MENTAL GEARS GRINDING

Getting into mental gear, that was what today was about. That was after I had a snippet dream that my parents were driving an all-leather car. My brother David convinced me to get in. I was wary. And what was my dad doing alive? It was a station-wagonish car. David was excited. He wanted me to see something. It was my little brother, Carl, who I knew to be dead. He looked as he did as a little boy, with a blackened tooth, a big smile, and a desire to be pleasing. He wanted me to be happy he was there. I was uncomfortable and crying and wanted to get away. As if looking at him for too long, knowing that he was dead, would hurt in some way. Then the alarm went off again.

I worked today. I'm glad as there was a bit to do to get my "live-action producer" data-set closer to the surface of my pea brain. I have been so used to skyping and typing in my jammies for most of the the last couple of jobs, that showing up and off was a bit of an astringent. I did fine, even if I were blinking in the stress glare internally.

Also, being in the city can be so much fun. I am there so rarely, even more so in the Garment District that I saw it with fresh eyes.

I don't know if she knew I was photographing her, but it sure looks like it.

Readers.

A whole store devoted to ribbons.

Beautiful.

Deco gorgeousness.

1400.

They've closed off 6th Avenue.

Right in the middle of the street.

Old garment district New York. Love the sign.

Well-dressed tourists in the garmet district.

People did look nicer than in some areas.

Making the city livable?

Glimpse of the Empire.

Tawking.

Tired.

I am still getting emails about the job so I best go attend to them and try to get some sleep. Can't do my night owl thing tonight. And Cooder is wanting pets.

RECALCITRANT REFRIGERATOR

It really must be a side-effect of alcohol. After a couple of days of grumpiness, I woke today with no external changes, but in a good mood, feeling hopeful and productive about the world. Maybe it was the rain last night, washing me psychically clean. A comfortable, almost leisurely night's sleep (a true nocturnal rarity) followed by an ambient summer mid-morning. Breezy with cicadas buzzing, even here in Brooklyn.

Salted caramel scoop on top, belgian chocolate

The grumpiness was anxiety tinged with a bit of fear. The unemployment is running out and I am still struggling with the major resume overhaul. As many people know, worrying about their day to day well-being, not even well-being, okay-being, takes a toll. We dreamy creative American types ...

Iron forge, CT.

Well, that train of thought was thoroughly lost. 

Nice bricks, right?

Later that same day:

Saturday night's alcohol consumption affected my ability to photograph.

The Connecticut Junket 2 was postponed for a better day. Out of the blue, I got a telephone call about a one-day live action producing gig, which will be fun (?) if it happens. Just to relive the excitement of having a telephone call asking about my availability was a rush. 

I used to make a lot of music mixes. That was my main hobby. For many years I have been associated with an amazing group of folks who make phenomenal mixes. I've heard a lot and learned ever more. 

(Old mixes can be seen here . New site, more mixes: here and here.) 

But I have several that were almost finished, some of them being gifts. Don't get me wrong, I am thoroughly absorbed and content while prepping mixes, but the responsible part of me goes to a different apartment or something. At any rate, I was sidetracked into finishing the notes, compressing, uploading, and all that kind of stuff. Kept me occupied for hours. And that's why I don't do it so much anymore. Or as often. 

I have important things to do, learn html for instance. That refrigerator will not clean itself, no matter how long I have wished it to.

LINT ROLLER

For those of you who have asked what I am working on besides the writing projects and keeping myself moving forward, here is an article about the application I am now working with. You can check out the pages I am working on here. Given that I am a lint roller for information, you can imagine how much fun this can be for me. As I observed to BdG, too bad I am not hitting the cocktail party circuit anymore (as if I ever did) as I am chockfull of information about Southeast Asian archaeology (a Philippine church just got made a national landmark), the Middle East is crazy with looters (Turkey is cracking down big time), some Baroness educator in England pissed off the entire country with her caustic, off-the-cuff remarks about autism (that was before London started burning), etc., etc. I wish trivial pursuit were more about information than about entertainment ...

This structure from the 1770s was built on the site of an iron forge. The forge came later.

View from kitchen.

Farmhouse kitchen windows.

Back door plus B's windows.

Tomorrow evening, Louise and I are heading up to Connecticut to work with Jason and Steve Ellis (graphic novel artist extra-ordinaire) on Monsterwood. I will likely be able to write. 

TRAVELOGUE NOT PHILOSOPHY

A sweet, productive day, 'though the dreggging effects of extra-alcohol over the weekend likely contributed to the palest of blues. That and the continued bad economic and political news. Trying to figure out how to get a job as the economy slides slides slides is not exactly cheerful and energizing work. No matter. No excuses. it must be done.

