I wrote a little fiction piece awhile back, a story about a trip out to Long Island, to the Amityville Horror House. The real story of my own trip out there is far less interesting, but no less distraught—though in an entirely different way.

I must have been eighteen or so, maybe even nineteen, smoking weed, doing nothing with my life. I don't why it became a good idea to drive a couple of hours out to Long Island to find this house, but it did. Usually we went to 'the diner,' a fluorescent-lit travelers' respite, a blue and white Formica oasis right off I-95. We spent hours upon hours in that place, sitting in a booth, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, taking about nothing, everything. The state of the world. The evil corporate empires. Our latest musings on Basic Instinct....

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