2003-03-10 - 12:22 a.m.

Some things feel famous, like Friday, or the train coming. A girl smiling at you in a bar, or passing by on the street, a brush with fame.

Listening to an awesome song. A perfect one, among many, but being it, clich�s be damned, and fuck how many times you�ve heard it.

That stupid coffee shop on Somerville Ave, that�s been around for months and still doesn�t have ice, sitting, for the moment, on found furniture, with the whole day ahead to enjoy or blow, and if blown, who cares?. With daylight on the side of the just, knowing that you�re a good person, with noble ideas that at the very least work on paper.

I feel famous when I�m with my girl, drinkin a gloomy Bud at Shay�s, but just one and out, with still more day ahead. On Tuesday, I�ll read in the paper quotes of what I said today. Someone will soon have a developed amateur picture of me and the Roommate standing on the corner of Kirkland and Quincy.

I wouldn�t mind trading traps with the actual famous. And yes, I�d still complain. I�d develop a juicy compendium of things that annoy.

I don�t think it would any longer include folks cutting their nails on the train.

But for now, I�ll just feel famous when I can--a break needin� actor in a TV commercial dubiously and dutifully documenting the trendy--every time I go to a good show, or have a great weekend, or see a friend I haven�t seen in some time. Or get a good e-mail. Or do something I�m meant to do--I can smell the incense of grungy princesses, and I can almost feel that punch in the chest of catching that football from the awesome merciful dude-buddy I've been waiting for.