Memorial Day weekend means the start of something new. Everyone finally emerging from social hibernation to be outside with beers in their fists. I associate the Indy 500 and the Monaco Grand Prix with this feeling, but for no special reason besides that they happen then I guess. It all makes me feel like anything is possible, like there’s a wide open space just around the corner, and then another just around the next. We used to go to the Memorial Day races at Lime Rock when I was a kid. The squawking of the announcer through the PA, periodically drowned by the roaring cars; the smell of burning oil, grass and grill smoke—this represented a liberation from winter, from home, from school. It was almost June after all, and forget it, school’s out in June. You can just count the days.

In fact any time of the year can have the same significance. September when football starts, when there’s new things on TV. Then the birth of Christ if you’re so inclined, or at least of the appearance of light in the darkness. Then the new year, then the thawing of the ground and the new buds on the trees in spring. And you can go on and on about them all. But fuck it, now’s Memorial Day.

Jackie found a rose petal somewhere on our walk back out of the park.

There was a lanky man on the couch at the kids’ birthday party. I noticed him for some reason. No special reason. He sprang up and addressed us: were we involved in the sciences at all? He had an idea for an invention, helium-filled balloons that were only half-filled, so they’d hover in the air, immobile. They didn’t even have to be balloons—they could be objects. Ornaments. He wondered why that didn’t exist yet. I agreed. I was supportive. From time to time he spat out a fragment of the corn chips or Cheetos or whatever it was he’d been eating from the snack table. He’d wipe his mouth momentarily, but not self-consciously, and continue. And what about ketchup packets? Why were they so messy? So inefficient? You tear it open, ketchup gets on your fingers. You squeeze it, squeeze it till you’re sick and tired and still there’s a little bit left. A tiny pocket of wasted ketchup. Multiplied by billions. Consider the wasted food. He had a point. Finally there was a lull and I wished him luck and slipped away.

My F train arrived at 7th Ave on the G side just as a G came in on the F side. No explanation. But people desperately ran out from one train to catch the other, just in case it all meant something.

Everything is settling back into quiet now.

Though these perceptions of cultural history bring us to the

TROOPS

They may have joined the human pack thousands of years ago.

Everything that happens happens underground.

The world is falling away.

Some people walk against the light, right out into traffic almost. You find yourself following them for a second. Thin guys with baseball caps. Untied shoes.

They put a couple of speed bumps on our block this week, one right out our window. A couple days later, giant white letters appeared on the street before it:

BUMP

As I gave our address to the guy at the appliance store he began to laugh. He turned away from the receiver and I could hear him laughing, coughing, laughing. When he got back on I expected an apology or something. Nothing. As I recited my ZIP code to him I could hear in his murmurs of acknowledgment the spasms of another fit. But he thanked me and we said our goodbyes.

There was a tremendously tall man on the subway today. It seemed depressing that he was so tall. Depressing to him, depressing to me. Though he was young and handsome he wore a vexed and weary expression. The laces of his boots were loosely fastened, like it was too much of a chore to lean down to tie them. What a ceaseless string of travails life is after all.

The ganja dealers always walk awhile on the beach with their marks, or their johns, or whatever you call a drug tourist customer. A paunchy white American and a young, fit Jamaican, walking side by side: It’s not a gay couple down from Baltimore. You could see the white man trying to play it cool. Listening and nodding and laughing a little too hard at the dealer in the middle of his habitual rap, not even thinking. Then the dealer would nod toward an alleyway or a parking lot and the pot would appear out of the trunk of a car or the hand of an accomplice, or maybe it was just rolled up in the guy’s shorts the whole time anyway. What was the purpose of this runaround, in a land where the sale of marijuana had to be considered an essential part of the economy? Maybe the theatre of it was essential. Make the buyer feel like he’s engaging in an illicit or even risky act. Where we going? Who’s that over there? Make scoring feel like a personal victory. They won’t even think about the price. The dealers seemed to know they were selling ritual, not just product. A ritual of connection and belonging, of peril and survival.