We did see the faint but clear signs of the coming of autumn: some red poison ivy ( I think it was poison ivy) and a single tree turning. This photo is only red because of Hipstamatic filter.

Red Rooster Drive-in, Brewster, NY.

B and I stopped on Route 22 in Brewster on our way up. I didn't quite get around to eating dinner. We ate at the Red Rooster here. As B pointed out, only fast food in restaurant appearance as it was neither inexpensive nor fast. But it was tasty enough. Plus, I called the Alcotts, who live nearby. We all sat on the picnic benches for a laugh. B, Em, Mart, and I shared a chocolate malted milkshake.

On the way home, we stopped at a little waterfall park in Kent. I have rarely seen such a manicured, landscaped park, particularly in the countryside. B remarked it looked quite English, which is so very Connectict.

We stopped for a pulled chicken sandwich at the traditional stopping place, Mr. W's in Wingdale, New York. Quite defensible barbecue. And quite reasonably priced, too. Although the coleslaw did not stand up to Shelby's bleu cheese coleslaw in Schroon Lake. 

I realize that none of this is very philosophical nor in keeping with the original mandate of the blog. No insights here, just some travelogue. Which is not because I am not musing or thinking. I am not in any "definitive" philosophical place. Besides my dismay at politics, I am thinking about love and work. And aging. 

Oh, and learning some html. Watch out.

VIVA LAS CONNECTICUT

 The weekend was fun. Mostly B and I had the farmhouse to ourselves. Yesterday, Saturday, we drove around Connecticut. A lot of it appeared to be white and rich. Who buys all those expensive housewares and overpriced antiques? It was very picturesque. We found a tag sale and an estate sale and came away with a couple of treasures.

New Preston coffee shop.

NIce flowers

Nothing new here.

OUT ON THE TOWN

Sculpture at Max Fish. Kind of looked like Elvis in drag.

 Inasmuch as I like the iPhone, it does run low on the battery much more quickly than I would expect. As I was at a Career Circus (!) yesterday, and then out on the town after, thinking that my cell phone would work all day might have been naive. Bums me out a bit that I have to think about dragging the charger materials around with me. But so be it.

SC and I walked around the East Village. So many bars, so few that look inviting. I prefer a bar that is on the quiet side. And, of course, I don't expect it to be to expensive. We tried to get into Pulino's but it was a crowded noise palace when we first stopped by. SC said it felt like a Nine Inch Nails song. The hostess said it would quiet down soon. Max Fish being close by and an utterly non-SC kind of place, not to mention semi-historical and soon to be relegated to Jeremiah's Vanishing NY, we decamped in that direction. Marin County needed him some East Village funk.

I guess that overpainted, graffiti, piss-infused New York is disappearing (duh), at least on the island of Manhattan. (Billyburgh is likely another kettle of fish.) For CBGB mode on the little island, Max Fish's is still in the game.

Yadda yadda yadda. Watery drinks at Max Fish. Lots of good people watching. Wander back to Pulino's where, indeed, it is far quieter and winding down. We sat at the bar, had excellent drinks prepared by a skilled mixologist, and decided to call it a night before today would be a guaranteed disaster.

I rarely take the subway at that hour ... whatever hour it was ... 12:30 or 1:00. The subway was packed. And a whole different kind of person and vibe. It was fun. Wish I had more juice on my camera. The fellow holding the bag there was drinking out of it. Some revellers were laughing hysterically. Just kind of fun.

Off again to Connecticut for the weekend. There may be radio silence here.

EVOLUTION OF THE GRUMP STUMP

We were all getting out of Rick's VW van in front of Margaret's house when the eggs broke. Manuel was so pissed ... well, I think Manuel, David, and Rick might have spent the night in the van so that can make a person kinda cranky. Manuel started repeating " Fuckin' Varnum and his fuckin' eggs. Fuckin' Varnum and his fuckin' eggs." It was 1978 and we were all going to the Bread And Roses Concert at the UC Berkeley Hearst Theater.

Rick had what looked to us like gunslinger cool. His response was merely, "Who woke up on the grump stump this morning?"

I think I did. No real reason to be grumpy except for misplacing the keys to upstairs and maybe being a little tired from last night's fun and indulgence. It's probably how I express anxiety to some degree. I have my Job Circus tomorrow. Going out in public, having to look and act like a grown-up power maven that everyone wants to hire is always trying for me. And I still haven't settled on what I am going to wear. I hope I have something "sandal-ish" and appropriate. When you are doing the un/der/employment/pajama-worker shuffle, you don't need too many shoes.

