Pretty good snow

Big ups to the hardy farmers who made it down to Avenue A this morning, guaranteeing my next half week will be filled with good stuff to eat. That includes you, stern bread lady…


…but especially you, comedy-bickering-and-cider couple. That cider he's pouring is in me now. ("Do you feel me, cider?") Also got an acorn squash from them for no good reason, since I already have one in the fridge. Maybe I just didn't want it to be lonely?


East Village–style snowbastard. I mumbled that it looked like he needed a new cig and some lady earnestly jabbed a Pall Mall in my hand. "Some people are veryyyy kiiind…"


I cidered while watching my favorite reality show: snowfall dog run. Hounds in particular look so thoughtful. As usual, I began to imagine having one in the house, and then he opened his mouth. FOGHOOOooorn!


The real adventuring was last night, as it was coming down (and across and over). After mixing martinis and such for the first half of the night (apparently successfully), I packed a flask and headed down to Damon Dash's house to see Talk Normal. (Huh…that sentence looks just as incongruous now as it did last night.) Crosshatch winds slashed me to ribbons at every intersection, but I knew you were counting on these poorly framed point-and-shoot photographs, so with the Balvenie as guide and courage-maker…

St. Marks Church corner. You can't really see the wind-tunnel of blowing snow along the ground.

First Ave, storm hitting its stride.

Sixth Ave at 10th St.

Long shadow of the MAW, 10th St.

E 10th St between Second and Third Aves.

I asked Mr. Balvenie where this was exactly and he couldn't remember either. Manhattan, we're both convinced.

Snowstorm, meet flash.

Looking at Fifth Ave. There's a street there somewhere.

Hey Balvenie, you remember this??

This door leads nowhere but it looks nice anyway.

Like the queens and kings of old

A one-year mourning period. Moving on now.

Renewed

I saw Broadcast! And the Phillies are going back to the World Series!

I saw Broadcast!


And the Phillies are going back to the World Series!

Taking the low road

It pays off sometimes.

On and on with Endless Boogie

Not much to say about last night's Endless Boogie show apart from the fact that it was in the 99th percentile of Endless Boogie–oriented excellence. They were hitting on cylinders the likes of which haven't come out of Detroit in 35 years. They are so manly, these men.

At the same time, they are quite feminine in their sound and way. I'd like to be the first to get out in front on this issue: I think Endless Boogie really is the band for all genders and dispositions. Mets fans too.




The Studio at Webster Hall is a good room for rock music (needs more Os for the marquee though), the sound just spread like night creeping over the high plains. One particular monster jam sounded fresh to my ears, but a well-placed source informed me that it was an unrecorded oldie. That'll hopefully be redressed soonly. Endless Boogie are hitting the road for a coupla weeks, so look alive out there in the South and Midwest.

Amy Annelle, atop the East Village

Amy Annelle brought the nurture of nature to my East Village roof last night, reprising a low-key appearance from last summer (or was it the summer before?). This time, I endeavored to actually tell people about it, and a coded message during her WFMU live set the day before also helped gather a crowd of about 20, which was just right for the space we had.


In fact, pretty much everything was just right: The sky, glowing and bruised; the breezes on full breeze; and Amy, who played for about 75 minutes at a volume that dueted (not dueled) with the city ambience that drifted up seven stories.




Folks spread out across the roof on throw rugs, blankets, dirty jeans. A batch of declared fans, a few old friends (Amy's and mine), a handful of curious neighbors who stuck around, a trio of effusive Oklahomans converted into believers on the spot, a couple who just moved from SF and felt like they'd won the lottery in learning of the show, and one sweetly hyperactive puppy. The natural tremble in Amy's voice reminded us all of the infinite. Time didn't stop, but it did seem a little less indifferent to everyone for a while.