Patrick Wolf at Le Poisson Rouge

From Black Sand Journal

I love bouncers who can't do math. Approximately 12 hours before my politics final, I stood in line outside Le Poisson Rouge to receive my wristband for the Patrick Wolf show. I showed my real ID, but entered without underage X's marring my hands. I took it as a sign, and walked straight to the bar to order a pint of Red Fish Ale.

Call it irresponsible, call it badass - I value my education, but I don't skim on thrilling life experiences. It doesn't get much better than witnessing Patrick Wolf - the omnisexual demigod - perform a live acoustic show at a club on Bleeker Street.

Befitting the musical tone, the scene at Le Poisson Rouge was quite subdued. Fans obediently occupied tables, while those of us who came late lined the walls. Patrick shared the stage with a violinist, but played more instruments than I've heard of throughout the show.

Patrick emerged from his dressing room in a fitting black jacket and elaborate neck piece - both of which he had stripped off by the second song. I had never been all that attracted to him, but when an inebriated woman in the audience yelled, "C'mon Patrick - Get yer kit off," I found myself nodding in silent agreement.

His onstage banter is second to none. He spoke at length about his family, and what playing in New York means to him. His childhood fascination with Bleeker Street while growing up in a small town near Sussex certainly resonated with me. "I imagined a street full of cafés with fabulous musicians, but instead I got an American Apparel," he joked (I think, I hope).

He didn't have a fixed set list, and pretty much took requests from audience members all night. We sang happy birthday to his cousin Natalie, he asked whether anyone knew of a good line-dancing class for his Aunt Brenda. The show felt so homely.

He sang a bare bones version of Vulture for his encore. Not nearly as hot as the music video, but it was worth hearing just for his costume change. My jaw almost dropped when he said he'd finally found "the Yoko Ono to my John Lenon." I would have envisioned Patrick as Yoko.

Of course, it was pouring rain after the show. It was nearly 1AM and I hadn't eaten since lunch, but Lauren and I decided to run in the direction of the library. On the way she yelled "CART" and we ducked under its awning to order me some lamb over rice, before continuing our jovial scamper back to Bobst. I don't think I've ever shoveled food into my mouth so quickly. If you want to see more photos of the Patrick Wolf show, or just some stunning photography in general, check out Lauren's flickr site.

I ended up going to bed at 5AM, waking up two hours later to sit my final, and now blogging about the show. I haven't even had time to collect my thoughts on the phenomenal New Yorker Summit, but I will say that Ana Marie Cox (a.k.a. Wonkette, frequent guest on The Rachel Maddow Show and writer for the Daily Beast) tapped me on the shoulder to ask why I was twittering about her. Most bumbling, star-struck moment of my entire life. Movie stars? Who cares. Journalists? I'm weak at the knees.

One last thing - Patrick Wolf did an acoustic version of The Magic Position. The sneaky bastard let it creep up on me by blending it into the end of another song. Before I could prepare myself, the chords were booming out of his grand piano and he sultrily whispered the song title into the microphone. It wouldn't be a Black Sand Journal entry without some sort of revelation - and mine came as Patrick sang:

"Out of all the people I've known, the places I've been,
The songs that I have sung, the wonders I've seen,
Now that the dreams are all coming true,
Who is the one that leads me on through?"

It's (still) you.

In Twenty Years....

You turn up at my front door with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in hand and a smirk. Twenty years after college and I still only grudgingly drink gin in your company. I get two glasses, lots of ice, a little tonic. For the duration of our night-long conversation, every time I take a sip I grimace, every time I grimace you smile, and every time you smile I need to take another sip. This vicious circle is probably the most benign one we've seen during our long friendship.

Our eyes drift to the newer pictures plastered across my walls. The ones from our younger days are still my favorite - of us laughing at each other and all the sublime qualities of the city we both fell in love with. There are photos from my travels. You ask for the stories lurking behind the more startling images. I start by retelling an event in graphic detail, say crashing an inglorious motorbike - nothing like the ones I compulsively photograph - off a dirt path in central Asia. I quickly lose myself in describing the more memorable people I encountered - faces, accents, attitudes, idiosyncrasies. The days and years since college swiftly slipped away, we conclude after pouring over hundreds of photos together.

