNally Robinson booksellers hosted The Dollar Store Show, the brain-child of Featherproof baby-daddy Jonathan Messinger and Jeremy Sosenko, who no longer co-hosts.  Jonathan sends dollar store items - various types of cheap chutney - to the participating writers, who sit and stare at the glue stick or comic book or show insoles; and stew and wait for the muse to just stop in when it feels like it, the way annoying in-laws do.  Then they write and then they read aloud.  The show is often sold out in Featherproof’s hometown of Chicago, and the Dollar Storeys were recently featured on public radio.  The show, in other words, does not suck. 

Last night’s writers didn’t disappoint.  Scott Snyder’s story took a sinister turn, which quieted the audience enough to hear the mohawked barista churning lattes behind us.  Bryan Charles story captured the mood of the common aching in relationships so well that it seemed uncommon.  Toby Carroll’s tale was inspired by an old walking cane, propped up on the table beside him, and the story was really well-done…but who knew that dollar stores sold wooden walking canes?

Then Jonathan Messinger read “Bicycle Kick” from his newly released collection of short stories, ”Hiding Out”.  It was a funny story about a guy who discovers he is a walking time bomb with two brain aneurysms, after suffering a soccer injury from another guy who will most likely live out his life with relative ease and fluidity.  Messinger’s language blends the affectedness of the children of the eighties with the simplicity of a timeless writer.  I haven’t finished the entire book yet, but the stories in “Hiding Out” are so engaging that I actually wish my train ride was longer so I could keep reading…even Bay Ridge to the Bronx wouldn’t be long enough.     

Free admission I mean, to the Summer of Love exhibit, the blend of late 60’s music, art, and literature that’s on display now through September 16 at the Whitney Museum.  Admission is usually $15 dollars for uncoolkids but if you hit up the Whitney between 6 p.m. and 9 p.m. on Friday nights, you’re just asked to give a donation. 

The exhibit occupies the third and second floors of the museum and its suggested you begin on the third and work your way down.  There we were greeted with a brief written explanation of the collection, which names San Francisco, New York, and London as the centers of the counterculture era.  The first artwork on display is an array of old concert posters from the Fillmores East and West.  The friend who joined me at the museum works in the music industry and is also involved in a film right now about the life of Brian Epstein, who managed the Beatles, so he was alot more knowledgable about the “Bill Graham presents” collection.  Apparently these posters were given away for free at the end of the shows and now are worth some money. 

The San Francisco section of the exhibit was a spectrum of colors coating political agendas, with a few key phrases thrown in for good hippie measure, like “Plant a flower child” and “Turn on, tune in”.  There were pictures from protests hanging next to photos of colorful Victorian homes (some call them “painted ladies”).  Also shown were Jefferson Airplane albums, multiple portraits of Jimi Hendrix, an homage to Janis Joplin, the advent issue of Rolling Stone. 

It was also rich in anti-war parephernalia, beginning with the large haunting oil painting of a Vietnamese woman being raped by “white boy soldiers”, and working its way towards flower children flashing peace on rally posters.  It was a fitting representation of the dichotomy of carefree appearances and underlying anxieties - a motto of peace mixed with the irony of the fervor of protest.  One of the rally posters asked: “Haven’t we learned from our past mistakes?”

On the lighter side, if you’re into nudity, because who isn’t, you should spend a little extra time checking out the San Francisco displays.  There are as many naked bodies in the artwork as there are dandelions.  There’s even an orgy film, complete with headphones and a “Warning!  Sexually Explicit Content!” placard.

The New York section focused primarily on Woodstock, with several great photos from Bethel, NY, back when the Boomers looked suspiciously…like us today.  There were several Exploding Plastic Inevitable albums produced by Andy Warhol on display (the museum is also showing Warhol films in the Kaufman Astoria Studios Film and Video Gallery; check the Whitney schedule online).  The literature of the era included pulp about psychedelia and guides to tripping out, as well as off-beat papers like the East Village other, the cover of which chronicled poet Allen Ginsberg’s arrest for possession of pot.

The London section featured photographs of a very young Mick Jagger with his full lips and lineless face, and his most notable leading ladies like Marianne Faithful and his ex-wife Bianca; Keith Richards with cocain drawn up to his nostril; Eric Clapton in all his red-pants, big-hair glory.  We watched a video of the inflation of the massive pillow at Altamount.  There was a how-to guide for swingers in England, black and white photographs from poetry readings in Hyde Park, and a cloth-covered, Epcot-center-like display, a weird little room which we could enter only after removing our shoes and which gave me a foot cramp because of the rolling surface inside (I still can’t figure out the point of that thing).

