“Gainesville has always seemed a particularly fecund place,” I remarked to my host in Gainesville, Florida. We strolled through a sinkhole in a protected nature reserve on the outskirts of the city. A number of alligators sunning themselves beside the bank of a muddy stream regarded us disinterestedly, if at all.

“Indeed,” my host replied. “One throws an avocado pit into the back yard, and, soon, an avocado plant appears.”

“Gainesville’s fertile soil transports me to the pages of C.S. Lewis’ The Magician’s Nephew,” I explained. “The principal characters in this novel—the sixth of Lewis’ famous fantasy septology—are present at the creation or Narnia, Lewis’ proto-Christian wonderland. During this genesis sequence, one these characters throws an iron bar upon the ground. The ground proves so fruitful that an iron tree springs from the bountiful earth.”

“Our compost pile is, in itself, an ongoing experiment in the creation of life,” my host agreed. “One cannot predict what volunteers will spring from the organic refuse we collect behind our home. Green peppers, tomatoes, a orange or a coconut—any flora may rear its vegetative head at any time.”

“Life, if anything, is hardy,” I ventured. I gesticulated wildly at the alligators which, should we approach in a threatening fashion, would devour us like the irresponsible host of a popular nature program. “Consider these alligators! These alligators first tread the earth in the Mesozoic Era. When they first appeared, homo sapiens was little more than a possible outcome of natural selection. Alligators existed long before the invention of writing, before the religious trials and tribulations of Jesus Christ, Muhammad, and Buddha, before the fall of Rome, before the so-called ‘Dark Ages,’ before Leonardo da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa, before Galileo embraced heliocentric, Copernican cosmology, before Marx grafted dialectical materialism to economics to invent socialism, before the cotton gin, before the War Between the States, before World War I, before the Jazz Age, before World War II, before the Korean War, before the Vietnam War, before Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush I, Clinton, and Bush II, before the telephone, before the fax machine, before the Internet, before M*A*S*H*, before the Cosby Show, before Family Ties, before Seinfeld, before Friends, and before Lost.” I paused to catch my breath. “At humanity’s pathetic swipes at the sublime—feeble developments like the Egyptian Pyramids or Tina Fey’s 30 Rock—the alligator only yawns.”

“Indeed,” my host replied. He pointed to an alligator lurking nearby. As if on cue, the alligator yawned.

“Unbelievable!” I exclaimed. For a moment, I was transfixed by the transcendent power of nature. Then, a thought distracted me from my reverie. I cleared my throat and looked my host squarely in the face.

“I forgot to ask you,” I declared. “Did you prefer 30 Rock to Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip before the latter’s cancellation?”

HE’S GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN HIS HANDS…OR, AT LEAST, FRANCE

“I have a fascination with the hyperreal,” commented a young woman at a concert venue in Orlando. She stood beside the merchandise table, disinterestedly browsing the selection of CDs, 12” vinyl records, and T-shirts available for purchase by any comers willing to part with small amounts of hard, green American cash.

“I hear that here, in Orlando, the hyperreal is often mistaken for the real,” I replied. I fidgeted in my seat behind the merchandise table and, ever so gently, adjusted the Trapper Keeper in front of me so that its edge lay perfectly parallel to the edge of the merchandise table itself. This Trapper Keeper contained the well-worn pages of my musical project’s email list.

“Your observation is not a new one,” the woman replied. “Walt Disney’s ubiquitous presence in Orlando has long proven fodder for armchair cultural commentators eager to discuss simulacra and simulation. Orlando, though populated by less than 200,000 people, is the home of Walt Disney World—not California’s lesser, decidedly dilettante-ish Disneyland, but a miniature, fairytale universe where young, wan Midwesterners’ animated dreams are conjured up with dramatic lighting and hidden sound systems blasting bland, vaguely impressionistic neo-classical music.” The articulate young woman lit a thin cigarette. “All for a price, of course,” she added.

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KITES ARE THE VEHICLE BY WHICH MERE MEN SWIPE AT GODLINESS

“I know you!” exclaimed an enthusiastic representative of a Jacksonville, Florida health food retailer.

