I had a friend in town last weekend, so of course the voice in my head telling me I really ought to update my blog (the voice has an English accent, kind of like the one that seems to be used for all GPS systems) became softer and softer until it was more like a British ant squeaking unintelligible gibberish at me from a far-away corner on my dirty kitchen floor (thus further muffled by dust bunnies).
So, long story short, here I am sitting at my computer, guilt-ridden and eager to make it up to anyone who noticed my week-long lapse.
My friend Tyler and I spent the weekend drinking cheap red wine out of champagne flutes (recently broke my wine glasses… all two of them…sad, but true story) and preparing for his big-kid job interview on Monday. We’re hoping he lands a gig in finance up here and we can be roomies and have entirely too much fun living together. It will be probably the most beautiful train wreck ever seen.
Looking forward to it, Tyler!
One thing I noticed this weekend between suit fittings and hipster parties in BK was the awesome and eclectic music scene up here. It’s not something I really think about a lot (I’m tone deaf and, at best, a horrible karaoke singer so I’m not exactly equipped to be a proper music junkie) but New York really has some highly talented, highly underappreciated artists, and Tyler and I stumbled upon several over the course of one of the evenings he was in town, some purposefully and some randomly, but all were noteworthy in their own quirky ways.
Take the “saw lady” we discovered in Union Square subway station. There are actually a lot of musicians down there, including a pretty impressive tap group, but I’ll focus on the one with the sharp instrument (couldn't resist) for obvious reasons. She was pretty amazing and after looking her up I discovered she has a blog where she writes about what it's like to be a busker in NYC.
We were heading from the subway to a party in Brooklyn, and then after that to the Lower East Side to see a band my friend is in, The Eliki and Lalo Project, play at Nuyorican. I found this youtube video of them at rehearsal, not sure if they're rehearsing for the gig that they played that Saturday, but they're singing a song they sang that night and sound just as awesome (even if the camera work is a little off...) She has a really throaty, Amy Winehouse/Sara Bareilles-ey voice I could listen to all night long, and Lalo's guitar accompaniment was perfect for her sound.
After their set, Lalo, a friend of mine from my first job in NYC (a waitressing gig at a Mexican restaurant) came out with us to a nearby bar.... my memory's a little fuzzy as to exactly which one, but, other than that, I remember this next part of the evening perfectly.
A street band I later found out that calls itself The Stumblebums crashed the bar unscheduled, unannounced, and, out of nowhere, commenced playing their horns and belting out lyrics at the top of their lungs. The bartendress and patrons looked confused at first, but soon everyone was caught up in the energy of it and started yelling right along to lyrics they never knew they knew. Here's a video of them singing the song they graced us with that evening.
They only played two songs, and when they were through the crowd chanted "One more song! One more song!"
"Can't," explained the frontman. "Gotta go to the next bar."
And a part of me wanted to follow.
So, all in all, it was an evening of very varied, very original musical talent. And, next weekend I get to go see Ill Pastel, another friend's band, play a show at Connolly's Klub 45 from 9-midnight. Anyone in the area who can make it should definitely come out!
***I'm dedicating this post to my brother, a student and busker down in New Orleans where he plays for tips in the French Quarter. Though he may now change his tune (again, couldn't help it...) he once told me he wasn't interested in the NYC music scene. Too commercial. Well, Haydon, I think the Saw Lady might see things differently. And you should probably listen to what she has to say. I mean, she does carry around a saw...
Showing posts with label Brooklyn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brooklyn. Show all posts
Friday, April 23, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Manhattan's "Snowicane"
The past two days snow came down hard in New York, kissing the city with what a friend of mine aptly described as "big, wet, sloppy flakes." Thursday my office shut down an hour and a half early in the hopes that we could all get home safely, and Friday it closed shop entirely, declaring an official "Snow Day."
While not unheard of, in a city accustomed to heavy snowfall and equipped with a vast army of snow plows and stock piles of salt bags to effectively combat frozen forces of nature, a snow day is an unusual treat awarded only under the most serious circumstances. This storm, dubbed by some newscasters as a "snowicane" because of its 30-45 mph winds, was evidently quite the big deal.
I spent Friday watching the snowfall through my window from my bed, sipping on coffee and planning my next manuscript (certain to be an instant success and the start of a very lucrative writing career, I'm sure.) It was a delicious, lazy, stolen day. As long as the caffeine kept flowing and my internet connection held out, I didn't care how hard or long it snowed.
Until it occurred to me that I had evening plans -- a friend's party in Brooklyn -- and, as it was Friday night, an event that sadly occurs only once a week, I really didn't want to cancel.