If you’re really into trippy stuff you’ll probably enjoy the strobe light displays, swirling circles and amoebas pulsating on the walls in dark rooms. 

And there are several photos, portraits, and album covers of those buggy little guys who sang “All You Need is Love”. 

So the exhibit shows that the summer of love was celebrated differently in different parts of the world, whether it was through sexual, spiritual, political, or artistic liberation.  Some call the participants non-conformists; others laud them as visionaries.  The artwork leaves you with a wealth of information, a heady feeling, and a few more curiosities about an era which we as Gen X or Y kids can’t really understand.

There are parellels though.  There were musicians that lived hard and died at twenty seven, there was unabashed nakedness which has translated to a naked fear of AIDS, racial tensions are still rampant, there are still school shootings and alot of the drugs have remained the same.  And the one thing we’re still digging, unfortunately, is the uncertainty and unrest festering like bacteria in the petrie dish of a seemingly senseless war.  Which begs that question: ”Haven’t we learned from our past mistakes?”

If you’re at all into the music and pop culture of the late 60’s, check out this exhibit.     

I’m wondering if there is some unwritten book of code for improv houses/basement comedy shows. For example:

People’s Improv Theatre: West 29th Street, above a sushi restaurant

Upright Citizens’ Brigade: West 26th Street, next to a Gristedes

PIT admission: $5

UCB admission: $5-$8

PIT theatre access: hike upstairs to purchase tickets

UCB theatre access: watch line snake downstairs as you wait for your tickets

PIT theatre gripes: a wee bit chilly

UCB theatre gripes: supportive beams that hinder visibility

PIT VIP service: buy warm beer at ticket counter

UCB VIP service: buy warm beer at ticket counter

PIT claims to fame: photos on walls, ranging from Steve Buscemi to Mariska Hargitay to Lisa Gastineau, you know, of the notorious Gastineau girls…what do you mean you never watched that show?

UCB claims to fame: everyone

PIT attire: frayed jeans, old tee’s, vintage Chuck T’s (yes! uncool factor), throwback corduroys, unwashed hair…

UCB attire: unwashed jeans, throwback tee’s, old Chuck T’s, frayed hair….

PIT courses: $333 dollars for weekly introductory improv course

UCB courses: $325 dollars for weekly introductory improv course. If you purchase a Starbucks before class, it all evens out.

The PIT, however, hosts an event called The Liar Show, in which the director invites three people to tell their most absurd, outlandish, and literally unbelievable stories to an audience, while images of infamous Liars flash in the background (Nixon, Bill O’Reilly, James Frey to name a few). Afterwards the audience members are allowed to ask questions, in attempts to poke holes through the stories, and then vote on who they believe is the Liar. The winners get PIT T-shirts.

Last night we were ushered in just a minute before 7 p.m. and were ushered out barely forty five minutes later. Remember in college when your well-meaning but rambling professor would say, “Oh dear…I’m afraid I’ve run over and the next class has to come in?” That’s basically what happened. The PIT’s schedule is so packed that the show wasn’t given enough time.

I once read an article in a women’s magazine, before I quit women’s magazines (along with designer coffee and a bad boyfriend), that said that people who lie always give too many details. Armed with this info, I thought I would be able to nab the liars. But all three stories were very detailed.  I kept thinking, “You can’t make this stuff up.” 

The first storyteller, Brian, told a really funny story about his attempt to renovate an independent theater in Haverhill, Massachusetts, with hopes to subsequently revitalize the town. His plans were foiled when he kept giving away free tickets, to “plant the seeds” of marketing. Then he enlisted the help of a comedy group named “Mrs. Potato Head” who performed a skit entitled “Sore From Fucking.” Brian was possibly lying.

The second storyteller, named Sara, recounted her experiences trying to find a New York City apartment on craigslist with her salary as a store greeter for Banana Republic. She found a dream deal in Park Slope. But the tenants - her future roommates - were an attractive forty-something investment banker and his teenage girlfriend named Seng-Yi who didn’t speak a word of English and who, by the way, cleaned the house naked, per his request. The story sounded crazy, but having gone through my share of craigslist encounters, I couldn’t peg Sara as the Liar.