“Who am I?” I queried.

“You played that show at last night,” the representative explained. “I saw the show.”

“Guilty as charged!” I ejaculated.

“I enjoyed the show,” the representative explained. “But why are you here now?”

“I understand that this health food store is the finest health food store in all of Jacksonville, Flordia,” I retorted. “I am here to purchase breakfast and edible delicacies for my travels.”

“Well, let me show you around the store!” the representative exclaimed, whisking me on a whirlwind tour of numerous grocery-lined aisles. “Here is the produce. And here are the chips. And here are the dips that go with the chips. And here are the beverages. And here are some vitamins and assorted soy protein supplements. And here are the candy bars. And here are some sugar-coated cookies that you might enjoy. And here are the canned soups and microwavable burritos. Are you traveling with a microwave?”

“We forgot our microwave,” I explained.

“Well, no matter,” the representative replied. “Here are some cheeses. And here are some deli meats. And here is the juice bar. And here are the popsicles and ice cream. And here is the suntan lotion. And here are the travel mugs and toothbrushes. And here is the peanut butter. And here are the bulk sugared mango slices. And here are reusable grocery bags. And here is an assortment of magazines which inspire, document, and promote the leading of a healthy, meat and dairy-free lifestyle.”

“Your tour has been thorough,” I confirmed. I regarded the delectable bounty of consumables laid before me for some minutes. My mind turned to the opening chapters of the Old Testament. Had Adam been tempted with this horn o’plenty, I thought, Mankind ne’er would have been expelled from the Garden of Eden for his inability to choose one apple from many.

“Decided on a purchase?” the representative queried.

“After much deliberation, I have selected my purchases,” I declared. “I will buy this banana, this iced tea, and this fortified fruit-and-nut bar.” I deposited my selection of items next to the cash register, where a special was advertised. “Peanut Butter Smoothie,” the advertisement read. “16 oz. for $7.”

“How much is the peanut butter smoothie?” I inquired.

“Seven dollars,” the representative replied.

“Seven?” I asked. “Seven whole dollars for only 16 ounces?”

“It’s organic,” the representative offered.

“I’ll skip the smoothie,” I replied. Would Satan’s apple had cost $7, I thought, Adam ne’er would have been tempted by it.

“I’m glad that we are now finally able to speak,” I informed the representative of a corporation under whose name I hold a credit card. We were communicating via telephone. “I have been on hold for some time.”

“And I, sir, am happy to speak with you,” the representative replied. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Well, my story is a long and sad one,” I explained. “Today, I drove from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, to Athens, Georgia. En route, I stopped at a Mr. Waffle Rest Stop in Cowpens, South Carolina. There, after examining a collection of Confederate flag keychains, I left my wallet bursting with credit cards and over $100 in cash at the cash register. When I arrived in Athens two hours later, I realized my mistake and, after much research into South Carolina area codes, telephoned this Mr. Waffle. A Mr. Waffle representative confirmed that a wallet matching the one I described had been found by a janitor. I then drove two hours back to Cowpens to reclaim my wallet. I spoke to the janitor who had found the wallet and thanked him for his honesty—neither my cash nor my credit cards had been stolen. Though this Good Samaritan tried to turn down $20 I offered in thanks, I forced this reward upon him.”

“Excellent,” the representative commented.

“Yes,” I agreed. “However, during the two-hour drive back to Athens from Mr. Waffle, I began to entertain the possibility that a Mr. Waffle janitor had returned my wallet with the undisclosed intent to use my credit card information on the sly at an undetermined point in the future. The more I considered this scenario, the more ingenious it seemed. What better gentleman to rob than one who does not realize he has been robbed?”

“The scenario you imagine is probable,” replied the credit card representative. “Though no unauthorized charges appear on your card at this time, your card has been compromised. For security purposes, I must recommend that you cancel your card immediately.”

“I thought you might say that,” I replied. “But, you see, I am traveling. In fact, at this very moment, I am calling from my sleeping bag on the floor of a group house where four musicians are sleeping wherever they can under a strange portrait of a lion. I cannot receive a new card in the mail. I do not have the time to locate and visit one of your retail locations. Though my credit card may have been compromised, I need my credit card to pay for traveling expenses.”