Besides the performance anxiety, I spent 90 minutes trying to get my various email personas working on the three Apple products I use. IT is tough stuff. I had been spoiled by working around folks who had done enough head-banging and knew their way around. Now I have to face frustration, failure, and not a clue what to do.

However, in this case, I prevailed. Email working on platforms, and I have an inkling of the different between imap and smtp. So there.

The Bread and Roses show was amazing, by the way. I don't recall what we ended up doing for breakfast, though.

THIS WILL HAVE TO DO

Just couldn't do it last night. A dear old friend, SC, was in town from Marin County and wanted to see Brooklyn. I took him over to Prospect Park where Sufjan Stevens was playing a concert at the Bandshell (not a three dollar show). I even let him see the Secret Fortress although it is not up to visitors at the moment. SC is a music fan, so I had to share the cd collection. After a yummy dinner at Scalina followed by chocolate and wine at Chocolat Bar, I was likely to be ramblin' more than writin'.

New York summer fashion is something to behold. I hadn't been on the subway for awhile, so the colors and all popped out at me. There's a lot of flesh around.

Every picture is worth a thousand words?

A RED VW BUG

"No comment" is not a very articulate daily entry. Today was a day. Hot? Check. Muggy? Check? A continuation of the politican/American nightmare? Check?

Motivation and progress were not easily achieved today. Some happened. Some didn't.

I am having unsettling dreams, nightmares I wake myself from. One had to do with moving, my favorite belongings packed into a VW bug, one that was that slightly orangey red. My favorite belongings were stolen, the car was empty. I woke myself up, but I have yet to shake the feelings of an unthinkable loss.

I'm still sleepy, as I have been all day, after a fitful night and stressful dreams. The restless dreams continued during my short afternoon nap.

Maybe there is something to be completed in dream land?

STAYING ON/THE COURSE

Another long, hot, summer day. The humidity rolled in and out in waves today. Or maybe I just paid attention some times more than others. The keyboard is all smudgy from sticky fingers. Or congealed sweat? I know that sounds disgusting, but I am not sure how to otherwise account for the dinge.

Although I am in a good enough mood, there is certainly more than enough shit to go around out there. If it were not seditious and treasonous, I might suggest that the US Government needs to dispense with all the current lawmakers and politicians and start the hell over. 'Tis not the nature of men, I know. All of them seem to be out of their fuckin' trees, to use the technical terms.

And so I patiently wait and wonder if I will be getting my unemployment check to pay for rent next week. I did my internet research, resume writing, and job hunting today, faithfully moving forward. Gosh. The entire nation, maybe the world is in "AA-One Day at a Time Mode." As I sit here and muse, I do not believe those folks in DC are wrangling for the greater good.

Is cynicism about American politics even possible?

I'm working on a specific oldies mix. Odd to listen to the Eagles, Bowie, Elton John ... and remember the innocence, hope, and energy I/we had as twenty-somethings.

After a day spent working, mixing, and (re)writing, I find I am rather out of thoughts. Staying on/the course is not easy/

SOME KIND OF HEAVEN (REDUX)

There was almost a mini-war, a skirmish. Do I stay home and watch the end of the first season of Battlestar Galactica or do I venture into the crowds at the Prospect Park Bandshell (a mere block from my apartment) to see if I can snag a good seat for Dr. John? One would think there would be no contest. Entropy and inertia run deep in my bloodlines and it took an effort to get out of the house. Music versus couch potatosity.

I knew Dr. John was playing this summer and although I had some of his cds and admired him, did I really want to get out there and get finagaling? Early in the week, I had stumbled across Toni Price's song, Remember Me (it's an .aiff file so it will take awhile to download) with Dr. John literally tickling the ivories. His playing was perfect, understated yet providing texture, tone, and sweetness. Yeah, he has a solo on this tune, but his support, his exquisite timing, kicks up Toni’s vocals and makes the song.

I mean, how much inertia can I let myself get away with? By the time I woke up from my nap, the show had begun (two other bands). Getting a good seat would not be a simple matter.

It was hot tonight, and even hotter in the crowd. Many happy, drunk, and generally bodacious Brooklynites wandered and boogied in the aisles. I saw my future self sitting in one of those very comfortable fold-up chairs reading the Sunday Times Magazine while waiting for Dr. John. I bought my wine allowance (one glass) and surveyed the seated crowd. After all those years of weaving through the crowd to stand at the feet of Jerry Garcia, I can still suss out the most direct route to where I can hear and see the best.

Nice. I spied what I expected was an empty seat about 13 rows from the stage. Excellent choice. Right in front of the sound booth, too, so the sound ought to be good. I wafted down the aisle, shaking and shimming to Chuck Brown as I checked out the other denizens of Aisle 13. Did that backpack belong to someone on a beer/piss/food run or was it being saved … for me? The man adjacent to my future seat, took a walk. I stopped him to ask about the missing occupant. He did not know, but thought perhaps it was being saved for someone. I looked for back-up. And then, during the set-up for Dr. John, I just decided to just take a load off. You know, the bad knee thing.

