So I stopped by a neighboring Chinese restaurant after work. It was a tough day, lots of ups and downs, dealing with unpleasantness and whatnot. After I picked up the General Tso's Chicken, I was passing an abandoned storefront and suddenly recalled that it used to be a night spot called Bookbinder's back in my first year as an art director. One evening at Bookbinder's bar an older art director leaned over and whispered "I can bury you." Then I thought about Roy Bookbinder, an old folkie guitarist, and remembered an interracial couple who were friends of ours, and the wife had been a publicist for Roy Bookbinder. She was a painfully thin white girl, you'd almost think she was a junkie if you didn't know her, and we attended her baptism into her husband's Baptist Church. A giant pool, a rocking choir, hollers from the congregation. It was magical. I remember idly wondering if I'd be able to see through her wet gown. And then I thought about another interracial couple we knew. The wife, Connie, was quiet and sweet and shy. The husband, Star, that was his real name, was kind of an asshole, but we weren't sure at that point if we were allowed to think so. He was a musician who hid a tape player inside his guitar because he wasn't very good. One day when we were alone, he took out his wallet and showed me nude photos of Connie. I didn't know what to say. I woke from my daydreaming to see a man at the corner, and he was staring at me. Then he gave me a small gift. He said, "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else." Beaming, in my best Demetri Martin voice, I replied "I am!"

So maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all. The jury's still out on my life in general, though.