“I understand, sir,” replied the representative. “Still, unidentified parties may use your card at any time. Our company cannot protect you.”

“But don’t you see?” I insisted. “The noble janitor who found my wallet didn’t bother my cash and tried to refuse the modest reward I offered. Don’t you think it unlikely that such a unassuming man would be the perpetrator of elaborate credit card schemes?”

“Sir, I have given you my opinion,” the representative observed. “If you have all the answers, why did you call me?”

To this articulate rejoinder, I had no reply.

“This stretch of highway is frequented by state troopers eager to reward travel at illegal speeds with speeding tickets,” my bandmate declared. We were traveling on I-85 south between Petersburg, Virginia, and Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I was behind the wheel.

“Indeed,” I replied. “Once, I got a speeding ticket on this very stretch of highway. The officer who pulled me over informed me that, in North Carolina, one cannot simply admit to a moving violation and pay a fine via mail or Internet. Instead, one must appear in a North Carolina court or pay a lawyer to appear in one’s stead.”

“How, then, did you dispense with your speeding ticket?” my bandmate inquired.

“I was forced to hire a North Carolina attorney,” I confided. “At a cost of $300.”

“Unbelievable!” my bandmate exclaimed. We swapped stories of the numerous speeding tickets we had received and/or dodged through clever ingratiation. Then, we began to discuss car accidents—what car accidents we had witnessed, what car accidents we had escaped, and what car accidents we had caused.

“In July of 1994,” I explained, “I went on a cross-country trip. A friend was driving my Chevy Celebrity station wagon I-10 West in Florida near Tallahassee when he rear-ended another vehicle. This vehicle, in turn, rear-ended the vehicle in front of it, causing a chain reaction of car crashes which resulted in my car insurance rates being hiked. In addition, we had to wait for three days in Lake City, Florida, while the car was repaired. To kill time, we saw Speed, a popular film then in theatrical release starring Keanu Reeves and an unknown actress named Sandra Bullock.”

“Where is Lake City?” my friend queried.

“It’s not important,” I replied, “but Ted Bundy murdered his last victim there.” As soon as the name of this infamous serial killer spilled from my lips, I realized that a North Carolina state trooper had pulled up behind me and turned on his siren. In the name the law, I pulled over to the side of the highway. The state trooper exited his squad car and approached.

“Is there a reason that you were speeding, sir?” the trooper inquired.

“Was I speeding?” I parried, affecting an air of nonchalance.

“Yes,” the officer replied. “You were going 80 miles an hour. The speed limit is 65.”

“Oh,” I murmured. The officer retreated to his car, wrote my ticket, and returned. “You can pay this fine via Internet or phone,” he informed me.

“Really?” I queried, “When I receive tickets in North Carolina, I am accustomed to appearing in a court of law or hiring a representative to appear in my stead.”

“No,” the officer replied. “You need not appear in court.

“Ah,” I said. “North Carolina must have changed the rules.” The officer shrugged and retreated to his vehicle. Once he was out of sight, I threw the ticket in the backseat and turned to my bandmate.

“Sixty in an 85,” I bragged. “Really, that’s nothing.”

Dear Washington City Paper City Desk Blog Enthusiast:

At the risk of ending a sentence with a preposition, I write to inform you, a lover of journalism, of a development that you may be interested in.

In 2007, I utilized my love of language and acerbic wit to report on my extravagant lifestyle as a fabulously wealthy, hedonistic musician touring the European Union and these United States. I return in 2008 with Iceland: Southeastern Edition to document my two-week jaunt through the commonwealths of Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, and Arkansas. I look forward to experiencing postmodern American reality south of Mason-Dixon, and, like the cats pictured above, will pop my head up in these pages over the next two weeks to report on my progress.

If you are interested, I encourage you to stay tuned, read my groundbreaking prose, and, if motivated, comment.

