I was walking home with the new Marilyn Manson single in one hand and the latest issue of Foreign Affairs in the other. I was stopped by a guy with long hair, torn jeans, chains, the lot. If he wasn't a rock star he really, really wanted to be.

I realized I've previously met one of the prerequisites for becoming a star: most other artists in my circles did not respect me as an artist, although I do in fact possess talent. My work was too much of what the masses want to see (pornography), although technically it was good and it had deeper meaning if one could be bothered to search for it.

He asked me for change. He didn't give me a story, he just asked for the money. I gave it to him... it came easy out of my pocket and I didn't feel vaguely hustled like I do sometimes. He asked me if I played. I fumbled a bit, and murmured "Not... quite." I don't consider dissonant noise to be playing anything. Later I wondered if I should have lied to him. His fingerless gloves were faintly moist in that way that body-warmed leather can be... I didn't feel the immediate urge to wash my hands, as I often do when made to press flesh with strangers. The lingering perspiration was interesting in a pleasant way, just regular filth, instead of unwanted human contact.

He said "Thanks... God bless you." Being told this gives me pause, because I've been told all through my life that God does not bless people such as myself.

Last week I did much the same thing, walked home with an Eddie Izzard DVD and a copy of Stephen King's The Stand. The Stand is one of my favorite books... I love to watch everything just swirl down the toilet at the beginning. The rest of the book, with the dark man and the old woman and the survivors, that's okay, but it doesn't really interest me. I considered it research material: transvestitism and apocalypse. This week, shock rock and US foreign policy. Oh what is going on in Ashy's little head?