Put Down The Knitting, The Book and The Broom

   For your weekly dose of cultcha', get your passport in order and head to Thirteenth Street Repertory Theater to see the lovely and talented Ana Holly in Israel Horovitz' Line:

   

   Five people wait in line for an event drenched in ambiguity - not enough that the characters won't stretch the limits of their wily imaginations to be the first in.
   Translated into over 35 languages, performed in over 25 countries; well over 100,000 theatergoers have laughed at this outrageous comedy!

   See the premier of the newest cast of Line through January, Saturdays and Sundays at 9:30 PM:

Liam Alexander, Ross Buckley, Ana Holly, Alex Mahgoub, Armando Merlo, 

   Line is the longest running (now 38 years!) off-off Broadway show in New York.  The 13th St. Repertory Theater is at 50 W13th St. between 5th and 6th Avenues in New York City.  Tickets may be purchased online here at the very affordable price of $20, $15 for students and seniors.

   So dress yourself up with dignity, take a special friend out on the town, sit quietly still for an hour and let the young talent of New York City entertain you - you'll have a real good time.

Just do you

The Busker

A bronzed pool of lamplight
Sirens blow by
A young man on the street corner
Giving all he's got

To whoever will hear
His story as best he recollects
His father was there
and then he was gone

This too shall pass.

His bike got stole
His job got sold
His shoes got holes
Water in a bowl

This too shall pass.

So he's facing the night
does what he knows to remind

Nothing changes but the leaves
Nothing returns but the tide
After the night, after his shoes
After the father, After the light

After the bugs
After the blues

This too shall pass.
By slowly or by brief
This too shall pass.

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.

I decided today to do it the hard way.

I had a very interesting Easter.

Let this not be mistaken: it had nothing to do with Easter per se, or anything religious at all for that matter. Or maybe it did.

I saw on the subway on the way to work two people - a young boy and an old man. There wasn't anything particularly striking about these two people except that they both reminded me exceptionally of myself. It's probably a normal thing to be searching for oneself at this mid-twenty year point in life, and probably just as normal to look for the self in another person.

Anyway, this boy was an explainer. He was explaining the best way to stand to his father, with respect to the shifting of the subway train at the moment of stopping. I think I solved an equation like that for calculus. I digress - the kid reminded me of me.

The old man walked onto the train, and asked if the train was going to a certain street (which it was), sighed "oh" with a trace of sadness, and shuffled to a seat next to me with the help of a cane. I don't know what it was about this man in particular that struck a chord, but he did.

At work, a tall man who could have been 5 to 10 years older than I sat at a table. I didn't serve him but I got a good look, and if his curly hair, thick-rimmed glasses and facial hair didn't closely match mine, I saw something familiar in his eyes.

Later in the night, as I'm waiting for the last tables to leave, I get into a conversation about drumming with a family as I'm relieving a fellow server of his duty. Immediately after hearing I play drums she exclaims, "Oh! I can't wait to take drum lessons! I have to get myself a little more stabilized and centered and my neighbors probably won't like it..." and so on. I also mention that I'd like to be behind a bar instead of on the floor, to which she says "Oh you shouldn't do that... You seem like so much more of a drummer - you should just do that all the time..play drums all the time"

So, after this strange day of brushing by people who reflect some part of my self to me, I decided to take this strange, drunk lady's advice. I will strike out to the streets of New York and schlep through Brooklyn to play drums. I will write about it and document it.

The most interesting way to do something is to do it the hard way. And if there's one way I'm really good at doing things..