So, I willed the snow to stop falling. That's the only possible explanation for what happened. Around 6 p.m. I hopped into the shower wishing with all my heart that the snow would just desist and, by the time I was back in my room toweling off, it had. Mind bullets, people. They're a reality. Face it. The proof is in the pudding.
(Always wanted to say that. What does that even mean? Oh, to be in on the conversation when someone used that phrase in a context where it actually made sense... Not even sure where I first heard it. The English language has such amazing isims, most of which are entirely underutilized... but I digress.)
My plan was to meet my friends at their apartment near Union Square and head from there to the party in BK.
Within a block from my apartment it became apparent that I'd made a tactical error in my choice of shoes: seemingly sensible knee-high black leather riding boots. I thought they would be both warm and stylish. Practical, even.
At the first curb I stepped into a deceptively shallow-looking puddle and could feel my toes swimming in New York City mystery juice. Nast. I should have stuck with my initial inclination towards a pair of flower-patterned rubber galoshes and saved myself the tetanus scare.
Making a mental note of this for my next post-blizzard outing, I leapt to the first patch of dry land my eyes could spy, nearly colliding with a tourist who I swear materialized out of the very mystery city juice I was trying to eschew.
I mumbled "sorry," even though I wasn't. I didn't think he heard my half-hearted apology but then, I didn't really care if he hadn't. This was about snowicane survival, not winning a Miss Congeniality contest.
Leaving the somewhat disgruntled tourist behind, I pressed onward toward my goal: the 1 train. Four blocks and an avenue of puddle and snow-pile navigation away. The walk normally took me only a few minutes but under these conditions it seemed to take twenty.
I told myself I should be grateful that the worst had already befallen. My feet were wet. With that out of the way, there wasn't a whole lot else that could go wrong. Knowing that, I could just accept my squishy socks and focus on getting to my train and enjoying the party. I was also sure I wouldn't be the only guest rocking water-logged footwear.
Then, halfway to the station and well on my way to accepting my cold, clammy fate, something horrible and entirely unanticipated happened: I stepped on a patch of black ice. And fell. Hard.
As comedian Jeff Foxworthy would say, "it was pandelerium!"
I went down, my arms went up and with them the hostess gift I was carrying, a six-pack of Heineken. The beers were fine, barring a single bottle which flew out of the plastic bag and into the air, soared over my head (thankfully) and shattered upon impact with the wall of Sbarro's Pizza, making it the episode's sole casualty.
I was back on my feet as quickly as I'd come off them, but a woman passing by robbed me the chance of convincing myself that "nobody saw that..." when she grabbed my arm and asked with such concern I'm convinced she's from a land far far away where people take care of one another, possibly the South, and asked "Honey, are you ok?"
"Yes, fine, completely fine, thanks," I said while avoiding eye contact with her and everyone else on the street who'd witnessed my acrobatics.
I thought about making a joke of it. I'm here all week, folks. But instead chose to continue walking briskly toward the subway, ignoring the episode entirely. Nothing had happened. Don't mind that bruise pooling black with blood on your hip, I told myself. In a few days it will be a lovely shade of green/purple.
I made it to Brooklyn and back without further incident and had a great time at the party playing in over a foot of fresh snow on my friend's rooftop (don't worry, there's a high wall separating the roof from the nothingness and certain death beyond.)
That Friday night was a total blast, but, when I got home safe and sound I definitely breathed a huge sigh of relief and, to be honest, I wasn't entirely sure it had been worth the risk I'd taken with being out in that kind of weather.
The truth is, when I stepped out the door of my apartment building, I didn't think I was taking any risk at all. However, after my near-injury earlier that night, I realized suddenly that snow and ice, while nice to watch forming from one's window and fun to mold into projectiles or castles or men with oddly shaped torsos, are actually potentially very dangerous.
As a Texan unaccustomed to snow, I'd underestimated this winter storm entirely. Next Friday night snowicane I might have to stay in and sip hot cocoa safely in warm, dry socks.
Then again-- maybe I'll just be sure to don a pair of heavy-traction snow boots and bring the host a bouquet of soft, non-breakable flowers. :)
***
This week's question of utmost importance on the poll to your right: What's your fave snow day pastime?
While not unheard of, in a city accustomed to heavy snowfall and equipped with a vast army of snow plows and stock piles of salt bags to effectively combat frozen forces of nature, a snow day is an unusual treat awarded only under the most serious circumstances. This storm, dubbed by some newscasters as a "snowicane" because of its 30-45 mph winds, was evidently quite the big deal.