Now we're a little drunk, which inevitably leads us to playfully argue about how and why we first met. We skirt around some sensitive ground. You wield your trademark eye-locking glance and Cheshire cat smile; I stay silent for a moment longer than makes you comfortable. Somethings never change, we think to ourselves.

We begin to scrutinize each other for alterations. I wear a pair of 1950s black-rimmed glasses now, because after forty years my vision finally began to blur. I remind you, to rob you of your satiated look, that my sight will never approach legally blind like yours. It's impossible to pinpoint what exactly has changed about you with age; you always reinvented yourself on a monthly basis. But your eyes, thankfully, haven't lost a degree of intensity.

The rising sun dyes the sky blue with streaks of pink. We decide to grab coffee to sober up for the day. Though it is a trek, there is only one place our feet will take us, only one place worthy of capping off another classic night of catching up, only one place where our friendship began. I make sure to bring my camera, and I take what must be my 10,000th photo of you as you saunter down the cascading steps.

From Black Sand Journal

Yeah Yeah Yeahs secret show

I'm still out of breath. The tantalizing voice of Karen O continues to reverberate through my body the day after a secret Yeah Yeah Yeahs show in Chinatown. I have no words. Actually, I have a few.... after you watch this:



Karen O splutters beer like a geyser and exudes sounds as if perpetually on the brink of orgasm. She paired her thick blue eye make up with a kimono, which she stripped off to reveal a leather dress clad in chains and safety pins all tied together with a neon green bow. She looked like the goddess of punk and sadomasochism; her bewitching, creature-like movements at times paralyzed me. And Nick Zinner actually smiled.

The audience included an intoxicated Drew Barrymore and the delightful Andy Samberg. Those of us not of the guest list waited nearly two hours to gain entry. Lauren, Mike and I huddled together for warmth and chatted to a 25-year-old NYU alum who offered to share her weed and buy drinks for us under-21-year-olds (little did she know she was talking to some of the most relatively straight-edge college kids you're likely to find). Alex bailed on work 20 minutes early and ran 10 blocks to make it to the show in time. Her, "God, it's so hot" comment didn't go down well with those of us who had been freezing to save her a place in line for an hour and a half.

Mike actually touched Karen O's hand when she extended it over the crowd. Lauren shoved a fumbling Drew Barrymore, whose smokey-breath came at times too close for comfort. Alex talked directly to Karen O when the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were taking song requests (she asked for 'Date With The Night,' which they did indeed play). Mike got a sweaty towel and a chain that flew off Karen's dress. Alex actually climbed on stage to grab a set list, then tangled her foot in a cable on her way off and nearly toppled a monitor (Lauren was there for to save it).

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs definitely played their part in capping off the best weekend of my life, but none of it would have meant a damn if I couldn't share the moment with three of my favorite people in the world. I'm still radiating joy - my bones were tingling this morning and I keep rupturing the cut on my lip because I can't stop grinning.

Every time I've been screwed over, every horrible insult I've suffered, every moment I've felt let down and every scar on my body was worth enduring to lead me to the most spectacular night of my life. This is the rapture Blondie was rapping about.

Soccer Ball and the City

It all started Thursday night when I uttered an embittered - "Oh, fuck me" - in the laundry room. I anticipated toasty clean clothes, but found only drenched ones. It dawned on me that after paying for the dryer an hour earlier, I had forgotten to hit the start button - hence the cursing.

I have absolutely no shame (reference my tattoo, that time I went to a singles event at Babeland in the name of journalism, etc.) and vented my pent up frustration in front of a fellow midnight laundry-doer. To my surprise, she asked me what was wrong. I told her. To my even greater surprise, she swiped her card and paid for my dryer. My astonishment left me to stutter out a thank you with a longer delay than a live TV appearance by Russell Brand.

