the endz

My desk is no longer my desk; during this transformation, underneath towering stacks of Atreyu samplers and Ottmar Liebert CD-Rs, I discovered:
* a piece of masking tape inscribed with the words “JOE GROSS,” in my handwriting
* photo of Hutch Harris reading the first issue of the Mercury, accompanied by a note: “Dear Julianne: I don’t know I’m playing a show until I read about it in your paper.”
* 4 staplers, 3 scissors, 45 unused post-it pads in various neon colors
* 15-ish copies of Seven’s Travels. Really. Sean, tell your label they could save $$ if they mailed fewer promos. (I am donating the extras to the Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls.)
Yesterday, one of my final duties as Mercury Arts Editrix was returning 12 pornos to Hard Times video (RENTED BY MY CO-WORKERS) (FOR A STORY) (I SWEAR ON THE HOLY BIBLE), on Broadway, at rush hour. The clerk—barechested, shaved and tanned—wore pleated pants, white socks, Teva activity sandals, a giant fluffy moustache, and a Marines hairdo a la Bottle Rocket. As he checked them in, he read off the titles—”Latino Gangbang. Bi Fuck Fantasy. Erectnophobia.“—like a lifelong bingo caller, one who knows the odds of winning are obscene but is unimpressed by the fact that people try anyway.