I rode the bus home from Providence on Saturday night, a day earlier than planned. There were only seven or eight passengers, each of us alone, with at least one row separating each of us and nobody sitting across the aisle from anyone else. We each had our own private bubble. We rode through the darkness along I-95 and it was like being in my own chauffered vehicle. It was wonderful. I ate a sub I’d bought beforehand, then I did a few crossword puzzles, and then, in the darkness, I listened to the last game of the World Series on my Walkman. It was the first time I’d ever listened to a sporting event on the radio and understood what was going on. I felt like

Mason Marzak in “Take Me Out.”

My experience in Providence was not quite what I’d expected. I went there to meet a guy I’d been chatting/talking with for the past two months; we met online in mid-August and had talked on the phone several times since then, and he’d invited me up to Providence to be his date at a dinner on Friday night, sponsored by his former workplace. He used to work at a Franciscan church, so there were several robed friars mingling with the rest of us in our suits and dresses during the cocktail hour. It was a bit surreal.

He was a nice guy, but I didn’t really feel like we clicked. I also met some of his friends, which was a little strange, considering that I’d just met him, too, really. And other than the Friday night dinner, we didn’t have any specific plans, so we kind of wandered around Providence and its outskirts aimlessly. On top of that, I wasn’t feeling all that well, and I was feeling introverted and moody, and I was dreading going back to work on Monday and felt like I wanted a day at home to relax. So I took an 8:00 bus home on Saturday night. He understood completely. We’ll probably stay in touch anyway.

This is all okay, really, because in the last few weeks I’ve gone out on a few dates with a certain someone, and I’ve been having a nice time with him.

In other news, my bank is being bought by Bank of America.

OK. This is too weird. When I was at school in Virginia, my bank was NationsBank. Then NationsBank bought Bank of America and took that name, so my bank became Bank of America. Then I moved back up to New Jersey, and in 2000 I joined Summit Bank. Less than a year later, Summit got bought by Fleet. And now Fleet has been bought by Bank of America. So I’m going back to Bank of America. It’s like I’m caught in this huge banking vortex and I can’t escape. A friend of mine in the banking industry says that someday there’s just going to be Bank of Earth and that’s going to be the end of it.

Incidentally, this site lets you look up any bank, current or defunct, and see what has happened to it. Kinda cool (though it seems to be having some trouble right now).
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Tonight I had my first performance as a member of the Gay Gotham Chorus.

It wasn’t exactly singing, though. We performed this avant-garde piece of music that involved wearing headsets attached to Discmans, and we had to follow the instructions we heard on our discs, most of which consisted of repeating certain lines or phrases. The text of the piece was a transcript of a portion of the McCarthy hearings from the 1950s. There was also weird eerie taped background music. We performed the piece at a venue in Greenwich Village.

And, surprisingly to me, the room was packed.

I felt so New Yorkish, doing this weird avant-garde piece in Greenwich Village. As part of a gay men’s chorus, even.

In other news, I got a new toy yesterday. Hooray! I can finally print things — particularly, lately, crossword puzzles, such as these triple stacks. But presumably other things as well. Anyway, given various discounts, I’m getting it for under $100, which made the purchase even more worthwhile.

Also, tonight I went to the Strand and bought two books: Pafko at the Wall, by Don DeLillo, which was originally published as the prologue to his novel Underworld, and which I’m slightly in the mood for, because it’s World Series season and I just saw “Take Me Out”; and Not Since Carrie, which I bought because I know that Mike has raved about it and because I’ve been in a theater mood lately. (Plus I’m one of the few people who actually saw “Carrie.”) Total for two books, both in hardcover, plus tax: 13 bucks. I love the Strand.

In more news, tomorrow morning I’m going away to Providence, Rhode Island for the weekend. It should be lots of fun.

I’ll write when I get back!

I don’t know if I can accept this. I really don’t.

I looked at the front page of the New York Times this morning, and the headline fonts looked weird. I thought perhaps there’d been a printing error or something.

But no.

The New York Times has gotten a typographical facelift.

If you click on the box to the right of the article beneath “Multimedia,” you can see what the changes look like.

The New York Times has used the same fonts for my entire life, and now they’re changing? Without warning? And even the paper’s famous banner headlines are going to look different?

“Before today’s change,” the article states, “at least six headline typefaces commonly appeared on the front page. That kind of variety was customary for newspapers in the early 20th century, possibly because metal type was too costly and scarce for printers to stock full ranges of size within a family.”

So what? This was a problem? I thought it was always kind of nice and quaint. Now they have to change it?

The new font, Cheltenham, is actually rather elegant. It’s just that I feel like I’m reading the Wall Street Journal or the International Herald Tribune or something. It doesn’t look like the Times.

Oh, I’ll get used to it, just like we eventually get used to everything new. And then one day I’ll see an old copy of the paper, and I’ll think, “Wow, that looks weird.”

When they started printing the paper in color, I liked it. I don’t know if I’m going to like this, though.

Sigh. I’m too young to be a curmudgeon.