On the train, reading Slaves of New York for the first time in close to 40 years. And I immediately think of you, and how as budding creative writing majors we used to rib this book, as well as Less than Zero and Bright Lights Big City, and all those other books by young authors belonging to that genre dubbed, "...and then they fucked," generally brought out on Gary Fisketjon's Vintage Contemporaries series. (Although by now, both nostalgia and academia have come on board, and the genre is referred to as "Dirty Realism.")
And just as I'm thinking this, you get on the train. But it's not you, but your Japanese doppelganger, looking as you did back in school, with your bobbed hair and pouty lips and slim build. And I so much want to sneak this woman's photo and send it to you, so that we can both laugh about the coincidence. But sadly, you passed away last summer...
And with you gone, and with Zielke gone near 20 years, our little gang of aspiring writers lives on only in me. Does that bring us back to Less than Zero, with Blair and Julian gone, and only I left to tell the tale?
On the turntable: Ramones, "Too Tough to Die"
