2020

The last record store closed last night less than a mile from where I sat with my wife's cat in my lap listening to an old Mott The Hoople album. I couldn't go browse because someone double - parked a bright pink house in front of my apartment. I watched a pretty lady do the dishes, heard a couple of fights, a guy fixing his bike made a lot of noise (a slew of unruly kids hanging around), a football game, a show about gay guys raising their illegitimate son in one of their parents' house next to a dirty river downtown. In the Midwest or the Middle East or Alaska for all I care. It 's pretty easy not to. My wife and daughter are in Chicago for the seventh game of the World Series. My daughter (she's fifteen years old) is dating a player she met on-line. He hit 260 with 7 home runs and 32 RBIs and makes 30 million a year for his trouble. Last night he struck out with the bases loaded in the bottom of the eighth. That happens. It’s not the end of the World Series and like my father always told me we still have to get up in the morning. Unfortunately a fan shot him while he was walking home with my daughter. The guy who shot him said, you’re an asshole. He's in the hospital. He told my wife and daughter to go to the game, pretend I’m in left field, he said. I can’t watch the game. My lights are out. So I sit in the dark, smoking and wondering why science fiction is always so depressing.