I’m in a smelly room, waiting to begin the town hall. There’s a TV on, an old black and white with a box enabling it to process digital. I wish it was operating off a coat hanger and foil, the way these babies are supposed to. I know they’re not broadcasting on those analogue channels anymore, but I’d like to see any subversive messages now hidden in the fuzz.

Gotta call it fuzz. Can’t call it interference, since, these days, it doesn’t have anything to interfere with. If a pirate transmitted video over one of the old channels, THAT would be interference. In any event, I’d have to dismantle a whole setup to see whether my fuzz thesis might be borne out ’cause the technologically inconsistent organizers of this event have the set connected to cable, which is funny, a little.

Tiny black and white cable people are telling me about (yet) a(nother) shooting in progress at some naval recruitment base and how authorities have found surveillance footage of a 14-year-old pushing down the school hallway a recycling bin which may have contained the teacher they think he killed. Out the window, a roofer is jumping between an apartment roof and a brownstone roof, standing, in the wind, on the precarious and crumble-prone overhang at the top of the larger structure.

I don’t feel so good.

Oy. They’re calling me. Not even any water bottles here, only those conical, soft, paper cups that don’t even fit in a car’s soft drink holder.

“Alright. I’m COMing.”

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