Lana

“Whoever produced this song really nutted it,” said Pal.

“It’s um … hold on I — I think I read this yesterday,” said the clown with the Shelley Berman glasses on.

“What?” asked Pal, loudly.

“It’s the guy who used to date the lady who did the HBO thing on ladies.”

“Ladies?”

“Girls.”

“Oh.”

“Jack Antonoff.”

“Yeah, Jack Antonoff.”

“Kid from Jersey.”

“Yeah.”

Diner

“Found this in an interview with Wim Wenders,” said Pal. “Imagine having that name — sounds wonderful, really.”

“He said he doesn’t think the photos we take today that aren’t printed out will be seen by anyone in the future.”

Seton Hall

“This is why I don’t play basketball anymore — at the Y,” said Pal.

“No one screens,” said the clown with the hoarse voice.” And there’s more than one type of screen. There’s many.”

“I know.”

“Maybe more than any other major sport, basketball is like … viewed as checkers, when it’s really chess.”

“With skyscrapers.”

Atlantic City

“Wrote a poem last night, Pal,” said the clown with no name.

AC

it smells like Atlantic City kinda,

musty and taffy, makes you think of fun

and smushed cigs on splintered boards

and stagnant pools and ripped felt

and fountains that don't work anymore,

and seagulls that screamed when you woke up

hungover with a bucket of coins in the bed, 

and that ocean water you captured

in a pickle jar you washed out

then brought to the beach

and knelt 

in the breaking wet salt rush

and scooped

as a face you still try to forget 

smiled

so big

at you

from the two chairs you shared

in the sand