michael-dean-k/

The other night, a cohort of drunk teenagers were screaming the lyrics to "Champagne Supernova" on a quiet train, trying to get a sober passengry to sing along at 10:45pm. At first, this looks belligerent. It was belligerent, but I tried not to judge, and instead imagined them as supremely wise beings, uniting in song and joy, with an inner knowing that this moment won't matter to anyone else (and might not even register to the majority, scrolling with headphones). Outside of this log, everyone will forget their judgment in a few weeks, and we'll flatten them into a caricature of youth. But to them? Maybe they'll remember this on their deathbed. Two of them could get married. I wondered how my life might change, for the better, if I were as careless and inconsiderate as them. I started singing along the lyrics in my head, because I liked Oasis once twenty years ago, and even imagined myself standing up and singing, being the bold #2 that gives the rest of the train permission to join. If that somehow erupted, no one would forget it. But they quickly changed to another song, and then another, and I didn't recognize any of them. Realistically, I would never do it. I'm too conscientious, mired in etiquette. Even though this just might be a band of idiots—possibly the same kids I caught running on the tracks a few weeks ago,¹ filming it, probably trying to go viral—I sort of envy their disinhibition. It's not that I yearn to be a menace, more like, I can't quite conceive how much I limit my life by deferring to the feeble opinions of others. Across the aisle, I saw a woman in distress, kind of over-dramatic, saying to the stranger next to her, "I'm going to complain to the conductor! This is horrible!"

Smooth haircuts and fat loss shot advertisements, a train full of sleepy heads not yet caffeinated but fixated on their little computers. The AC cranks.

It’s a July that feels like a September from kindergarten, and I just read a Substack post from “Worst Boyfriend Ever,” which felt like a second-rate beat impersonation, but I wonder how much is literary inspiration and how much is real. There is a brand of prose-poetry that feels anchored in real-life degeneracy, and while I was once inspired by that early on for its edginess, I realized it’s inauthentic to copy it, and even more inauthentic to aspire to live it. Nonetheless, I’m intrigued by him, and realize there are whole secret corners on Substack of this kind of writing that I’ve yet to find. (Note from future self: when writing this, I had only read a post of his where he befriended a homeless man. I didn’t yet know his Substack name was literal—that he started by writing about cheating on his girlfriend, and is now traveling the country in a van looking to fuck everyone in his audience.)

Of the 22 people in this train car, we are all zombies except the buttoned-down silver-watched slick-haired coke-eyed man who seems engaged in the best conversation of his life; his face is more animated than all the passengers combined, his forehead so scrunched that his eyebrows levitate above his head.

NYC is so interesting because it’s an open, secret, peaceful war of virtue clashes. You can’t really know what a passing stranger is like, but in the attempt to infer someone’s virtues, you sense that there are radically different worldviews all co-existing in a very dense space.