Finally, the last potential Pinocchio, named H.R., began by telling us about his obsession with the movie “The Graduate”. Then he told a story about his affair with an older woman he met during his first summer in New York, and how he fell so head over heels in love with her that he didn’t go back to school in Wisconsin the following year. He proposed and she gently pointed out that they were at very different places in their lives. He moved out of her apartment and wound up finishing school. The whole thing was not unbelievable. But he was so verbose - his language was almost - and I hate this word - “flowery” - that I figured he might be fudging the details and thought maybe he wouldn’t have gotten laid if he was a hardwood floor plank.

Only a few people asked investigative questions, and one of the questions was “H.R., have you ever told your girlfriend that story?” to which H.R. replied, “No.” Turns out the girl who asked that question was his girlfriend, and she didn’t seem happy.

The director then took our ballots, announced that The Liar was H.R., and handed us our t-shirts. The T-shirt was well worth the five dollar ticket. But I would’ve liked to have seen the event stretch a little longer.

In case anyone was wondering, Danny Tanner is not gay. Bob Saget made this clear during a taping of his stand-up comedy show for HBO. Audience members lined up around the block at NYU on Friday night, gearing up for the free show. I thought you had to have friends in production or a super secret email contact to get in. Not so much. Turns out all you had to do was turn off your cell phone and flash photography and agree not to have to pee for nearly two hours, and you were good to giggle.

An audience coordinator made us clap like mad while a jib camera swept the crowd, for creative editing purposes. That was kind of funny in itself, everyone reacting like this guy was part of the British invasion. A comic named Mike Young warmed us up. His bits were brief but hilarious. He mused about relationships, then came to the conclusion that the “interesting” girls he pursues are actually “bipolar”. There’s something about the way girls confront guys, he said, that makes them lie even when there’s no need to. Case in point: “Where’d you go?!” “Just grabbed some McDonalds, honey.” “Then why are you holding a Burger King bag?!” “I don’t know! I don’t know why I even said that! I don’t even like food!”

Then Bob Saget made his entrance. My first thought was that he’s really skinny. My second observation was that he was wearing Chuck Taylors. Chuck Taylors are a huge factor in my personal Uncool gauge. Bonus points.

He’s raunchy in a way you can’t understand unless you’ve seen his shows, and I don’t mean the show with MK & Ashley and I don’t mean the home video show, either. He punctuated most sentences with curses and more than once he mentioned sleeping with Kimmy Gibler, “DJ”’s friend. He immediately singled out a guy in the front row and asked him if he shaves his balls. The shorn balls was a recurring theme throughout the show.

But instead of acting beyond the shows that made him famous, Saget incorporated them into his act, poking fun at America’s Funniest Home Videos, “complaining” about how many home made pornos people sent into the show, and making Dave Coulier and John Stamos the subjects of many of the jokes (because Stamos, unlike Saget, is pretty, and because Coulier, unlike the name Tanner, does rhyme with gay). He told a story about he and Stamos witnessing a car accident in which a woman suffered a short black out; when she opened her eyes, they were peering at her, and he joked that she must have thought she was in sitcom hell. Saget and Stamos have also been known to break into their old characters at awkward moments, say, in a men’s room with another guy using the urinal between them.

“I will f*ck you up,” Saget said intermittently, and pointed to the crowd, almost as a transition from one joke to the next. But eager to also be perceived as a family man, he laced his act with tidbits about his three daughters, their vapid cell phone conversations, their thongs the size of slingshots, which he happened to stumble upon in the laundry and, horrified already, found out belonged to his youngest daughter. He told a story of Hollywood humiliation: he approached Steven Spielberg with his daughter and said, “Honey, this is the man who directed your favorite movie,” only to have his daughter say she hated E.T. That little extra terrestrial was the butt of Saget’s jokes too; I think he likened him to a testicle.

Then he broke out the acoustic, and sang a song about oral sex to the tune of “Wonderful Tonight”. Saget concluded the evening with a song he calls “Danny Tanner’s Not Gay” to the tune of the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way.” “I know that show wasn’t always funny/but f*ck you, it made me alot of money,” he crooned while the audience, an NYU and young professional crowd, cracked up.

