i give you: a subway car all to yourself.

in 1999, the year in which i slept on a floor in new orleans, i remember listening to the accounts of the bombing of belgrade. clinton's impeachment had been earlier in the year, when it wasn't so hot, and my next memory of politics was the nato war for kosovo. the radio told stories of precision bombardment, frequently while i drank gin. somebody used an out-of-date map at one point and bombed the chinese embassy.

the reporters on npr kept assuring me that B92 was still on the air. with no explaination, all americans were being told that independent radio in yugoslavia was still broadcasting, but one must admit that "B92" sounds like something that does "two-for-tuesday" doesn't it? like, you could be the 92nd caller and win something, surely.

tonight, when i was suddenly and brattily weary of all the cd's and mp3's i have before me, i wondered what to listen to? and who knows why i thought of it, but i suddenly saw what the internet is for, dammit: i can listen to B92.

by clicking on everything, i learned that uzivo means something like "listen" in serbo-croatian. there's a lot of english, which is a bummer in my current mood, but what was i expecting? they do occasionally do accordion-sounding music that's all creepy and eastern european, but right now, for example, they are playing white stripes.

last night i passed a few cerebral hours in a bar with jed and his friend jamma, discussing tony blair, the whiz-bang gadgetfuck of british cell phones, and the pros and cons of the pixies reunion. the pre-bar meet-up went off without a hitch, which is rare for me. see, i don't have a cell phone, and for some spiteful reason i refuse to get one. so when i'm headed downtown to meet someone, i have to arrange it all before leaving the office, hoping that stars and subways align, and everyone ends up at X-marks-the-spot at the right time. in the rain, no less.

i told jed on the phone, "uh, how about meeting at niagara? it's a bar at 7th and A." jed said sure. this has all the signs of being a disaster. i have a 40-minute trip from here to there, and it's raining, and i don't even know if 7th and A is right.

so as i walk up to the bar, late as usual, i am surprised to find them standing outside waiting. to what do i own this gift?

jed says, "well mate, we went to 7th and B first, and there's no name on it. but i thought 'this is a josh bar.' we went in and had a drink and i asked the bird behind the bar, 'is this niagara?' she said no, so then we headed over here. and i thought, 'hmm, this is also a josh bar.' so we waited, and here you came."

since they'd been both of those places already, i said, "let's go to blue and gold. it's just around the corner." when we got there, jed said, "you know what, this is a josh bar."

so after much ado, what is the lesson?: that they are all josh bars. truly. the 40 oz store on the corner is a josh bar. the gutter itself, it is a josh bar. from one end of this great nation to another, they are all, i accept it, yes yes, i will embrace this, sing to me my happy bottles and glasses. . . .

i wished my father a happy veterans day today. he said thank you, and that something seemed strange--that his time in the army was short, but the memories seem like they were gained over a much longer period of time.

in his early twenties, he was flying a chinook, living on bourbon, and probably getting shot at. this seems rather resolute to me. in contrast, i have led a meandering life. there is nothing wrong with that, but i do want to point out that i am aware of the difference.

tonight on the W train, as we came out of the ground in queens and the manhattan skyline expressed its complete apathy toward us, i was awarded with an unexpected visit. the sliding door between cars opened up, and that guy came through. yes, that guy. that guy who is in total disarray and has dirty hair and dirty teeth and a dirty windbreaker, and who waves his arms around and sings. i have a soft spot in my heart for that guy, because of all the subway performers and askers for money, i think he is genuinely pretty good--as in, i think his singing is pretty. he's quiet, and his voice is a rasp, but i always like it. it's authentic somehow. tonight he was singing good night irene. around christmas he'll start doing rudolph, unfortunately, but other than that i think he has good taste in songs.

i have a policy. my policy is: he gets a dollar. he got a dollar. i felt like people looked at me tonight, but hey it's my policy.

there are many of these people that i think about. the one i see the most is the guy on the N/R/W/Q platform at times square. he gets there at night and stays all night and finishes up after the morning commute. you might have seen him--the white guy with dreads who takes off his shoes and dances up and down on a newspaper while he strums his guitar. i give him change if i have it. he's got papers for you to take, but maybe you shouldn't, because, although i like him, he seems to be crazy. he tells you how to prepare a special room for the rapture (usually the bathroom) and warns you about the jews. and he writes some of it in new testament greek, just in case you thought he was normal. but i don't judge; he's harmless. once i saw the police throw him out, and he yelled at them that it wasn't just against him, it was against god.

but the good night irene guy? he's not crazy. go for your pocket and he comes right to you and sings for you while you get your bills sorted. he has no message. he's there to serve you.

there are two things that invariably make me feel weird. they are looking for a job and looking for an apartment. the immediacy of the judgement you find enacted upon yourself, and the professionalism of it, are difficult to zig and zag. it's not personal, it's just you.

in real life, in a social setting, say you shake hands and tell someone your name. they instantly forget it. it's comforting, really. you will have many chances. no money is to be made or lost, so the transaction is not worthy of a second thought--you'll pass four or five times, and in one of those perhaps a witty comment will endear you. the stakes are low, and people do not have on the game face they reserve for serious matters: your salary, your education, your haircut.