Hate hanging posters, but it's one of the things you've got to do when you're in a group. We've got no copy shop on Palisade, so it's down the steps, into Hoboken, here again, two quarters in the machine and all the prints you need. On to the PATH train, they're taking turns with civil rights and getting pizza grease all over their bikes. Got off on 14th to switch to the L and the girl between cars has a record to sell. She says "listen to the demo 'coz the voice sounds sweet. I've got peanuts to eat since the middle of the week. For the change in your pocket, I will write you a sonnet." She's got a bag with the Trade Center on it. First stop in Brooklyn, she gets off with, and trading blows by the transistors boys are taking the fifth. They've got artists in the street tracing caricatures -- character actors from an HBO freak show and getting dumb with some folks I know.

Here on North 4th, there's a public posterboard, but it's covered to overflow with announcement for other shows. No white in sight -- the kids are all tight. "Who found a lost dog?" "Sublets -- sunny room for rent." "Studio apartment with an oxygen tent." "Bassist wanted -- come and see our practice space on Kent." "Extension 217 for pro band photography." I could tear down fifteen minute's worth and barely make a dent. I'm strongly disinclined to put posters over posters: some residual sense of chivalry from a past incarnation. Hey, there's Emily and Eli from the pirate station. Dos Santos is at the thrift store getting money for some junk he wore and Maria is playing air guitar hanging out the door. Jim here is my bud. He works at HUD. He's hanging up posters for his brother's band. He slaps my hand and lends me wheat paste, strafes a trash can and laughs in my face. He says, and I quote, "you can stand your ground, but these white lies make the world go round." But I don't believe him.

I remember back in college Professor ____________ described primitive cultures and their drive toward branding. They put the totem of the tribe on rocks and stumps, emblazoned and refined, and I am reminded of Lot 49. Full phantasmagoria of graphic design: insignias on lampposts, Nike swoosh earrings, fifty year old shopkeeper with Arcade Fire t-shirt. Robbie's got icon tattoos, and so do you -- designed by a pro on Adobe Illustrator. Superkaleidoscopic photoshopped images, a bag full of fliers and a Starbucks cup. Jimmy's got nerve to walk out of the Verb and drop a stack of pink swag right onto the curb. Thrift store selling prehistoric rocks in marijuana haze, and it's not photos for publicity or the mark of the beast but the sequel to felicity. I made my amends, said goodbye to my friends, held the closing doors open and I'm on the L again.

Back on Washington Street, they keep the jambalaya warm. Posters up for some political reform. I've got a full bag of prints rolled up in my jacket. It seems I'm not cut out for this self-publicizing racket. I want it but I don't, I will but then I won't -- part of it all but still miles apart. But I left my mixed emotions at the Minimall, and if I can't speak clearly, I'll say nothing at all.