Blogspot, even thinner than the Razr.

When I removed the iPod from my bag, flipped off the lock and pressed play, I expected a melody, or at least, pre-intro-static. Instead, what I heard was nothing more than the continued droning of early evening Little Italy. Fiddling with the locking switch for a few seconds, it dawned on me that my iPod was stuck in its own dream world, completely unaware of external command. In a way, looking at its screen was not unlike gazing into the eyes of a man with irreparable shell-shock. He understands your presence, but cannot respond in any way. Should my iPod fail to respond before its batteries die, I will have no choice but to give it up to God--cause of death: Strokes, The.

Wandering up 2nd Avenue alone and with no distraction, I am forced to concede that the magic of New York is all but gone. Passing a Wendy's, I remembered my first meal as an NYU student with Trevor. I looked down 15th Street and saw the playhouse where Leigh and I attended opening night of Yeardly Smith's one-woman retrospective on her dual roles as bulimic and as Lisa Simpson.

I have a tendency to romanticize the past. I am like one of Walter Benjamin's rear-facing Angels of History. In addition though, I am not only wearing rose-tinted glasses, but am drunk and stoned as well. Compared to yester-year, how can the present day ever compete? As for the magic of New York, regaining it would require a complete paradigm shift on my part or, failing that, a shitload of money.