See you soon,

Justin Moyer
Iceland CEO/President

E. Ethelbert Miller is a poet and the director of the African-American Resource Center at Howard University. He is the author of numerous books of poetry and a memoir of fatherhood.

When I contacted Miller about this portrait, we discussed the quality of the natural light in his office.

“Does your office face south?” I asked Miller. “In Washington, D.C., southern windows get good light.”

“My office faces Mecca,” Miller informed me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Which way is Mecca again?”

“I’m just kidding,” Miller said.

“Your guitar is ready for pickup,” a representative of Atomic Music informed me. We were communicating via cellphone.

“Do you mean the Gibson bass I dropped off last week?” I queried. “The yellow Gibson bass with loose electronics, and a possible microphonic problem?”

“Yes,” replied the Atomic representative. “This guitar has been repaired.”

“Excellent,” I replied. “I hear Barack Obama is speaking at the University of Maryland. Though I have lent my support to neither Barack nor Hillary—nor John McCain, for that matter—I am a sometime journalist, and I suspect that this Obama event may prove newsworthy. Though I will be late to the rally, it may be in my interest to attend. Because you are located near the University of Maryland, I can see Mr. Obama speak, then pick up my guitar.”

“Well,” replied the Atomic representative. “Your guitar will be here.”

“Capital!” I exclaimed. I donned a winter coat, exited my home, climbed into my black Toyota Matrix, and pointed the sleek vehicle in the direction of the University of Maryland. The Toyota cut through the crisp February air, a graphite-colored knife through butter. After thirty minutes of competent driving, I arrived at the labyrinthine parking lot of the University’s 18,000-seat Comcast Center. I parked in Lot FF and walked to the grand stairway that adorned the Comcast Center’s façade.

“Here for Obama?” inquired a University security guard. “Line starts three-quarters of a mile back there,” he replied, pointing to a obscure location over a distant hill.

“Is there a press entrance?” I inquired. “You may not realize that I am a member of the press,” I added.

“Press entrance closed already,” the security guard replied. “Where were you?”

“I suppose I was late,” I admitted. Though my whereabouts at any given moment are not really your business, I thought, but did not say.

“Well, you can enter with the general public,” the University security guard offered.

“I do love the public,” I agreed. I walked to where the guard had pointed—down a hill, over a bridge, up a hill, around a dorm, over another bridge, and up another hill—and joined a politicized caravan of bearded College Park students eager to hear Mr. Obama’s message of hope. The front door of the Comcast Center was in sight when an unidentified voice called out.

“They’re closing the door!” I heard. “Run!” The bearded students and I broke into a sprint, pushing forward at all costs to enter the Comcast Center. All sense was lost in the stampede. Backpacks filled with expensive textbooks were tossed aside. The overweight and handicapped fell behind. A half-finished Starbucks latte dribbled into the grass. Then, as suddenly as the mad rush had begun, it ended. I was swept through a glass door, whisked by a cadre of security guards, and thrust up an escalator towards the stadium’s cavernous space. I heard the cheers of the crowd and found a seat. Obama was about to speak.

After all this, I still have to pick up my guitar, I remembered. But has the microphonics problem has been addressed? What will the repair cost?

“I have rented a UHaul to facilitate my move from Mt. Pleasant to LeDroit Park,” my friend informed me on Saturday, February 9, 2008. “Can you you help me move my dresser from my mother’s house to my new apartment?”

“Unfortunately,” I replied, “I cannot immediately accompany you to your mother’s house to facilitate your move. Hillary Clinton supporters are gathering in downtown Mt. Pleasant’s Lamont Park. I plan to observe this gathering.”

“Well,” my friend murmured. “Perhaps you can help me move after the gathering.”

“Of course,” I replied. A few minutes later, I took leave of my friend and walked to Lamont Park. The day was sunny, and unseasonably warm. When I arrived at the Lamont Park gathering, I found few Hillary Clinton enthusiasts in attendance. However, one woman who had declared herself “pro-Hillary” smiled at my approach.

“Go Hillary!” the lonely Hillary enthusiast exclaimed. Signs she carried reflected her pro-Hillary sentiment.

