My college friend, Maud, called on Wednesday evening to ask if I was going to the RISD New York Biennial opening at Exit Art the following night. The biennial is a gallery show featuring artwork by RISD alumni living in and around New York City, of which there are a gazillion.

"It's a big fucking city," Fee said over the phone as he was driving to pick me up in Brooklyn.

He had an Anti-Flag band patch on the back pocket of his knee-length frayed black pants, and a Rancid patch on his arm. His Army boots looked a few sizes too big and were laced up tight with extra-long laces wrapped several times around the ankles.

For whatever reason, it seems I've only been reading heavy books lately. By heavy, I don't mean deep, but rather hardcover books too heavy to carry around in a bag all day just to read a few pages on the subway.

That's the old Greenpoint Terminal Warehouse burning to the ground as seen from my window yesterday morning. By the time I saw the smoke, the fire had already been raging for five hours.

Brian has been in Connecticut for the past couple of weeks, restarting the landscaping business he began last year, but he was in New York City over the weekend to pick up some extra work at one of the neon shops where he occasionally freelances. Since he wasn't in town very long, he tried to fit in as much catching up with friends as possible. He had dinner plans with a few people in the East Village on Friday night and arranged to meet up with me afterward.

"You're having a little writer's block, eh?" said Katrina.

After a few crossed text messages, I gave her a call to to say hello. She was home eating stale cupcakes and nursing a freakishly bad reaction to mosquito bites. "I can't even wear a normal size shoe," she complained, before making the observation about my writing.

"I've never had this kind of trouble finding a job before," Deborah complained with an exasperated sigh, shaking a fistful of resumes in the air before slamming them onto the coffee table. She'd been job hunting for weeks and was frustrated that all she'd been able to find was a one-day-a-month bookkeeping gig.

The romantic setting of a New York City loft in an industrial neighborhood was getting dry and dusty in the spring sunlight and crisp, cement-factory breeze, so Deborah and I conspired to escape. We packed a few essentials into a couple of bags and then hopped the subway to Port Authority for a bus ride to southern New Jersey.

Working freelance makes it hard to predict when I'll have a day off. I knew there was nothing cooking for yesterday, but I thought today was booked. Turned out I was wrong. With nothing to do, and the spring weather so nice, I decided to tag along with Deborah on her continued job search.

Speaking of speaking in tongues, Deborah and I finally went to see the documentary, The Devil and Daniel Johnston last night.

Maybe it's the sunny blue skies and warm weather, but for some reason, I've been running into a lot of people from my past lately. Some of them I stop and talk to, distilling our lives into the major talking points. Where do you live now? Are you still with so-and-so? Last time I saw you, you were doing such and such, while others garner just a moment's hesitation. Is that who I think it is? Should I stop? Say hello? Will they remember me?

Regardless of how much fun you're having, there's no denying it: time flies.

Several years ago, when I first started working freelance, I didn't know the first thing about Schedule C, or what I was allowed to deduct, or any of that, and decided it was best to pay an accountant to do my taxes.

A few weeks ago, Matt Flowers wrote to ask my thoughts on the movie Ask the Dust based on the book of the same name by John Fante.

"I had a dream I was working at a place where everyone was having sex," Deborah said as she got dressed this morning. She was up early for her first day of work as a bookkeeper for a West Village bar.

She used to make me sing that song when we were drunk. When we were up late, I'd pull out the guitar and sing it for her. When we were up late and drunk was the only time I would do it—the only time I could do it.

I've asked this question before, but why is it that independent movies are so well respected — in some ways, even more respected than Hollywood movies — and independent music, when recorded by untrained musicians on shitty equipment in someone's basement is so often cherished more than what a slick label cranks out? But when a writer takes it upon themselves to release a self-published book, they are generally regarded as a talentless, self-involved buffoon? Who knows, but thanks in part to the tireless efforts of POD-dy Mouth, all that may be changing.