On opening weekend at Coney Island everything was already like it always was. An empty hot dog box and a handful of napkins blowing along the ground ‘cause their owners didn’t give a fuck. A gimpy old man shaped like an S, walking along Stillwell Ave. You can’t imagine where he’s going in but he’s in just the right place. After exiting the men’s room at Nathan’s I observed a man in a gray track suit and ludicrous blue-and-white high-tops as he stood eating curly fries with the tiny little plastic fork. He seemed determined and cheerless, like someone taking nourishment before some kind of travail. The little kids and the trannies and everyone else was out already on this glorious day. I walked over to the edge of the Boardwalk. I watched the waves slam down raucously on the empty beach. At least something wasn’t ready yet.

On the train to Coney Island today I hoped I’d see something memorable on the streets or through the windows. Something in between the weird businesses in Borough Park, the weedy lots and alleyways, the graveyard and the playgrounds, the misspelled signs and school bus depots. It was all beautiful but nothing caught my eye. Then, among the debris on a windowsill on the top floor of a dilapidated rowhouse, I saw a trophy. A modest one. Maybe wings sculpted at the top, I don’t know. Who had won it? What had they won it for? Who had put it on display.

I thought of something great to write about the other day. Some episode from my distant past I think. A weird drama I was witness to, involving someone’s reckless behavior, I think. I remember thinking, that seems like a nothing story, but I can make something of it. That thing happened—that funny thing. So telling, when you think about. Revealing about the protagonist. Revealing about the supporting players. Revealing about the writer himself, and so revealing about the world. The universe. But I can’t remember what it was to save my soul.

It never feels quite as cold as when Spring starts and the heat won’t come on anymore.

Someone managed to spam my dream blog. A robot evidently, that somehow guessed the address to post by email. It reminded me of checking my mom’s email account in her apartment, after she died. Her inbox was contaminated with spam, like flies or vultures on carrion. Here and there were signals from the living—an old friend, a bit worried that they hadn’t heard back. Something related to work. The stream goes on and on forever I suppose.

Motor Oil Memories

I took a sip of my cold coffee at work today and the taste of it gave me a powerful memory of motor oil. I was at the garage in Storrs, Connecticut with my dad getting the oil changed on our VW Bug. There it was up on the lift. The wheels, relieved of their burden at last, hung down on the axles. Now the mysterious bottom was revealed. You could see the weight of this thing. The potential danger. And yet the mechanic strolled around under the car, unconcerned. He rolled up the waste oil drum, unscrewed the plug from the pan. A stream of thick, black liquid arced into the funnel as he wandered away. All there was for a while was that smell.

I took another sip of coffee and it didn’t taste the same.

TROOPS

“It's been a while, Your Majesty,” I said, which was simply all I could think of to say.

You're a Fucking Asshole

There’s a little heart someone drew on the grout between the tiles on the wall of the men’s room, right at eye level when you’re taking a piss. It’s disconcerting. Creepy. Sort of mocking.

That’s the view I had yesterday morning as I heard the telltale ding of a text message notification. It came from the stall. A few moments passed. And then I heard the occupant emit a little sigh.

“You’re a fucking asshole, man,” he declared.

TROOPS

It was almost too easy to dramatize this weird trick of the mind.

TROOPS

“Those birds sing all day long,” said the girl

I almost had a good time today at the sad people’s store, wandering the aisles in search of spaghetti and tonic. In from the cold rain for just a minute or two.

As I did the dishes two great movies were on at the same time: “Office Space” and “School of Rock.” Each one a sparkling affirmation of humanity, a blow against the forces of evil and oppression. I’d watch one until it broke for commercials, switch to the other, switch back. Then they were both on commercials at the same time, pills, dish soap, whatever. Got to serve the man I guess.

TROOPS

The wind is a crude excavator. It has all the finesse of a pickax.

TROOPS

He's really very generous. Aren't you, Robert?”