“Hello,” I replied. Few seem interested in this Hillary enthusiast’s cause, I thought.

“Super Tuesday was less than a week ago, but you publicly support Hillary’s cause in this neighborhood,” I continued. “Why has no one shown up to support Obama?”

“Obama’s people are too slow,” the woman replied.

“Too slow,” I repeated. I photographed the lonely woman, recording her lonely image for all posterity, and left to help my friend move. In the future, I thought, I will regard this photograph as proof that Mt. Pleasant did not support Hillary Clinton for President. But how can the political temperature of Mt. Pleasant be taken from a mere photograph? Perhaps 100 people were here rallying in support of Hillary before I arrived. Or, perhaps 100 people will show up to support Hillary five minutes after I leave. The day drew colder, and the sun hid itself behind a cloud. Either way, I concluded, my friend’s dresser will be heavy.

Editor’s Note: Earlier this year, Justin wrote Iceland, a blog about his band’s American tour. Justin isn’t on tour anymore, but Iceland continues, twice a week, on City Desk.

“Good afternoon, sir!” exclaimed the woman at my front door.

“Good afternoon,” I replied. Though it was Saturday, the woman wore her Sunday best and held a pamphlet called “Racial Harmony—Myth or Possibility?” This pamphlet sported a Watchtower imprint. Thus, I intuited that the woman before me was a Jehovah’s Witness.

“Sir, let me ask you,” the Witness inquired. “Have you considered that recent natural disasters—the South Asian Tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, et cetera—are the work of our Creator and a sign of the End of Days?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I have often wondered whether the South Asian Tsunami and Hurricane Katrina were the work of God and signs of the Apocalypse. Who can survey these terrible events and not wonder whether the End is coming? However, I cannot help but observe that you are a Jehovah’s Witness. For this reason, I am unable to listen to your rhetoric at this time. You must understand—I have nothing personal against you. I am in no way ‘anti-Jehovah’s Witness.’ However, I had a memorable experience as a youth which will force our conversation to prematurely conclude. Let me tell you about this experience.”

I inhaled, then exhaled. The Jehovah’s Witness regarded me suspiciously.

“At a very early age,” I continued, “I was taught that I should never to open the door to a Jehovah’s Witness. When I was five years old, a Jehovah’s Witness knocked on my family’s door. I was a helpful child and ran to open the door to the prospective visitor. As my little hand clutched the doorknob, my mother—intuiting that a Jehovah’s Witness sought entry—screamed my name.

“‘Justin!’ my mother shouted. ‘Do not answer that door!’

“‘But mother,’ I replied. ‘The person at the door has already seen me.’

“‘I don’t care!’ my mother screamed. ‘Do not answer that door!‘

“I was an obedient child—I immediately dropped to the floor and scampered beneath the dining room table. The Witness, who had indeed seen me, knocked a second time, and then a third time. Though my instincts screamed ‘Answer the door!’ I obeyed my mother, and slid farther beneath the dining room table. After an eternity, the Witness sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away. My mother crept to the window and peeked outside to confirm that the Witness had gone.

“‘The Jehovah’s Witness has gone,’ my mother informed me. ‘Emerge from beneath the dining room table, but remember this—never answer the door when a Jehovah’s Witness calls. Hide if you must, but do not answer the door!‘”

I inhaled, then exhaled. The Jehovah’s Witness squinted at me.

“So, you see,” I conclued. “I cannot converse with you at this time. The power of my youthful training is, as Freud postulated, all-consuming. I have already violated it by opening the door at all. I will take your pamphlets, though.”

The Jehovah’s Witness gave me her pamphlets and began backing away.

“I will review your pamphlets in my spare time,” I assured the retreating Witness, “and formulate an appropriate response via e-mail. My youthful training did not address e-mail. E-mail was not yet available when I was a youth, but that is another story.”

Editor’s Note: Earlier this year, Justin wrote Iceland, a blog about his band’s American tour. Justin isn’t on tour anymore, but Iceland continues, twice a week, on City Desk.

