I met Norman on Wednesday night. A few people read about how, in the ’90s, they encountered class sharply. Norman read about the peculiar courting of punk bands by record labels in the mid-’90s, which I sometimes worry is myth—it is so confused and absurd it seems to separate neatly from history and join a cloud. Maura decoded the hipster in 1999, online, of course she did. Afterward there was karaoke, so I drank whiskey gingers as if they were poems about America. I sang “Hunger Strike” with Nick. I was Chris Cornell. I smelled burning for an hour.