I'm not the I've-always-relied-on-the-kindness-of-strangers type, but cynicism isn't necessarily preferable to naivety when it comes to an outlook on humanity. Downtown Manhattan certainly hammered that point home during a enchanted Friday afternoon. My new prescription for fighting big city blues in New York is to amble through supple West Village streets or loiter around divine parks with a soccer ball in hand or by foot. I promise, magical things will happen.

The afternoon started on a very isolated note. At East River Park, with my soccer ball, I took 17 penalties in a row - aiming for the right side netting of the goal every time. It was my way of disciplining myself for moments when nerves tend to get the better of me. A group of twenty-somethings borrowed my pump for their American football. I bantered with the man who made my lunch about the indifferent attitude Americans have towards the beautiful game. I played a pick-up game of soccer with some Mexican guys at the John Walker Park in the West Village, until a platoon of 9-year-old's ousted us with parents and permits. I watched on with delight as four middle school kids at Sugar Sweet Sunshine played cards and ate cupcakes. Bouncing the ball as I waited to cross Chrystie Street, a truck cruised by and the driver yelled out to me - "I'll play with you!" - I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. I played a passing game on the First Avenue sidewalk as I chatted to some eastern Europeans. Walking along the periphery of StuyTown, I saw a construction worker with an array of tools beside him and an open bottle of Yuengling.

All afternoon, as I roamed between 18th and Canal from the West Side Highway to the FDR Drive, people would shoot me a puzzled smile and ask, "Soccer ball?" as if I were holding a mystical creature previously thought to be extinct. I garnered many a longing gaze from the profusion of young children scampering out of schools.

I've always considered this city a playground, but in a strictly adult way. There is an anonymity about partying in New York that allows people to freely indulge in public intoxication, fornication and pupil dilation. But Friday afternoon's slice of spring showed me a softer side of New York that encouraged me to relax the guarded stance I've adopted as of late. How easily I found playmates made me feel like a small kid. No worries apart from the embarrassment of a miskick; no pain apart from sore legs; no fears apart from goal tending next. All this liberation because of a soccer ball.

That night, I stood on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry with two of my best friends as we drifted from the tip of Manhattan. The Statue of Liberty flanked us on the left, the Financial District illuminated our view ahead and ruffled water marked the path we'd taken. My mind shut out unpleasant thoughts and focused fully on the splendor in front of me. That's the way I hope it stays.

Slow Recovery

Through monochrome eyes I stare at my perfectly made bed from across the dimly lit room. The sheets - pulled taut and tucked in tightly - are deathly still, but my unwise musical palette paints the blank canvas with strokes of life and color.

The flashbacks - triggered by anything ranging from a phrase, item of clothing, street corner, lyric, smirk or beer - unsettle me the most. I leave my current reality to relive a moment in its bittersweet entirety, and when I return I find myself disoriented and disappointed. It is the combination of those two loathsome feelings that propel the sledge hammer towards my hollowed-out heart - fantasy about what my life right now would have been if -

Which isn't at all fair to the phenomenal people still in my life today, who did not leave me and I believe never will. I see a handful of them on a weekly (or so) basis, but for others it has been months, even years. In the spirit of my "Fragments" post from earlier in the week, here are somethings that spark spells of reminiscing:

Disney's Aladdin , the 1992 BMW occasionally parked on 3rd and 17th (sadly it's gray, not green), Yatzi, the score from Grease (especially 'Summer Nights'), item no.88 on any menu, knitting stores (there are a surprising number in New York), fingerless gloves (bonus if they are striped, too), Karate (I still have your brown belt), heavy metal band t-shirts, the smell of cashew nuts, the pink Dunhill packs, Swiss Army knives, Kanye West (because you couldn't stop raving about his new album in December), badly assembled tents (oh, those aborted outdoor sleepovers), Irish pubs (that will never live up to Flanagan's), and Oxford commas (which originated from your university press).

Twenty

Note: I apologize for the way this entry is going to sway between description and meandering thought.

My birthday has always been a highly convoluted affair, and yesterday was no exception.

The anticipation starts mounting from New Years day. I plan an elaborate celebration with a band of my best friends. I make reservations. I bake brownies. I stock every shelf of my fridge with beer. An adult formula for fun.

