“In real life they’d be like, no I’m sorry you cannot get your backpack or your bear.”—Christine, in response to what would really happen in “Sleepless in Seattle” at the climax at the Empire State Building..
Sometimes folks are epic, Laura Smith is one such. This article forgets to mention how excellent she is at convincing ice skating rink attendants to give discounts, explaining the finer points of beer to people who have ever only had Natty Ice, and building houses out of boxes in the rain.
“I mean…I guess she has some inflections…like at commas.”—
Logan at Sugar Diner at 1 am, about Twilight or not, I was concentrating on eating his french fries. This was after we bonded with Drew the counter guy over the fact we all wanted to be Atreyu or have Falcor in A Neverending Story.
On that note, tonight was a long overdue evening spent in the company of many sexy stellar dudes.
"Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in, are you aware of the shape I’m in?"
A big thank you to old and new friends and iced coffee weather and the sunny spots and Sufjan on the playlist at Gorilla coffee when I don’t know what I’m doing. Sincerest apologies to those strangers, lovers, and acquaintances I gave inappropriate nicknames to last night (“Greater than Falafel”? “The Youngster”? “Yo Donkey!”?) . Even when I am awkward and unruly and fumble I am still blinded by how blessed I am and how little I know about what we are part of.
Also, what about asking to buy a pretzel or hat means “I want to marry you”? Apparently I have many betrothed on the streets of New York. From the 17 year old in Bay Ridge who yelled “I’ll wait for you” as I backed out of the store, to the 60 something yr. Egyptian guy who proposed and told me I looked like his daughter in the same sentence.
So I got handed a comp ticket to Amanda Palmer tonight because of a harmonica-ist friend Shaky Dave who was playing for my buddy Flanagan Smith who I recorded Hard Times with on his album both of whom I met at Rockwood Music Hall when I was singing a duet with my friend Caleb Stine who I met when I played at Bar 4 with my other band Wendy & Bells who I met when I was working at Henry Street licking stamps to send tickets to the Annual Art Show to Bernard Madoff (true story). None of this required waking up before noon. Except for the Madoff part of course.
So I went a-rehearsing in Kensington with a banjo slinging buddy Owen. That was snazzy.
Erstwhile, heretofore, and meanwhile back at the ranch, the Mad Men finale used REAL HISTORY and henceforth WINS AT LIFE. I was sitting on my sofa eating an apple saying “Oh no they di’n’t! Oh no they DI’N’T!”.
Our taxi driver the other night prompted a really inspiring explanation from one Mr. Dan Romer about how albums can get made in living room nowadays, after Mr. Holden explained working his ass off during the summer touring and recording so he could get a visa to come back. At first Mr. Taxi seemed a little shocked by the notion, then seemed to approve of the craziness of it all. Then he told us he’d been there since 1988. We asked if he had a family. Yeah. Here? No, in India, two kids aged 13 and 6. Do you see them at all? Yes, he said. How? He works 4 months then goes home for 4 months. Been doing so since 1988.
I was suddenly impressed there on Flatbush Ave with that Kerouac quote about the only real people being the mad ones.
This week is gonna be crazy and awesome. So much stuff is happening I’m not even gonna try to control or predict it. I’m just gonna take vitamins. I don’t want to contract Young Poets Disease. Got a few years to ahead of me before Young Musician’s Demise or Young Actor’s Doom prove a real risk.
With all that in mind, one thing for sure is happening, that is me, playing songs, for people, with Mike Multari on bass and Christina Picciano on drums and possibly a banjo (who knows) and my friends The Collectors doing the same. We’ll get a little misty eyed and a little rowdy at Bar 4 on Thursday 11/12 at 9. We’ll be as sweet as we can manage.
444 7th Ave
Mercy Bell - 9pm
The Collectors - 10pm
Foozeball and drinking - forever and ever
Kinda knew the night was gonna go well when “Time To Pretend" came on before the concert at the Fillmore, making it the 3rd time I randomly heard it that day. And the girl in the bathroom complimented my unkempt hair. Um, thanks I didn’t do anything?
Later, post Fillmore waiting in the restroom line at Rockwood, several other musicians and I formed The Bathroom Club band and bragged about who would be fastest. I commented on how long the person in there was taking. Mr. Bathroom Club #1 said someone was probably doing cocaine. I said Rockwood Music Hall was too classy. He said that made it cooler.
But, guess what, the fastest way to clear a restroom line is to have two guys come out of the single-serve bathroom at once. My Bathroom Club had dispersed faster than you could say “Lysol”.
How should we be able to forget those ancient myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.
There was some weird, draining stuff that happened that threw it askew.
But how about the shiny stuff, like: Allison Weiss & Lauren Zettler’s Pumpkin Jam and the ten dozen rad people who went to a diner after; Jenny’s gnome costume delivery; discussing falafel-waffle possibilities with Steve; pre-gaming at Nick’s apt and having random friends popping in; Carlos playing the piano between DJ sets at the Greenpoint Catholic school; the fact there was a party there at all; the kids with shakers and tambourine and my harmonica on the L train; Sabrina showing up outside my door from Boston at 3 AM.
Still, I woke up today exhausted and empty and a little crazy with a sore elbow and a skull and crossbones on my arm.