“I am a musician-cum-U.S. citizen,” I informed a representative of the United States Social Security Administration. I had traveled to the Social Security office at 7820 Eastern Avenue NW to make an inquiry in person. “Next month, I have a show in France. The French promoter informed me that I need to secure a TAJA1 form from my country’s Social Security Office. This form, a.k.a. the S5GA1 form or the ‘Baltimore form,’ serves as proof of exemption from social security taxes. It is from you that I request this treasured document.”

“Hmm,” replied the SSA representative. Without a word, the SSA representative began hunting and pecking on his computer keyboard, navigating the Internet with his PC in search of the mythical TAJA1 form. He searched for thirty minutes as I sat before him. The sound of his clicking and clacking reverberated off of the many flat, shiny, surfaces in the empty Social Security office at 7820 Eastern Avenue NW. I had arrived at the office near the close of the business day, and besides the SSA representative, a security guard, and myself, the office was deserted. No one has ever come into this office asking for a TAJA1 form before, I surmised, and, after I leave, no one will ever come here looking for this form again.

“No one has ever asked for this form before,” commented the SSA representative after 30 minutes, “and I cannot find it.”

“When I first arrived at this office, I was intimidated by you,” I confided to the SSA representative. “I thought you were an all-seeing, all-knowing, Oz-like figure. Now, you are revealed as another hapless bureaucrat in the United States’ peculiarly Soviet Social Security system.”

Five minutes later, I was escorted from the Social Security office at 7820 Eastern Avenue NW by its lone security guard. Because the business day was over, the door of the office was locked. The security guard had to unlock the door to release me from the building.

“The form you seek is an IRS form, not a Social Security form,” the security guard commented as she released me from the building. “You should contact the IRS, not Social Security.”

“But the sources I consulted on the Internet indicated that the TAJA1 was indeed a Social Security document,” I replied.

“Your sources are mistaken,” the security guard replied. “Consider what you seek. You are an entertainer—that is, a private contractor—performing a few shows in France. You need proof that you are covered by US Social Security so that you do not have to pay into the French system. This is an IRS issue—not a Social Security issue.”

“I am blinded by your insight,” I replied, “and wonder aloud why you are employed as a lowly security guard and not as a highly paid SSA representative.”

“Are you kidding?” the security guard replied. “I ask you—would you want to work for Social Security?”

Editor’s Note: Earlier this year, Justin wrote Iceland, a blog about his band’s American tour. Justin isn’t on tour anymore, but Iceland continues, twice a week, on City Desk.

“I hear you write songs about celebrities,” a stranger commented. We were communicating via e-mail.

“It’s true,” I replied. “I have been known to write songs about Martin Sheen and Sigourney Weaver.”

“Consider this,” the stranger replied. “I have written a short story collection centered around Ryan Seacrest, host of the popular American Idol reality series. This book is forthcoming from an independent publisher. In the name of publicity, we would like to contract you to write a song about Ryan Seacrest.”

I am a supporter of multimedia collaboration. For this reason, the prospect of writing a song to help publicize a short story collection excited me. However, I had a problem with writing a song about Ryan Seacrest, the host of the reality program American Idol. I am not against American Idol and have little patience with people who are “against American Idol,” but I have never seen an episode of American Idol. Still, I drafted a reply.

“I’d be happy to write a Ryan Seacrest song for you,” I wrote. “However, you should know: I am a fan of abstraction in art. Thus, I might not actually say the name ‘Ryan Seacrest’ in the hypothetical song I would write for you. Though I assure you that my hypothetical song ‘Ryan Seacrest’ would be good art about Ryan Seacrest, I wish to warn you that it may prove useless for promotional purposes.

“In addition,” I continued, “I would have to get paid something to write the song. My songwriting is build around the model of Andy Warhol’s Factory. As you may be aware, numerous celebrities contacted Warhol for portraits. Warhol painted these portraits for about $20,000 a canvas. If you have $20,000 for ‘Ryan Seacrest,’ please pay me that amount.’ If I cannot get $20,000 for my hypothetical song, word might get around that I am a cheap date.”

I stared at my draft e-mail reply. I am an artist, I thought, and now I will be paid for my art.

