It was a pleasure to play with such talented and exciting bands—All Rattle & Dust and Overlord. “This is one show that I’m really happy to be a…
search
At the show, there were—no kidding(!)—five people who came over and complimented me on this here blog. I was flattered. One was Josh Gladstone who said he was surprised to learn that he was the first to buy Todd’s At Work CD. And, patting his pant pocket, he added: “I’ve already got it in my iPod.” Another was Mike C., of Hoboken Rock City, who keeps a blog of his own and frequently sends out fun podcasts.
I was in bed for what felt like five minutes (it was actually five hours) when the little alarm clock let loose its hybrid buzz-chirp: 7am, time to wake up. I stumbled into the bathroom, my mind filled with thoughts of the previous night at Maxwell’s. The fluorescent white light above the cracked mirror blinked on and off for a couple of moments before steadying itself, reminding me of the camera bulbs that flashed while we were on stage. I heard myself think: “We’ll never play a bad show again. That’s all behind us now.”
By 8am, Bagheera was finally just dipping into her food…
So, I arrived at home (I mean, at Wes') one night, and decided to take John DeVore's advice about popping a CD into the hi-fi as simple background noise. My plan was to listen to Smog's A River Ain't Too Much to Love while feeding the cats in the kitchen.
Yeah right. Two seconds into the album and I was hooked, captivated. Sorry, Huckleberry, dinner's gonna have to wait.
This is an album that sounds good—really damn good—over the Magnavox boombox at home. I've been aware of just how good it sounds, and so, I've even invited people over, specifically just to…
Wes sends his "Hola!" from Barcelona:
Been reading the blog for news on the kitties. No mention yet of Huckleberry's teleportation trick. Has he calmed down? (Hah!)
Huckleberry does this thing where he sneaks up on you, wraps himself around your legs, and purrs. But, in the time it takes you to look down and say, "Aww, that’s cute," he's gone—swoooooooooosh—into the listening room, skidding across the tribal rug, flinging a hot pink plush mouse into the air, while Bagheera hides beneath the Ayre universal player and shuts her eyes, thus making herself completely…
On our way home last night, at your request, we found shelter from the relentless rain near a bit of dancing fire. White candles melted into soft wings and waves and fingertips, beckoning us closer. We sat at the fun table beneath so many beaded chandeliers, and ordered the best drinks in all of Manhattan—pineapple coconut mojitos and razzle dazzles—which were far too strong, but perfect, nontheless. The older woman in the strange hat offered us one of her piggyback dates—stuffed with almonds and wrapped in bacon, sprinkled with Cabrales bleu cheese—but we,…
Music editor, Robert Baird, comes over and asks: "How’s it going, chief?"
The "chief" part I take as a compliment. This is a magazine publishing company we’re working for, after all.
"Not bad," I say, while handing him the new Silver Jews album I purchased last night: "Have you heard this yet? It’s pretty good."
"Oh yeah," he responds, "It’s great. Did you buy this?"
The "chief" part I take as a compliment. This is a magazine publishing company we’re working for, after all.
"Not bad," I say, while handing him the new Silver Jews album I purchased last night: "Have you heard this yet? It’s pretty good."
"Oh yeah," he responds, "It’s great. Did you buy this?"
I’ve grown accustomed to Robert asking me if I actually paid money for albums, as if there’s any other way for me to get them.
Nearly embarrassed, but not quite (realizing there’s no reason for…
But it’s not the cats that are killing me. It’s the commute.
I was standing
on the platform,
praying
for the D train.
The thing about the D train is that, from 36th Street in Brooklyn, it’ll take me all the way to 42nd Street and 5th Avenue at Bryant Park in Manhattan. No transfers, one long ride. Transfers take time and wear me out, and, with the D train, there’s even a slight possibility of finding a seat. Having a seat is good because it allows me to almost forget about my body and all of the other bodies around me — touching me — and it allows me to…
If it’s not the Avian flu, it’s the maple syrup.
—Nina Myers, Esquire magazine
***
—Nina Myers, Esquire magazine
***
There was something special in the air last night. We noticed it as we walked down Madison Avenue on our way to Union Square where we would find no place with a decent happy hour and no place for us to sit, no place with a fire. Every stranger on the street seemed to be overcome by it. Every stranger we passed smiled at us. Did you notice? It was as if they knew something about us.
Just like your smile: Their smiles kept secrets, their smiles hummed songs. Their smiles seemed…
I was unusually happy, and now I’m sad.
And that's
the way
it goes.
I’m proud of the last few blog entries. The stuff over the last two weeks — being away from home, in an unfamiliar place, and with the much longer commute offering me all that time to think and worry and think and love and worry — was kind of inspired, I thought. People seemed to like it, too; I received all kinds of really sweet comments and e-mails and phone calls. It made me feel very good about myself.
But then, after posting the piece about the maple syrup, I wondered if readers…
Okay, here's how this works: Just click the "External Link" command down below the text on the right and you'll go to the link I want you to see.
This one's pretty silly. The title says it all. And wait for the end—the payoff is hilarious.
Thanks, Jeff.
Oh well, looks like Lucas finally killed this link.