I had planned to be up the Empire State Building at midnight on my birthday, but the fates conspired to close the observatory deck because it was freezing (where is global warming when you need it?). Plan B brought me to the Brooklyn Promenade after midnight. I crossed the threshold out of my teens and into my twenties not admiring the view of my city from the top of its most stunning creation. Instead, I found myself on a subway platform waiting for the C and counting rats. Glorious.

I woke up later that day, but it was still early. Overnight I had morphed into that ungrateful, snarky anti-socialite I usually am on my birthday. I decided to take a long walk to prepare myself for all the people I'd have to greet with an artificial smile plastered across my face. Those damn bastards who want to commemorate my day of birth, how dare they!

I didn't carry my phone or wear my watch. The snow bludgeoned down and coated the parts of my hair that my overwhelmed hoodie could not cover. I walked west on 23rd to the Flatiron building, where I got a clear view of the beautiful building that had rejected me 7 hours ago. I'm living in a tourist's snow globe - of course he picked today to give it a shake and fuck everything up.

My legs led me to the unlit shop window of children's bookstore I had stumbled upon a couple of weeks ago on a cupcake-run.

From Black Sand Journal

On that day, I sat on a bench in the back and reread the book above. It is my favorite kids story because it deals with anger. Max is pissed off and envisions himself king of an island inhabited by monstrous figments of his raging imagination. I cope with my flurries of fury in a similar fashion. I will obliterate whoever I am annoyed at with my vitriolic rhetoric in a make-believe argument. I save all my malice and caustic remarks for these unreal arenas; I imagine my opponent sniveling in shame and wincing with indignation. I always feel better, and I rarely let any of that venom seep into the real-world counterparts.

I walked downtown on Broadway. For all the unhappy events that punctuated my childhood, I cannot deny the delight with which I read books, played football, and watched cartoons. I've spent my entire life wanting to be older, but now that I'm there I suddenly want to be younger. I associated age with the ability to abscond and be independent of everything - not true. All that changes is who you want to escape. Still a caged bird, the keys have just passed hands to new owners.

Self-doubt accompanied me as I headed east on 18th. I want to dedicate my life to people, but I don't have the strength to devote myself to a person. Did I mean that? Why am I planning a night of alcohol-induced merriment to celebrate my birthday if I previously decided that I'm more concerned with the aggregate amount of human happiness because my personal supply is so unsatisfying? As that disturbing notion occurred to me, I began to rue the fact I left my notebook and pen at home. If I can't remember these thoughts by the time I get home, how important are they really?

I sauntered down Irving Place. I keep telling a friend that I would do unspeakable things to live in particular neighborhoods of New York, and the area surrounding Gramercy Park is certainly one them. Her advice to me was to start sleeping with residents of the areas of town I admire (no elaborations on that point on this blog).

I dusted the snow off That Black Jacket before heading inside. In an unexpected twist, the rest of my day ended up being amazing. I think it's because I made hummus from scratch - the tahini that I add always does something kooky to me. I was bouncing off the walls at dinner, there was no need to indulge in the bottle (oh, but I did). I had not felt such sheer elation in a very, very, long time. To see some of the people I care for the most all together with me on my birthday engraved a real smile across my face. It must have been the hummus.

The night (kind of) ended at the front desk with my head spinning as I watched YouTube videos of the security guard a.k.a Mamba King. While I patiently stared at this man dancing Salsa on the offending computer screen, my body shivered and convulsed uncontrollably because about five minutes earlier I decided to bask in the brisk winter night wearing slippers and That Black Jacket, unzipped. The (appropriately dressed) person with whom I stood in the cold had made some complimentary remark regarding my intellect earlier in the night. She should reconsider.

The intervening hours between the consumption of hummus and the gyrating security guard were fun for reasons I do not quite understand yet. I stopped thinking for an evening. Many of my emotional preoccupations vanished last night, as did some other self-imposed limits. I have made mountains of thought today to make up for it, much of which I'm not ready to publish yet. Till then, please listen to Elliott Smith's "Say Yes," and revel in (or reflect fondly on) your twenties.

From Black Sand Journal