a life on the day of the devil

Today:
The grim reapers guerilla-film-promoted outside Viacom Country. They marched in a figure-eight loop on Times Square, waving picket signs: “6.6.6.”
The shelf-life of the skull t-shirt was shorter than a quart of 2% in a bodega cooler in August.
The pop singer I interviewed thought she wanted to be a criminal justice lawyer, until she realized she *really* wanted to be a dancer/choreographer for an NBA halftime dance squad — a dream she realized and sustained for seven seasons, whilst moonlighting as a battle rapper named Seven (because she is lucky). Her website describes her as “twenty-something.”
The other pop singer I interviewed did not graduate, but she will never return to high school. She is a junior now, and she’ll have a tutor while she tours the country, promoting her album through the fall. “My love songs don’t actually come from my own experiences,” she leveled. “I am only sixteen.”
I bought a ticket online for the Omen, after reading that it is a play-by-play recreation of the original. A review: “Who the fuck still uses darkrooms?”
How will Julia Stiles handle the act of “dying”? I wonder.
I email Charles Schumer (D-NY) approximately three times a month, and have only ever received an electronic form letter in return. Michelle renounces her American citizenship on an hourly basis, yet she receives letters in the actual mail, direct from Schumer’s Brooklyn office. How can this be?
I can hear sporadic cheers and whoops and claps, wafting up the vents: Alicia Keys on TRL. Or, perhaps some of the secondary guests have engaged themselves in an antic, hoping to be remembered past their time.
That’s all any of us can hope for, but too many people mistake glory for longevity, I think.