My weekend started out with an obscene phone call. The phone rang at 8 am, which to me is the middle of the night. I answered and a man anxiously said to me, "Rachel, can you talk to me for a minute?" Confused I asked who was calling. He told me his name was Michael. After a quiet moment that sounded like some poultry pummelling was occuring at the other end of the line, I hung up. Now besides the minor annoyance of waking me up at an ungodly hour, I was freaked out because the guy knew my name. His number came up as private on caller id. So he knows who I am, maybe even where I live and I don't know a thing about him. That bugs me. Later in the day, I read this quote by William S. Burroughs in a magazine. "People like us are lucky because every shitty thing that happens to us is just more material." Lucky me. A few weeks ago, I was chatting with The Editor about writing. somehow a chat about Camus turned to me. He seems to think the genius of my prose is my sadness and that if I'm ever truly happy... I'll never be able to write again. I don't think that is something The Editor should fret about. My material seems to keep coming. The rest of the weekend was fun enough. Cyndemouse and I attended the Asbury Park First Night. Businesses stayed open late. Snacks were served. It was festive. At the end of the night, I realized most of the people we met weren't local. And there were no people of color. I'm conflicted about what is going on in town. It is nice to be able to get a cappuccino and a cute frock so readily. I just hope the businesses that have been in town forever don't get pushed out. I can't imagine not being able to get a turkey sandwich at Frank's on Main or a slice of Miss Clara's divine cake at Clara's Cup over on Springwood. I loved Asbury Park in all its grubby glory. Will I love it in it's next life?