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As a city, New York buys its umbrellas from street vendors or Duane Reade. We do not expect that they will be with us for long -- we abuse them, we forget them places, we lend them to one another as if they were community property -- so we do not spend money on high quality gear. As a result, any rainy day turns this town into an umbrella graveyard. But yesterday was unlike anything I'd ever seen before -- 24 hours straight of the windiest, wettest weather I've seen in 11 years living here. Umbrella carcasses as far as the eye could see, strewn about the ground, or jutting awkwardly from trash cans.
By noon, every block had one of these.
The top blew right off this one.
My umbrella on the subway at 2a.m. Its stem got bent against the sheer force of the wind, and it can no longer collapse to purse-size. But it did yeoman's work yesterday, and its service was appreciated.
Yesterday afternoon, a co-worker posted this blog entry from Nick Carr to his Facebook page. The moral of the story, as Carr tells is, is that the accessibility of music and the abundance of it have flattened the experience of it: Music isn't as magical as it used to be; discovery isn't as powerful.Toward the end of the blog post, Carr references a comment from John Taylor (the drummer of Duran Duran, and the author of an article that inspired Carr's blog post) that tracking down an album used to be a quest of sorts, and, "as with all quests, there were risks involved." I guess he's talking about the risk of wasting your time and energy biking 10 miles to the nearest record shop and blowing 10 bucks on something that sucks? But that's hardly the stuff of great adventure, you know? Those aren't the kinds of risks that are going to heighten dramatically the intensity of an experience; they are the kinds of risks, though, that will keep you from discovering something that might be great.
Because, do you remember how difficult it used to be to discover something new and awesome? Unless a band made it big, it was usually a matter of luck. Contrary to popular belief, my favorite band is not Bon Jovi; it's The Tragically Hip, and the only reason I know about them is because in 1999, I dated a Canadian guy named Scott who loved them, and I loved him, so I attempted to love everything he loved in a youthful misinterpretation of what it means to love someone. (Fortunately for me, Scott had good taste.) My favorite band to see live, meanwhile, is Great Big Sea, and the only reason I know about them is because they opened for The Tragically Hip at a free show they played in Central Park on Canada Day in 2000. Those two bands have brought me so much happiness over the last decade, but I'd probably never had learned about either of them if I hadn't met Scott.
But then you have these days: I had the most intense music experience of my entire life at a concert I attended this past summer: Dave Rawlings' guitar solo during his cover of Bob Dylan's song Queen Jane Approximately during The Big Surprise Tour's stop at Beacon Theatre. I went to this concert because I wanted to see Gillian Welch, who was going to accompany Dave Rawlings at the show. And I'd started listening to Gillian Welch because I'd heard a band called The Great Atomic Power cover some of her songs. The Great Atomic Power was nothing more than a temporary gathering of some musicians in Toronto to play a charity gig (and then a few gigs stemmed from that), but someone recorded one of their shows and posted it to archive.org. I heard the show because two of the musicians in The Great Atomic Power used to play together in Moxy Fruvous (In case you've been living under a rock and haven't heard, I'm a little obsessed.), so the show turned up when I searched for Fruvous shows on archive.org.
Now, there are two things about this story which speak to why the way we experience music today is kind of awesome:
- First, I never would have had that experience if I couldn't listen to music risk-free. I might have heard that Great Atomic Power show because fans have been taping and sharing shows for ages, but I never would have gone out and purchased one of Gillian Welch's CDs to see if her versions of her own songs were as great as the ones The Great Atomic Power played. I was curious enough to fire up my Napster-to-Go membership and listen to her music, but I wasn't curious enough to blow 10 bucks on the endeavor. "Those are the kinds of risks that keep you from discovering something that might be great." (And in an old-school-style discovery, Justin Townes Earle was the opening act at that Dave Rawlings performance. Even if you just sort of know me, you've probably heard me talk about that guy. Just an incredibly gifted songwriter and one damn charismatic showman.)