I spent Friday watching the snowfall through my window from my bed, sipping on coffee and planning my next manuscript (certain to be an instant success and the start of a very lucrative writing career, I'm sure.) It was a delicious, lazy, stolen day. As long as the caffeine kept flowing and my internet connection held out, I didn't care how hard or long it snowed.
Until it occurred to me that I had evening plans -- a friend's party in Brooklyn -- and, as it was Friday night, an event that sadly occurs only once a week, I really didn't want to cancel.
So, I willed the snow to stop falling. That's the only possible explanation for what happened. Around 6 p.m. I hopped into the shower wishing with all my heart that the snow would just desist and, by the time I was back in my room toweling off, it had. Mind bullets, people. They're a reality. Face it. The proof is in the pudding.
(Always wanted to say that. What does that even mean? Oh, to be in on the conversation when someone used that phrase in a context where it actually made sense... Not even sure where I first heard it. The English language has such amazing isims, most of which are entirely underutilized... but I digress.)
My plan was to meet my friends at their apartment near Union Square and head from there to the party in BK.
Within a block from my apartment it became apparent that I'd made a tactical error in my choice of shoes: seemingly sensible knee-high black leather riding boots. I thought they would be both warm and stylish. Practical, even.
At the first curb I stepped into a deceptively shallow-looking puddle and could feel my toes swimming in New York City mystery juice. Nast. I should have stuck with my initial inclination towards a pair of flower-patterned rubber galoshes and saved myself the tetanus scare.
Making a mental note of this for my next post-blizzard outing, I leapt to the first patch of dry land my eyes could spy, nearly colliding with a tourist who I swear materialized out of the very mystery city juice I was trying to eschew.
I mumbled "sorry," even though I wasn't. I didn't think he heard my half-hearted apology but then, I didn't really care if he hadn't. This was about snowicane survival, not winning a Miss Congeniality contest.
Leaving the somewhat disgruntled tourist behind, I pressed onward toward my goal: the 1 train. Four blocks and an avenue of puddle and snow-pile navigation away. The walk normally took me only a few minutes but under these conditions it seemed to take twenty.
I told myself I should be grateful that the worst had already befallen. My feet were wet. With that out of the way, there wasn't a whole lot else that could go wrong. Knowing that, I could just accept my squishy socks and focus on getting to my train and enjoying the party. I was also sure I wouldn't be the only guest rocking water-logged footwear.
Then, halfway to the station and well on my way to accepting my cold, clammy fate, something horrible and entirely unanticipated happened: I stepped on a patch of black ice. And fell. Hard.
As comedian Jeff Foxworthy would say, "it was pandelerium!"
I went down, my arms went up and with them the hostess gift I was carrying, a six-pack of Heineken. The beers were fine, barring a single bottle which flew out of the plastic bag and into the air, soared over my head (thankfully) and shattered upon impact with the wall of Sbarro's Pizza, making it the episode's sole casualty.
I was back on my feet as quickly as I'd come off them, but a woman passing by robbed me the chance of convincing myself that "nobody saw that..." when she grabbed my arm and asked with such concern I'm convinced she's from a land far far away where people take care of one another, possibly the South, and asked "Honey, are you ok?"
"Yes, fine, completely fine, thanks," I said while avoiding eye contact with her and everyone else on the street who'd witnessed my acrobatics.
I thought about making a joke of it. I'm here all week, folks. But instead chose to continue walking briskly toward the subway, ignoring the episode entirely. Nothing had happened. Don't mind that bruise pooling black with blood on your hip, I told myself. In a few days it will be a lovely shade of green/purple.
I made it to Brooklyn and back without further incident and had a great time at the party playing in over a foot of fresh snow on my friend's rooftop (don't worry, there's a high wall separating the roof from the nothingness and certain death beyond.)
That Friday night was a total blast, but, when I got home safe and sound I definitely breathed a huge sigh of relief and, to be honest, I wasn't entirely sure it had been worth the risk I'd taken with being out in that kind of weather.
The truth is, when I stepped out the door of my apartment building, I didn't think I was taking any risk at all. However, after my near-injury earlier that night, I realized suddenly that snow and ice, while nice to watch forming from one's window and fun to mold into projectiles or castles or men with oddly shaped torsos, are actually potentially very dangerous.
As a Texan unaccustomed to snow, I'd underestimated this winter storm entirely. Next Friday night snowicane I might have to stay in and sip hot cocoa safely in warm, dry socks.
Then again-- maybe I'll just be sure to don a pair of heavy-traction snow boots and bring the host a bouquet of soft, non-breakable flowers. :)
***
This week's question of utmost importance on the poll to your right: What's your fave snow day pastime?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)