So the next time you’re watching television and you’re looking for something saucier than old “Full House” reruns, you might be able to catch Bob Saget on HBO on Demand. But don’t say I didn’t warn you - it’s a whole other side of Danny Tanner!

If the name of the place doesn’t give it away, maybe the interior will clue you in. A Soviet flag hangs over the bar. If I was able to get a closer look at the black and white photos and yellowed articles nailed to the blood-red walls, I’m sure I would’ve seen Lenin or Stalin.

But aside from being a Commie bar, KGB is a writer’s hang, which is why Soft Skull Press was holding a reading there. I kind of dug it. It was warm, but not soupy. Candles flickered behind stained glass cabinets. The hum of conversation was low enough for the writers to write. You could single them out with a sickle and hammer, because they either scrawled in their notebooks or leafed what looked like manuscripts. A group of guys sat in the middle of the bar having deep discussions, wearing torn sweaters because they hadn’t graduated to tweed and elbow patches yet.

The bar is cash-only. So as I walked down the steps of the second floor establishment, searching for an ATM, wondering whether there might be a bar somewhere in Russia named “CIA”, I nearly tripped over a pint-sized red headed girl talking to people on the sidewalk.

This I later learned was Jillian Weise, the featured author of the evening. But first two other poets were invited to read their works. The themes of Brenda Shaughnessy’s poems were seasons, relationships (”like having a bad boyfriend in a good band” was a notable line, and “But I refuse to say poor me, poor me/because I am not poor, and I am not me”), and of all things, sugar. Except for when she dropped a C-bomb, her lyrical poems flowed nicely. Priscilla Becker read a group of poems she’d resurrected after tossing them in the trash, and she referred to them as her “Death by” series (”Death by appleseed…Death by clarinet…”). They would have been a little more enjoyable to hear if she did not stop mid-verse to muse aloud that this particular group of poems was terrible.

Then Richard Eoin Nash, the publisher of Soft Skull Press, introduced Weise, the author of “The Amputee’s Guide to Sex.” The first poem was instructional, a list of steps to take if you ever find yourself in a fore-play situation without clothes and without a limb: how to divert your partner’s attention so you can remove your prosthetic, how to stash your prosthetic, how to stay mobile. Really, things that two legged people don’t ever have to think about, but what probably seems like a natural thought process for Weise (”I met a guy/he has two legs”). One of the poems, about a relationship (”We have affairs/we are in love”) makes you consider not only sexual activity for an amputee but also the dating scene, which I like to complain about with all my arms, legs, and appendages intact. The next two poems were also from the “Amputee’s Guide” and Weise concluded the reading with a few newer works.

If Weise’s tinny voice was an octave higher, or her tone ebullient, as if to suggest that despite her prosthetic and any possible rejection or dejection she’s just so cheeky about the whole darn thing, she would’ve fallen into the rabbit hole of self-deprecation that many authors feel pushed into with chick lit. But she read clearly and dispassionately, while showing a sense of humor, and was likeable.

You can learn more about Weise’s book on Soft Skull Press’s website, and if you’re a writer, or want to be, KGB is worth checking out. One last note about the bar: they charge $7-$8 dollars for a drink, which is to be expected, but it seems more capitalistic than socialist if you ask me.

On Tuesday night Boog City held a “40th Birthday Party” for Kurt Cobain at Cake Shop.

I’m going to wax nostalgic for a bit. I remember the teenage angst, skater sneakers, and borrowed cardigans. At my parochial school, it was pure bliss when some deejay blasted Nirvana at the school dance, an automatic allowance for moshing.  Forget slow dancing with the requisite space for the Holy Ghost between two pimply pubescents.

Kurt was the original UNCOOLKID: drawn out, dirtied, admittedly confused about his sexuality, embittered, and maybe just a little bit bored. He hated the public’s fascination with him (not like most celebrities today, who complain about the attention during sit-down interviews, then mug for the cameras as they make their ever-graceful exits). The more we loved him, the more he hated us. If he was alive, he would be disgusted with his own birthday party, and he probably would have showed up strung out, if he showed up at all.

Look, the guy was a mess. But the mess was his music, and the music was beautiful, no matter how ugly he tried to make it with his wretched voice.

In spite of all this, or maybe to spite it, it all came to a bullet in the head in April of 1994, but the intrigue lives on. Tortured souls have since tried to mimic, but it will never work the same way.

