A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With a Single Step.

The sun reaches its apogee on the first of many muggy, muggy days in Brooklyn.  I find myself with an hour an a half to tap out this electronic update.

Yesterday I finished my chores before noon and spent a few hours psyching myself up to bring my drumset, Maggie to the New York streets.  Here she is, bungee'd up and ready for love:

So I wheeled this little beast down the stairs, out the door, down the subway steps, onto a Saturday afternoon 4 train.  I did not realize how many effing steps exist between my apartment and the subway. 

Sore, sweaty and suffering a few disgruntled looks, I schlepped to Union Square - a nice bustling spot to settle in with the rest of the Saturday crazies and lose myself in some rhythm.  Or so I thought.

I started setting Maggie up in a nice shady spot outside the Square, Children International canvassers and the pedestrians who avoid them my only company.  As I was finishing my set up and mentally preparing myself for the inevitable "Drummer Butt" byproduct of hours-long practices, a young NYPD officer approached me.

"You're not going to be happy,"  she said honestly.

Apparently the  Arizona Immigration protest taking place trumped any other busking or gathering.  I realize I should have just said,
"And what makes you think I'm NOT involved with this protest?  I'm drumming for REFORM!", or some other bullshit. 

But I didn't.  What I did say is "OK, how about Washington Square?  How do you get there?"

I know NYPD officers are not GPS devices, but this one couldn't even begin to tell me how to get to Washington Square Park.  Come on, get your act together, public servants.  I know the pay isn't good, but know your Manhattan landmarks?  Maybe I ask too much.

The next officer I ask for directions thinks we're already IN Washington Square Park.  False.  Once he pulls his iPhone out of his ass, he sends me to Washington Square Park.  Or so I thought.

I followed the very simple directions to Washington Square, only to realize the well-meaning, if disconnected officer has sent me to Madison Square Park. 

I grab a hot dog and reconnoiter, deciding Madison Square seems like a good place to bust one's busking cherry.  I apologize for the crass analogy, but it seems the first time playing music in public begins pretty much the same way as cardinal sexual experiences - sweaty palms, elevated heartbeat, mountains of expectations, spinning equilibrium, and so on. 

So I set up in an shady out-of-the-way corner of Madison Square park, facing the street, confusing public art installations and the Metlife building.

In the top left you can see a group of people assembled for a private Kentucky Derby party.  I played along with their Bluegrass band, prompting more than one person to ask if I was with them.  "I wish," I'd say, "..then I'd be getting paid!"

Now, full disclosure, I've busked before, but never drums, and never in New York.  So I was ready for the barrage of people who assume that because I'm practicing in public, I'm someone to come up to and talk to at length about Gene Krupa, drugs, slippers, oatmeal, and anything else that immediately comes to mind. 

That's not to say I don't enjoy the subjects of ramblings or momentary connections that busking affords.  My favorite part (at least until I start taking money) are the kids who can't look away as their parents lead them by the hand through the City East.

It's not that I'm a pedophile, though I do love pedaling, or anything resembling one.  But I remember when my parents took my to New York when I was eight years old.  I whined, I'm sure.  I'm almost positive my nose was pressed against my Gameboy for a week, because I don't remember much from the experience.  But, I do remember the street performers. 

I'm trying to fulfill a dream.  I don't know where these experiments will gain me anything, but one never knows until one tries.  I hope that the kids who walked by me yesterday, eyes wide as if seeing something they've never seen before, carry that memory with them.  Look back on that moment as a spring of inspiration - if there's people out there who take their instrument to the streets, who can fight through their insecurity in order to simply do what they want to do, then it can be done. 

And if it can be done by one, why can't anybody and everybody create their own life in their own image?  Why can't we all be happy?

Liberal idealist naivete, maybe.  But I have a feeling I'm not the only one.