MARK
We begin on Christmas Eve with me, Mark, and
my
roommate, Roger. We live in an idustrial loft on
the
corner of 11th Street and Avenue B, the top
floor of
what was once a music publishing factory. Old
rock
and roll posters hang on the walls. They have
Roger's
picture advertising gigs at CBGB's and the
Pyramid
Club. We have an illegal wood burning stove;
it's
exhaust pipe crawls up to a skylight. All of
our
electrical appliances are plugged into one
thick
extension cord which snakes its way out a
window.
Outside a small tent city has sprung up in the
lot next
to our building. Inside we are freezing because
we
have no heat.
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