So on Tuesday my friend and I were really looking forward to hearing Nirvana tunes played in honor of Kurt’s would-be birthday. The girl working the door to the basement gave my friend’s suit the once-over as she took our money.  I noticed the sign behind her simply said “KURDT”.

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Friday night Rob Gorden and Mark Douglas brought the Rob & Mark Show to the Parkside Lounge, and added even more color to the tinselly stage. The word on the street was that these guys are gut-splitting. They did not disappoint.

First of all, they look like they would be funny, and that’s not to say they’re funny-lookin’. If you’re a fan of the film “So I Married An Axe Murderer”, and you probably are if you’re uncool, you might expect Rob to spew “Harriet…Harriet…” all slam-like, because of his resemblance to Mike Myers. And Mark has the look of a sitcom actor who is one audition away from stealing Matt LeBlanc’s jobs, you know, on the shows that are supposed to be funny.

They’re a combo with chemistry. “No one wants to read your blog!” Rob sang, while Mark strummed the acoustic. “The Blog Song” elicited appreciative cheers from the audience. And a few sheepish laughs as well from those guilty of clacking away at the keys about something mundane, like shopping for toothbrushes, in this ultimate modern-age display of what I call capital-narcissism.

They also played a song about having a man-crush on “24”’s Jack Bauer. And let’s not forget guest comic Michael Birch as womanizing boozer Ben Franklin, who claimed he created bifocals so his penis would appear larger. (If anyone caught “The Office” on Thursday night, you will recognize a reoccurring theme here. Ben Franklin is bringing sexyback, I guess.)

But the real treat was the Pink Floyd jukebox musical, set to a story about kids at fat camp. If you don’t laugh when Rob and Mark shout, “Hey, Fatso, leave those chips alone!” you should have your pulse checked.

Rob and Mark wrapped up the show with “Karate Kid The Musical”. They covered all the major scenes of the movie, switching from one character to the next with ease, from Elisabeth Shue’s Ally, to Johnny The Blonde Guy who appears in most popular eighties movies, to Mr. Miyagi and his infamous phrase, “Wax on, wax off.” It’s worth it alone just to hear Mark say “But, Sensei!” in one breath and “Daniel, son!” in the next. When Rob hobbled up to the mic, Ralph-Macchio-with-a-broken-knee style, and positioned himself in the crane, I became a knee slapping laughing freak.
And of course, there’s the “Glory of Love.” But I won’t spoil the ending.

If you were glued to the boob tube from 1950 to 1967, then you probably have fond memories of watching CBS’ “What’s My Line?”, the longest running game show in primetime TV history. But if you were barely a zygote then, you might not know the premise. Fortunately, Vicehead Productions has brought it back, hosting live “What’s My Line?” stage shows at the Parkside Lounge in the East Village.

Run by gracious hosts Clams Casino and Neil O’Fortune, “What’s My Line?” invites people from all walks of life to walk on stage and subject themselves to interrogation by a table of witty panelists. Using questions that elicit only a “yes” or “no” answer, the panelists must try to guess the contestant’s profession. For every wrong guess, the contestant wins $5.00, maxing out at $50.00.

Every show a celebrity guest is invited to participate, and the panelists must blindfold themselves before this contestant is allowed on stage. Past celebrity guests include Martha Plimpton - what Uncoolkid doesn’t love “The Goonies”?! - and Michael Musto.

As an audience member, you can play along with the panelists by closing your eyes when Precious, the show’s assistant, flashes a sign stating the contestant’s occupation.

Wednesday night’s four unknown contestants were a librarian, a fetish clothing designer, a church vocal soloist, and a prostitute, respectively. Yes, a prostitute. She asked that her name not be revealed, and no I don’t have her number.

The panelists were as engaging as the contestants, some of whom were more revealing in their answers than others. Host Neil O’Fortune sat with the contestants and helped them answer the more ambiguous questions, such as Garth Winfield’s “Would your product be sold to adults and children?” (really, two questions in one). My Funniest Question Award goes to panelist Johnny Porkpie, a dead ringer for Kid Rock, who asked the fetish clothing designer, “Would your job be considered pornographic to, say, anyone in the midwest?”

When the unlikely prostitute, who wore a T-shirt and jeans and sat sort of slumped in her chair, said yes, she works in the “service industry”, panelist and blogger Lindsay Robertson joked, “Finally, a whore!” Later on in the round Robertson asked in more serious tones, “Can I guess? Are you a prostitute?” The girl shot her arms in the air and stated, “Yes!” with enthusiasm.

