Last evening while waiting for the train I met a young man who wore brown wingtips, gray peacoat, Yankees beanie, and a v-neck sweater over plaid. He held a Heineken keg can and looked around warily as we chatted before cracking it and taking a deep pull.
As the train exhaled I asked him where do you live. With a grimace he replied the Upper East. You should move to Brooklyn, I said.
When we sat on the crowded 5 train and he opened his bag to hand me one of his CDs I noticed that his notebooks had the name Sascha Gray on it. I chuckled while he fondled the pockets and finally extracted the blur-faced CD in white paper and plastic sleeve.
Soon thereafter we had our formal introductions and I laughed. The deep irony, I inveighed, is that after you blow up and her breasts begin to sag, people will think it was a reference to the porn star. And that will probably help you, although you spell your names differently. How bizarre, how bizarre, I pondered, thinking about the layers of significance this would have to a young musician in our postmodern era.
