This entry was removed so that no feelings were hurt.

It was probably the most brilliant thing I have ever written.

Heartfelt, honest, open, sincere. One woman phoned me in tears after reading it. She invited me to her daughter's Bat Mitzvah.

Too bad I had to take this day's entry down.

-Paul

This was an unpleasant night. A night of nerves and shame. At Brownie's, in the East Village. I'll probably replace this entry sometime soon (a week or so from now), so that the involved parties never catch on. Laugh at me now.

"[Friend's name], why are you bringing your guitar? We're going to a show. There'll be guitars there."

"Yes, well, maybe they'll want me to audition for the opening act, or something like that."

"But they don't know you. When are you going to audition?" But you're not the star! Please! Can't we just do something without you having to try for your big break? Why does this night have to revolve around your need to be famous? God, leave the guitar, let's enjoy it, rather than turn it into another one of ten thousand life or death events in which some party could discover your musical genius--it could happen, it could happen, it could happen, it could happen, it could happen.

I'd forgotten why it was so hard to be your friend before. The opening band, called "Scout," you'll end up telling me you love the lead singer, and go over and talk to her, trying to be deep with your guitar on your back. You'll return and say, "I have a real crush on her," telling me things like, "girls are so cute when they grimace in pain while they're singing," and "she's also a video artist." God grant me the serenity to accept the friends I cannot change.

You want to be on that stage so bad. I feel for you. It seems to be all you want, more than peace or progress. And you have hair on the tip of your nose, which I can't even deal with. I'm only seeing the hair. How the hell did that happen? How did my best friend from high school grow hair on the tip of his nose?

After the next band plays its set, the wife of the lead singer takes your address and says, "I promise I'll call you." You believe her. She sees your true value. The wife of your hero, in an empty club on Avenue A. You are so excited. You call me "brother." Everyone in the world is on your side. You are blessed.

But right now, we haven't even left the apartment. I'm mortified at the guitar on your back. You say:

"So what, I introduce myself to [the name of the lead singer]. Ask if they need me to play for the next show. Sing them a song. Maybe this is my break, Paul. You never know. Besides, what's it to you? And is it okay if I stay until Friday?"

I survey my one room apartment, realizing that his bed is inches from mine, feet almost touching, I say "yes." After all, we've been friends for 12 years. But I vow not to buy you dinner anymore.

Goodbye, week. Goodbye, Subway Diary. You 50 steady readers, accept my apologies. Please come back soon, in a day or two, when I get myself back. So you know, I'm planning on these exciting entries:

• Soulless Bookstores in New York
• More from Caroline Sobachevsky, Army Chanteuse, and her young lover Bill
• Amusing ministers with things on their be-robed minds
• and many, many more lies!

In the meantime, I came home at 12:15 to see him slouched on the futon. In the bathroom, the toilet is deeply clogged from something he's done. I wrote this in 30 minutes. It's 1 AM. Now, I return to my plunger, then stand in the shower and burn off the day, and following that, to sleep.