After drafting this e-mail, I left my desk without sending it. Later that evening, I watched Rear Window (1954) starring James Stewart and Grace Kelly. I fell asleep during Rear Window. Much later in the evening, I woke up, sat back down at my desk, and re-read my draft e-mail. Then, I reread my draft email again and deleted it. I opened a new mail message.

“I will write ‘Ryan Seacrest’ for $100,” I wrote to the stranger, and pressed “send.”

Editor’s Note: Earlier this year, Justin wrote Iceland, a blog about his band’s American tour. Justin isn’t on tour anymore, but Iceland continues, twice a week, on City Desk.

“Now that the market is down, you may wish to get into the market,” my financial adviser advised. We were communicating via telephone.

“What?” I replied. When my financial adviser had called, I had not recognized her voice because I had been EQing a snare drum. I do not excel at EQing snare drums. EQing a snare drum requires my full attention. Thus, when I am EQing a snare drum, I do not have spare attention to devote to identifying my financial adviser’s voice, especially since, until that moment, my financial adviser had never called me.

“You are familiar with the subprime mortgage crisis?” my financial adviser pressed.

“Peripherally,” I replied. I forego the use of adverbs in one-word replies but, in this case, thought doing so appropriate.

“As you may have read, the subprime crisis is rippling through the globe’s financial markets,” my financial adviser explained. “The NYSE, NASDAQ, Dow Jones, FTSE, and Tokyo Stock Exchange have had us on a roller coaster ride. Housing prices are in the toilet, and September employment reports may prove none too promising. Many traders fear long-term economic recession and, like so many sheep, will be exiting the market.”

“The herd’s flight impulse in understandable,” I remarked.

“Perhaps,” my financial adviser said. “However, it is in your financial interest to go against the herd. Those exiting the market will be parting with their assets at bargain-basement prices. In the long-term, their assets are undervalued. You should take advantage of their fear and, in the long-term, profit from it. What say you?”

I considered my position as an economic actor in the postindustrial economy. I was being presented with an opportunity to buy low, sell high—the hallmark of any profitable economic transaction. Though excited by the prospect of “making a killing,” I wondered about my financial adviser’s motives in contacting me. Though my adviser worked for a corporate firm and would always represent their interests before my own, I did not suspect her of any fraud or foul play. Instead, I wondered why she had become a financial adviser. Had she been motivated by a high salary? Did the unpredictable ups and downs of the global financial marketplace—and the never-ending quest to, against all odds, predict that behavior—captivate her? Did she satisfy some philanthropic urge by helping the irresponsible masses manage their money? Or had she fallen into her current position after a failed career as a cab driver, nurse, CEO, or donut-maker? Yet, I knew my financial adviser only as my financial adviser, and neither of us wished our relationship would grow, mature, or evolve. I could not ask her “deep” questions, and the information I sought remained unknowable.

“I will need some weeks to ponder your proposal,” I replied. Then, I remembered that my financial adviser had recently gone on vacation. “Did you enjoy your recent vacation?” I queried.

Editor’s Note: Earlier this year, Justin wrote Iceland, a blog about his band’s American tour. Justin isn’t on tour anymore, but Iceland continues, twice a week, on City Desk.

“How much are your JBL SF-25 P.A. speakers?” I asked a representative at Chuck Levin’s Washington Music Center (CLWMC). We were communicating via telephone.

“JBL SF-25s are no longer manufactured,” the CLWMC representative informed me.

“Well, that presents a problem,” I explained. “I was once the owner of two JBL SF-25 PA speakers. As you may be aware, these speakers weighed over 100 pounds each. An adult man would be hard-pressed to move one of these speakers.”

“Indeed,” the CLWMC representative concurred.

“Because the JBL SF-25 is so large, I left a pair of them in my car for six months. I thought them too heavy to carry inside, and did not think any thief would bother to steal them. How could one man—or even one man acting with an accomplice—quickly, efficiently, and quietly steal something so large from a car parked on a well-lit city street? If anyone has strength and chutzpah enough to steal these enormous speakers, I concluded, he or she deserves them. And, indeed, an unknown, deserving person did smash my car window and, under the cover of night, steal one of my JBL SF-25s.”