- Second, it wasn't walking to Samsondale Music or begging my Mom to take me to the Mall (my version of John Taylor's 10-mile bike ride), but the road to that concert was still a journey, and it was fun! A couple weeks ago, I spent an entire Saturday afternoon reading Bob Hallett's blog about music, searching the internet for the songs he described, and listening to them. I listened to probably 50 songs that day; some I liked, some not so much, but all were interesting to listen to, especially through the lens Bob laid over them, and the whole process was just plain fun. It was geeky and researcher-y and more or less right up my alley in those respects; and one of the bands I heard that day -- The Decemberists -- is the most exciting and interesting band I've heard in years. I've devoured their music over the last several weeks, and I cannot wait until the next time they are in New York City.
And how fucking awesome is it that I can link right to all these amazing discoveries I've made so anyone whose interest is piqued can watch and listen for themselves to see if the things that speak to me speak to them, too? Unless you are young and hopelessly in love with me, you probably won't pedal your way to the record shop to see if you feel the same way about Justin Townes Earle that I do, but you might click on the link in my post to see what you think. And it's fun to share! At least, if you're me, it's really fucking fun to share! I don't sort-of like things. I don't bother. I like things a lot, and I dislike things a lot, and everything in between doesn't really exist. So when I find something I like, I'm compelled to tell other people about it. I want to share it with them, and I love that I can. I don't know if you'll listen, but I hope you will. I don't think you'll like everything, but there might be one thing in here that you think is awesome, and you'll see (if your faith has at all been shaken) that music is just as magical as it always was; the power of discovery is just as great.
[Originally a Facebook post to Kerry]:
You're getting a second chance to see these guys: Thursday night @ Club Nokia. I know my taste in music is suspect, but an entire nation loves this band: If you can't trust me, then at least trust Canada. Gord Downie is an epically talented showman. He is what Bono wishes he could be. There. I said it. Even though I know it's not true. I'm sure Bono is perfectly satisfied being Bono; I doubt he wishes he were anybody other than who he is. But he could have been greater, and he never got there, and that irritates me.
Anyhow. The only downside to this band is that, if Los Angeles Canadians are anything like New York Canadians, there will be five of the biggest guys you've ever seen in your life at this show, built like bears and drunk in that aggressive way that only Canadian men can manage (American men, mercifully, pass out long before they get anywhere near this state.), alternating between tearfully declaring their love for Gord Downie and Canada and picking a fight with someone in your immediate vicinity. It's annoying, but it's part of the scene, apparently. They do have strong stomachs, at least: I've never seen one of them vomit. (This, unfortunately, needs to be said after a very disgusting concert experience I had earlier this year.) So there is that.
Update to Notes on the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza:
... For those of you (and I know there are many) who were eagerly awaiting some updates on the next stages of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza, I'll have you know that I haven't been holding out on you. What I've been holding out on is cleaning my damn apartment. There was a fury of bathroom cleaning ... um, Sunday night, I think? But aside from that, my old roomie arrives in under 24 hours, and my apartment still looks like a bomb went off.
I actually went out last night and purchased giant pink Rubbermaid containers (They didn't have the usual clear ones, and I was desperate.), into which I plan to dump all the shit that currently resides on the floor of my roommate's old bedroom. (And if history is any indication, that is likely where it will stay. Until my apartment collapses in a heap of disrepair. Or I die. Whichever happens first.) The only upside of the mad cleaning dash that will commence around 6p.m. this evening is that it will encourage me to be ruthless. Because let's face it. I'm over 30 now. I'm probably not ever again going to fit into those pants that made my ass look so fantastic when I was 25. And on the off-chance I ever do lose the post-30 poundage, those pants probably aren't the sorts of things that have any business being on the body of someone over the age of 30. No point holding onto them any longer. Into the trash they shall go!
