Don't Read This.

This dork in corduroy deserves a beating for posting a picture of himself playing the guitar. He probably got one shortly after this photo was taken - for reasons including but not limited to the quality of his guitar playing.

I remember getting in a fight with my girlfriend on the night this picture was taken. Not a fight, but... a long tense nearly silent walk/subway ride home from the venue pictured above. I was being a miserable bastard because I thought I played poorly.

The venue was called Siberia. Fitting, I suppose. I got more or less sent to Siberia shortly afterwards.

This was almost two years ago.

I think Siberia's gone now, which is also fitting, because so is the girl. I don't know if she too was knocked down to make room for a smoothie shop, or if she still stands. It was that kind of ending.

Actually I saw her about two and a half months ago on the street in midtown. She was walking straight at me, crossing Broadway at 56th. And it wasn't one of those, "Oh hey, there's Allison - wonder what she's up to" types of moments. It was one of those, "Oh lord, there's Allison, where are my pills?" types of moments. It had been that long.

In the brief exchange, during which unusually strong wind gusts blew a trash bag over my shoes, not a lot was said. She was taller than I remembered and had on more makeup than usual. I naturally dreaded to think of where she might be headed. So of course I asked her.

"I'm going to therapy," she said. And in that moment I was pleased.

For her. I was pleased for her, I swear. Because I think therapy is good. I don't do it anymore, of course, because I have a blog.

And yet her answer did little to explain why she was wearing high heels and chorus girl makeup. The dread set in again, later, about what kind of man was in her life, namely whether or not he was her therapist. And when I say later, I kind of mean two and a half months later, as I write this now.

I think sometimes about that night I put on my corduroy jacket and played my songs at Siberia, sandwiched in the lineup between two stand-up comics, though no joke in the world could make me laugh after my performance. Eventually Allison and I made up that evening, after the unduly long trek home, followed by two slices at Vinny Vincenz and my Dee Dee Ramone impression. (That always got her.) I think I had just started therapy. I had urged her to do the same while we were going out, because she didn't like to talk about anything. She finally started going over a year after we broke up, and now we don't talk.

Good thing is, I no longer wonder who she's talking to, and only occasionally do I wonder why she doesn't talk to me. Actually, maybe I do wonder more often than I let on, but I'll just have to write a song on the subject. That's really what I'm here for. I just hope I have the foresight to smile in the next photo I put up here.