“Unfortunate,” the CLWMC representative remarked. “The replacement unit is the JBL JRX 125—an upgrade of the JBL SF-25. This costs $328.”

“I am on my way!” I exclaimed. Soon, I was in my car, merrily driving to Wheaton. On the way to Wheaton, I passed many malls and boxlike apartment buildings. Many of these structures were erected in the 1960’s and 1970’s. Certainly, Swiss architect Le Corbusier guided the brutal aesthetics of Wheaton’s designers, I thought. A replacement P.A. speaker—like saline solution and unlike a kilo of cocaine—is no fun to buy, but it at least provides an opportunity to evaluate Wheaton’s architecture.

“I am here to purchase the JRX 125,” I informed a CLWMC representative upon my arrival at CLWMC.

“The price is $375,” the CLWMC representative replied.

“I must object,” I objected. “I was told over the phone that the price was $328. There is a $47 difference between these two prices.”

The CLWMC representative frowned. He disappeared to the back of the store and conferred in hushed tones with other CLWMC representatives. He pointed at me. The other CLWMC representatives frowned. He threw his hands up in the air. The other CLWMC representatives shook their heads. He gesticulated wildly. The other CLWMC representatives sighed. After some minutes, the CLWMC representative returned.

“You were told the incorrect price over the phone,” the CLWMC muttered. “But do not doubt that we will honor it.”

“Excellent,” I replied. As he prepared my paperwork, I drifted to the window of CLWMC to again admire Wheaton’s terrifying architecture. Le Corbusier has given us a brutal world, I thought, and we are living in it.

Editor’s Note: Earlier this year, Justin wrote Iceland, a blog about his band’s American tour. Justin isn’t on tour anymore, but Iceland continues, twice a week, on City Desk.

“Before we record your acoustic guitar, it will be necessary to remove all absorbent materials from this dining room,” I informed a friendly local musician. This musician had requested access to my ultra-low-budget home recording studio. I suspect he was motivated by my unbeatable price: $0/hour.

“Why must we move anything?” inquired the musician.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” I replied. “My dining room has marvelous sonic properties. When not being used for dining purposes, this room is ideal for recording acoustic instruments and vocals. The reverb is quite remarkable. I speculate that my dining room is the best-sounding dining room in Washington, D.C., or at least in Ward 1.”

“Marvelous,” commented the young musician.

“Indeed,” I replied. “I first recorded an acoustic guitar in this dining room in the fall of 2000. At that time, I did not dine in my dining room, and my dining room was empty. I was recording with a friend, who commented, ‘Justin, this really is quite a remarkable room.’ Three years later, my friend came back, again to record acoustic guitar. This time, the room was stuffed with furniture—a couch, a desk, and a pile of clothing. Though now functional as a dining room/clothing storage space, the dining room was useless for recording purposes. The couch, the desk, and the pile of clothing absorbed all natural reverb—the very character of my dining room-as-recording studio. When my friend and I listened back to the recording we made, he frowned. ‘Justin, there is too much stuff in this room,’ he observed. ‘You have gone and ruined your dining room.’”

“Tragic,” the young musician remarked.

“Indeed,” I replied. “I find the issue paradoxical. My house is over 100 years old. Before the age of recording, someone designed my dining room to be eaten in. However, as of 2007, I rarely eat in my dining room, and would rather use my dining room for recording. Yet, the very properties which allow my dining room to fulfill its designer’s intent—furniture, tables, chairs, food—make recording impossible, and the very property that makes my dining room perfect for recording—sheer emptiness and reverb—make eating impossible.” I cleared my throat. “So, as the presiding judge in the case of Eating in my Dining Room’ v. Recording in my Dining Room, I rule on recording’s behalf.”

The young musician did not laugh at my remark about “eating in my dining room v. recording in my dining room.” I had intended this remark to be humorous, but had missed the mark.

“OK!” I exclaimed. I walked to one end of my dining-room table. “Can you get the other end of this table so we can move it into the hall?”