[Note to people who worry about this sort of thing: I would give my under-30 pants to charity, but the city removed all the Salvation Army boxes a couple years ago, I imagine, in a flourish of terrorism prevention. Which, while potentially keeping us all alive, has created complications not unlike the complications resulting from the terrorist prevention-induced removal of all the trash cans from Rockefeller Center at Christmas-time. (No empty coffee cup has ever gone on such a journey as the one my empty Dunkin Donuts cup embarked upon with me during the Last-Minute Christmas Shopping Adventure of 2008. Nary a trash can in sight.) There is simply not, at this point, any time to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up. And I do not, at any point, have the patience nor organizational skills required to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up, so that wasn't ever going to happen anyway.]
Alright. Wish me luck! If there's anything worth posting during my Night-Long Stashing-My-Ridiculous-Shit-Out-Of-Sight Extravaganza, I'll be sure to let you know!
Next Day Update: Discoveries from a Frantic Evening of Cleaning:
1. It turns out that, around 2:30a.m., the bathroom at the Wash World more or less turns into a public bathroom for drunk people who just aren't going to make it from the nearby subway stop back to their apartments. About five minutes after each train rumbled by overhead, a stream of people in various states of alertness stumbled into the Wash World and asked somewhat desperately to use the bathroom. It got a bit comical after awhile!
2. I'm a little irritated with myself for not cleaning my apartment sooner. It took only about three hours to clean "The Forbidden Mess" (so deemed by Joe, whose 
curiosity
about the situation was piqued when I invoked the value of 10 years of friendship to ensure that he wouldn't look behind the guest room door the last time he was here, so embarrassed was I by what was going on in there). Mostly I really just needed to throw shit out.
3. So yeah. Those of you who know me, know that I lost a ton of weight (since gained back, annoyingly!) when I started running marathons in 2003. Like, I actually got pretty skinny. I knew this much. What I didn't know, however, is that I apparently also started dressing like a slut when this occurred. I found a teeniest tiniest little denim skirt last night. Holy crap. I recall emerging from an unfamiliar subway stop in Brooklyn several years ago wearing this skirt and being appalled when the cop whom I'd asked for directions to the bar where I was meeting my friends asked me if I was a stripper. I still don't think that comment was quite appropriate coming from an on-duty cop, but at least I now understand where he was coming from. Good lord.
But yeah, otherwise fairly uneventful! Just talked to my roomie, and she'll be here is about two hours, so hooray!!!
Mary Siobhan O'Brien: worked till 9p.m. tonight, then went to the Target in the Queens Mall and bought a toilet seat. How many things about that sentence make me want to kill myself?
Midtown is always a pretty hideous place to find oneself on anything approaching a regular basis. It brings together the worst of what New York City has to offer -- white collar workers with thingstodopeopletoseeplacestobe and clueless tourists with all the time in the world to do stuff like stand around in the middle of the sidewalk and take pictures of stores. However, a couple of times per year, things happen in Midtown which catapult the misery to shocking new levels.
- There's the St. Patrick's Day Parade on 5th Avenue, of course. The masochist in me drags my ass into the office every St. Patrick's Day. And every year, after climbing over drunk people on the sidewalk, wading through pools of vomit and pee, and listening to the same three bagpipe songs all frigging day, I swear to myself that next St. Patrick's Day, I'm going to work from home. But I never do. So I suppose this one is actually my fault.
- But there's also Rockefeller Center at Christmas-time. I can't very well work from home the entire month of December. But God help you if you need to get through that place for any reason during the last month of the year. Mayor Bloomberg can take his "quality of life" initiatives and shove 'em until he implements express lanes for locals who are just trying to frigging get wherever we need to go in that neck of the woods during the entire Christmas season. We don't need to take pictures of the Christmas Tree from every angle, nor stop suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk when the choreographed snowflake crap starts up on the facade of Saks Fifth Avenue. We just need to get wherever we're trying to go. Ugh!!!