Even with blindfolds on, the panelist were able to identify the celebrity guests in just a few minutes. They were the Trachtenburg Family Players, who I knew only a bit about before I was able to talk to Jason Trachtenburg before the show. Jason and his wife Tina gather old slideshows from estate sales and write songs about fictional characters based on the photos. They tour nationally and sell out legendary venues (you can catch them at The Knitting Factory this month). I was amazed at their ingenuity. During our conversation, his twelve year old daughter Rachel - she plays drums in the band - bounded up to us, and I noticed her sneakers. For Uncoolkids, Chuck Taylors will never go out of style.

Clams and Neil will not be producing a December installment of “What’s My Line?” but there will be another live stage show at the Parkside Lounge in January 2007. If you’re looking for a lively night of entertainment, I suggest you check out their website and mark it on your calendar. Admission is only $5.00 and drinks are reasonably priced. You might even get the chance to walk on as a contestant. See you there!

With 487 short film submissions from 39 different countries it makes sense that Nicholas Mason, the founder of the Manhattan Short Film Festival, wanted to make the final selections accessible through a variety of venues. In response to suggestions that he should have shown the films on television or the Internet, Mason said: “This is first and foremost a festival, and a festival to me conjures up images of people coming together.” So over the past few days, people came together at approximately 66 theatres around the globe.

The 12 final selections are all unique in their own ways, so impressive that they would appear to be cornerstones of great careers in features. It’s impossible to pick just one to win. But that’s the beauty of the Manhattan Short Film Fest, aside from the pleasing aesthetics on the big screen: audience members vote for their favorite short at the end of the fest.

“Lyra Lezana”, about a young Cuban girl’s U.S. visa lottery ticket, showcases the scenery of Cuba filmed mostly in natural light, and not without obstacle either. The Cuban government does not allow film production there, so Clayton Haskell’s crew had to keep a low profile. “The Third Parent” was written and directed by a USC film student who has a vested interested in the subject matter. Shot documentary-style, this raw short is about an 11-year-old girl as she cares for her autistic younger brother. She speaks candidly in a voice over, wavering between self-pity and guilt for all that she does and can’t do for her brother. Spain’s “Without Seeing” is a fusion of a strong story with a skilled filmmaker in Salvador Gomez Cuenca. Leave me a comment if you don’t cry for the characters of Martin and Pluto. “Off-Sides”, an Israeli short, sends a gut-wrenching message through a simple story of two soldiers and two insurgents as they face each other while listening to a World Cup soccer match on a hand-held radio. It’s high production quality like most war films, with the colors of heat and desert and fatigues and massacre bleeding through the screen, without the bravado.

These are just a few of the short films you can catch in Union Square next Sunday, September 24, during the final screening in the 2006 Manhattan Short Film Festival. The winner will be announced after the screening. Tickets are $10.00.

Admit it. You can’t think of any better place to spend a mild summer weekend than at…the Meadowlands? Surrounded by 10,000 people belting out off-key renditions of Alicia Keys? Sounds like a nightmare.

Photo from AP

That was my first thought when my brother, Gerald, jazzed up from deejaying, barged into my place at 3:30 a.m.: that I was dreaming.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Oh, and you’re driving.”

The keys hit my comforter. No, this was not a dream, I was wide-awake.

It is a well-known fact amongst my friends and family that I wake up very early most days.

But 3:30 a.m. is obscene. Ungodly. In New York City, the night is young. 3:30 a.m. is just a natural continuation of the evening. It’s unnatural to be rising then.

Even the coffee machine seemed surprised that I was up.

There was a chill in the air and dew on the car windshield. We tossed blankets in the trunk and began our trek.

Gerald asked if I wouldn’t mind stopping at a gas station. “Coffee and cigarettes,” he said, by way of explanation.

“Don’t smoke cigarettes in my car,” I said.

“I think, technically, this is my car.”

“Whatever. And I made coffee.”

“I don’t like it,” he said.

Yesterday’s phone conversation with Gerald flashed through my mind.

“Hey, it’s me,” he began. “Would you mind picking up a copy of the New York Post? It’s got an American Idol article in it. Oh, and some snacks from Trader Joe’s would be good. And listen, we’re going to be leaving pretty early, so you might as well load up the car with gas tonight.”

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