I got a job back from the graphic services department and the copy had been replaced by curses and insults—“this sucks!” “fuck you.” I got the scary sense of a malevolent intelligence over there, anonymous, that desired to sabotage and malign our work.

I was at a bar in the East Village and decided to check out the location of the old Nightingale’s on 2nd and 13th. It was a hip record store now, a throwback to places like Festoons and Brass City Records. Then I went back to the bar and reported to everyone it was “like 1984” in there.

I was at a bar. Chuck Brown presented me and someone else—maybe Rob D.—with a novelty shot, part of some kind of promotion. It came in solid form, an orange, rectangular box. It seemed a bit too big to fit in my mouth but I did anyway. It was spicy. I thought it’d be funny if I told Chuck that it was like the Devil came in my mouth, but I thought better of it.