- And then there's the U.N. Which is what brings us together today. Because it's in session right now. And in fact, earlier today, President Obama met with Benjamin Netanyahu and Mahmoud Abbas. Which is all well and good. Except 
that, for reasons which never became apparent, the police blocked the entirety of 53rd Street from 1st Avenue to 8th Avenue a couple of hours ago. A period which happened to coincide with what was supposed to be a quick trip to grab a late lunch, but turned into me trapped on the sidewalk a block south of my office. There I stood, while multitudes of people accumulated at each corner. Tourists snapped pictures. Business people cursed under their breath and typed furiously on their BlackBerries. Then, after about 20 minutes of absolutely nothing happening, the police pulled back one barricade at each corner to let pedestrians cross.
Which, as you can imagine, created chaos. Chaos which became even worse for me when it devolved into a total Disney World experience. Those of you who know me know my feelings on Disney World: It's pretty much the most God-forsaken place on the planet. But have you ever had the displeasure of being at the fucking Magic Kingdom after the fireworks end? There's families with little kids everywhere, but there's six psychotic women dispersed throughout the crowd who have somehow arrived at the conclusion that their family is more important than everyone elses, and they're out there screaming at everyone to get out of their way because they "have children with them." You know what I'm talking about here?
Well yeah, I had the Crazy Pregnant Woman version of the Disney World experience this afternoon. Because the crowds start moving, and to be sure, there's a bit of pushing and shoving going on. But I'm getting pushed from behind with a force that's approaching distressing. You know, there's your standard "sea of humanity" pushing, but then there's your "someone might get injured" pushing. This was the latter.
So I look over my shoulder. I don't know what I was expecting to see, but there's this tiny blond chick digging her knuckles into my back. I tell her that she needs to cut it out, which elicits the somewhat ridiculous response (see: digging her knuckles into my back), "I'm not pushing." Followed by delayed indignance: "I'm pregnant." And then the comically self-righteous finale: "I'm just protecting my baby." Riiiiiggghhht. Because pushing and shoving your way through thousands of New Yorkers -- to get to The Gap, by the way, that was her ultimate destination -- is in the best interests of your baby. So yeah. Perhaps the first part of my response wasn't the ideal way to diffuse the situation: "I'm sorry you're pregnant." But the second part of it was legitimate: "That doesn't mean you can push people." She begged to differ, though, because she informed me that I was a "crazy bitch," and then we both went on with our lives.
But seriously. I'm all for making pregnant women's lives easier when I can. I'll step out of the way to let them pass, give them my seat on the subway, hold open doors, whatever. Totally not a problem. But being pregnant does not give you carte blanche to act like an asshole. If you're so worried, as you claim, about protecting your baby, how about waiting a few minutes till the bulk of the crowd disperses? I know you're in a rush to get to The Gap, but seriously, plunging into that mess and then uping the ante by pushing and shoving your way through it is not a good idea, and acting all self-righteous when someone calls you on your bullshit is ridiculous.
Uuugggghhhh, this city, man. I love it. But some days it wins. Today was one of those days.
... For those of you (and I know there are many) who were eagerly awaiting some updates on the next stages of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza, I'll have you know that I haven't been holding out on you. What I've been holding out on is cleaning my damn apartment. There was a fury of bathroom cleaning ... um, Sunday night, I think? But aside from that, my old roomie arrives in under 24 hours, and my apartment still looks like a bomb went off.
curiosity
about the situation was piqued when I invoked the value of 10 years of friendship to ensure that he wouldn't look behind the guest room door the last time he was here, so embarrassed was I by what was going on in there). Mostly I really just needed to throw shit out.
that, for reasons which never became apparent, the police blocked the entirety of 53rd Street from 1st Avenue to 8th Avenue a couple of hours ago. A period which happened to coincide with what was supposed to be a quick trip to grab a late lunch, but turned into me trapped on the sidewalk a block south of my office. There I stood, while multitudes of people accumulated at each corner. Tourists snapped pictures. Business people cursed under their breath and typed furiously on their BlackBerries. Then, after about 20 minutes of absolutely nothing happening, the police pulled back one barricade at each corner to let pedestrians cross. 