A New Orleans night sky, cottony clouds moved, but not very quickly. The air was hot and sticky with a cooling right beneath it, more of a teasing heat than a punishing one.  The crowd near my seat was replete with music lovers, trading stories about shows, bits of trivia about this and that band. The p.a. played Rehab, and there was a collective sad sigh about Amy. Knowing nods and solemn shaking of heads. Aretha’s Respect and Rock Steady followed. A good omen. As the lights went down, the crowd lit up. Yum. The sweet smell of mary jane lilted the heavy air. I'm blowin' away ...

There are musicians who are performers and there are performers who are musicians. Dr. John is a musician who performs. His look, his vibe, his story are all amusing and engaging. But the man and his band are there to PLAY. Tight, intelligent, with a masterful groove.

I made the right choice.

He opened with If It Ain’t Got That Swing (much better than this). The grand piano and old-school organ (sorry, I can’t identify those very easily) were face to face. Dr. John would sometimes straddle the bench, left hand playing piano lead, right hand salting the mix. Mostly, though, he played piano with the narrative drive found in the finest guitar players.

My favorite lead players (Richard Thompson, Jerry Garcia, a young Eric Clapton etc) write their stories in notes, the carefully chosen repetition, the variation that builds, the next note that deepens the story. Just as my favorite authors chose the length of their sentences, their phrases colored with the right words, the flashes of insight that reveal both a compelling journey and a deeper truth about something.

I should have known something was up when I saw a white Les Paul neatly plugged in and ready to go. This being New York, just about anyone breathing might show up. But who showed up was Dr. John, guitarist. Turns out he played both until some kind of shooting accident (?) made him unfit for guitar playing. I could scarcely believe it was he. I kept looking over at the lead player (John Fohl, check him out) to make sure the Doc wasn’t faking. Lead guitar’s loss, the Dr. had something to be heard wherever he puts his attention (and fingers).

Another hallmark of a real deal musician is the band he puts together and how they play. These folks were not just here for the do-re-mi. Although the trombonist was not particularly impressive, the rest of the band jammed in the mother groove, a delight to behold and absorb. The elements of the summer night, led by The Night Tripper, held us all.

A kind of heaven.


Right Place, Wrong Time. (And one with Clapton and the Dr.)

Addendum: Doc also played Love for Sale. Check out this version from In A Sentimental Mood. It has some wacky New-Orleans-meets-Lalo-Schifrin-vibe. 

SOME KIND OF HEAVEN

There was almost a mini-war, a skirmish. Do I stay home and watch the end of the first season of Battlestar Galactica or do I venture into the crowds in the park to see if I can snag a good seat for Dr. John? One would think there would be no contest. Entropy and inertia run deep in my bloodlines and it took an effort to get out of the house.

I knew Dr. John was playing this summer and although I had some of his cds and admired him, did I really want to get out there and get finagaling? By the time I woke up from my nap, the show had begun (two other bands). Getting a good seat would not be a simple matter. But I had listened to Toni Price's song, Remember Me (it's an .aiff file so it will take awhile to download) and his playing had reminded me of how great he is.

It was hot tonight, and even hotter in the crowd. But it was the kind of hot and sticky that had a cooling right beneath it, more of a teasing heat than a punishing one. I bought my wine allowance (one glass) and surveyed the seated crowd. I spied what I expected was an empty seat about 13 rows from the stage. Nice. Right in front of the sound booth, too, so the sound ought to be good. After stalking the seat during the second band, watching to see if anyone was sitting there, I decided to just take a load off while the band set up.

Excellent choice. After all those years of weaving through the crowd to stand at the feet of Jerry Garcia, I can still suss out the most direct route to where I can hear and see the best. And what a great show. There are musicians who are performers and there are performers who are musicians. And this band was the real deal. Exquisite musicianship, a tight band, and a perfect vibe for a hot summer night.

The clouds in the night sky were cottony. And there was the sweet smell of mary jane wafting around pretty much through the whole show. Kind of heavenly. And who knew Dr. John could play guitar? When he started playing playing, I immediately thought that he played piano the way I like guitarists - a clear narrative line that takes me on a little mental journey, gives me an insight into how the guitarist thinks. What does s/he have to say? You know how much you enjoy how your favorite writers think about things, how they use words. Dr. John's "voice" was equally clear on piano and guitar. Damn straight.

Right Place, Wrong Time. (And one with Clapton and the Dr.)