Back at my desk in the fruit stand that I frequent most often. It is Thursday, February 19 2026. I’ve been listening to the Cocteau Twins a lot lately. A few weeks ago, I was offered a chance to load whatever Amazon playlists I had to my YouTube Music account. It wasn’t as good an idea as I hoped, as there was a lot of mislabeled crap that contained things that I owned, but the playlists were not worth it, so I have been deleting every now and then.
I met Liz and Robin years ago when the wonderful Stan Bogdansky brought them to Maxwell’s. I was trying to be cool and asked a few questions about Colourbox, who were label mates to the Cocteau Twins on 4AD. I was more than likely annoying.
And of course Cocteau Twins reminds me of Jet Watley, gone more years than when he was alive.
I am also taking online classes that I’m not paying much attention to as part of the staffing agency that placed me at the fruit stand, and how they are trying to get their fingers into my life, for which I greatly resent them.
I am home now. Eyelids heavy. I nodded off at work once or twice. Just for a few seconds. A closing of my eyes. It could be from the cutback on my coffee consumption. That’s what I like to think. I don’t think it’s anything worse than that, and it makes sense. To me, at least. I probably would have done that on the train home, but I was standing, and that would have been risky.
Bill is still below the Mason-Dixon line, and Mike is on the couch. I am here once again in front of the computer screen, typing. The Watchmen series is on, and I hoped Mike would have been into it, but he’s looking at his phone, and I can’t compete with that. I have been watching intermittently for the past few hours intermittently, so I am guilty as well.
Mike actually called out my hypocrisy a few weeks ago, saying my looking at the computer is the same as him looking at his phone. I countered by saying that the smartphone is held in your hand, and I am somewhat disconnected from the computer. I’m not holding it, and it’s not controlling me. Or is it?
And it’s later than I realized, so I am typing close to my bedtime. Not that it’s a problem, it isn’t. I’m taking it slow and easy. Tomorrow might just be a slow and easy kind of day. Don’t want to say too much about it now, but I suppose I will tomorrow. So you might just have to wait for this here blog tomorrow.
If you waited from 2014 to 2024, then you might just have to wait a few hours, which is not so bad after all. And I’m sure you waited…
And it is almost time for me to take it down, meaning, go to bed.
A Google Gemini rewrite as a David Sedaris essay
Gemini said
The Fruit of My Labor
It is Thursday, February 19, 2026, and I am back at my desk inside the fruit stand. It’s the one I frequent most often, which suggests I have a choice in the matter, though in reality, it’s more like a recurring dream I can’t wake up from. I was placed here by a staffing agency that has recently decided it wants to be my primary caregiver. They’ve enrolled me in a series of online classes—the kind where a very cheerful woman in a blazer explains “workplace synergy” while I stare at a bruised nectarine. I resent them for it, of course. There is something deeply invasive about a company that finds you a job among produce and then demands to know how your “professional growth” is coming along.
Lately, the soundtrack to my resentment has been the Cocteau Twins. This is the result of a disastrous digital migration. A few weeks ago, YouTube Music offered to ingest my Amazon playlists, a process I imagined would be seamless and sophisticated. Instead, it was like inviting a hoarder to organize your sock drawer. It’s mostly mislabeled “crap”—songs I already own, filed under names I don’t recognize—and so I spend my afternoons deleting them, one by one, a digital janitor in a room full of pears.
Hearing Elizabeth Fraser’s ethereal warbling always takes me back to the night Stan Bogdansky brought Liz and Robin into Maxwell’s. I remember trying quite hard to be the sort of person who knows things. I asked several pointed questions about Colourbox, their label mates on 4AD, and I’m certain I was excruciating. I have a gift for being annoying in the presence of people I admire; it’s a defense mechanism that ensures they’ll never want to see me again.
The music also brings up Jet Watley, who has now been dead for more years than he was ever alive. It’s a strange math, the way the absence eventually outweighs the person.
I am home now, and my eyelids are heavy. I nodded off at work today—just once or twice, a brief shuttering of the world. I’d like to blame my reduced coffee intake. It feels more dignified than admitting I’m simply boring myself to sleep. I would have nodded off on the train, too, but I was standing, and there is a specific kind of social shame reserved for the man who collapses into a puddle of canvas tote bags on the 6:15.
Bill is still below the Mason-Dixon line, and Mike is on the couch. I am back at the computer, typing, while Watchmen plays on the television. I had hoped Mike would be captivated by it, but he is staring at his phone with the intensity of a diamond cutter. I can’t compete with a five-inch screen.
When I pointed this out, Mike called me a hypocrite. He argued that my staring at the computer is no different than his staring at his phone.
“The smartphone is held in the hand,” I countered, as if explaining a complex theorem to a child. “I am disconnected from the computer. I am not holding it. It is not controlling me.”
I said this while sitting in a chair, staring at the screen, typing exactly what it told me to.
It’s late now, nearing my bedtime. Not that it matters. I’m taking things slow and easy. Tomorrow promises to be a slow and easy kind of day, though I’m not ready to divulge the details yet. You’ll have to wait. If you managed to wait from 2014 to 2024 for me to say anything at all, surely you can manage a few more hours. I’m certain you were on the edge of your seats that entire decade.
It is time to take it down. By which I mean, I am going to bed to dream of staffing agencies and the correct way to spell “Colourbox.”