(via The Days of Lore)
A long while ago, my sister and I were at CBGB for a Ramone’s cover night. We went because our friends’ band was scheduled to perform. The place was packed to the door, and we couldn’t push our way in in time to see them. We stayed anyway, because people were playing Ramones songs at CBGB, and it’s hard to go wrong with Ramones songs being played anywhere.
Toward the end of the night, we were nestled in the thick crowd close to the stage, and we got shoved hard from behind. We turned around in an ornery mood—my sister more ornery than I was, because she’s not someone you’d want to fuck with. After a moment of confusion we saw that the shovers were Joey Ramone and a man leading him to the stage. We instantly turned to each other and squealed in excitement—good bye orneriness.
Joey got to the stage and thanked everyone for coming out, and selected his favorite band of the night. I think they played one more song. But like I said, it was a long time ago. A few months later, Joey died, but playing music like this pretty much grants you immortality.
It’s not really the holiday season until that giant Spidey balloon makes its way down Broadway… Or which ever route they’re taking this year.
Milk of Magnesia
I think I fell asleep on the ferry. At the very least, I was in that semi-lucid state between sleeping and waking. I was keenly sensitive to the lapping tide of the New York Bay, and the couple $4 whiskey shot/Genesee beer combos I had at International Bar toward the end of the night were splashing around uncomfortably in unison with the water. I thought I was going to hurl.
Once the boat docked, I zombie-walked through the terminal and up the ramp to the bus. The S51 is the most direct route; and thanks to the usual bus driver, it’s lightning fast. At 4 a.m., the usual driver is a man, seemingly 35-40, with a barbell piercing in his right eyebrow. He gets the hybrid bus moving, too. The bus doesn’t stop, as much as it pauses at each stop as we rocket down Bay Street. Red lights are merely suggestions.
But last night, the driver was different: a matronly woman. She drove at a careful speed and came to gentle, courteous stops. Most remarkably, she announced upcoming stops over the loudspeaker with a cheerful voice. When it came to my stop, she asked me, “Is here good, or do you want me to move up?” As if she knew where I lived. “As far up as you can go,” I said, and she took me all the way up to the corner. I thanked her, and so did my stomach.
Missed Connection
Friday, I volunteered at one of the September Concerts. My location was Washington Square Park, and the rain was falling so hard that at times it was difficult to discern whether the water blowing out of the fountain was coming from the ground or the sky.
After setting up the tents, myself and the other volunteer went to a nearby deli to grab a few sandwiches. Upon returning, there were a couple of street people hanging out in the backstage tent. One was completely wasted and seated; the other, Chris, was alert, talkative and seemingly jovial.
A group of high school children were set to perform first. As they started to arrive with their instruments, the backstage tents became crowded. We asked Chris and his beleaguered friend to kindly leave so the kids and the sound guys could set up, but the two wouldn’t budge. They demanded to hear the kids play before they would leave. I stood between the two and the kids as one of the teachers talked to the increasingly belligerent men. Eventually, Chris became apologetic and complied with our request; he helped us get his buddy mobile also.
Later, I was working at the information tent at the side of the stage with a guy from the concert’s co-sponsor. He was trying to give me some instruction on setting things up when Chris returned. This time, his eyes were wide as he stared at me from across the table. He told me he was a sociopath, that he was aggressive. I kept eye contact and nodded and folded fliers. On my right, the man from the co-sponsor continued talking to me as if Chris weren’t there.
Chris was practically foaming at the mouth, repeating, “I’m a sociopath.” Incited by the man from the co-sponsor ignoring him, Chris became more aggressive, and I wondered if I was still limber enough to dodge a punch. I kept folding fliers.
“You’re nothing compared to me,” Chris told the man from the co-sponsor. “I’m out here on the street every day. I would destroy you.” The string of threats rolled on, but to his credit, the man from the co-sponsor paid him no mind and continued giving me instruction. I kept folding fliers.
Chris looked back to me—folding, listening. “You, I like,” he said.
Picture vaguely related.
Today the weather was nice enough for me to take a trip to Governors Island. I took the Staten Island Ferry to a smaller ferry that took me to the island. I enjoy taking boats to get places, and the fact that it required two boats to get me to my destination made the trip seem that much better.
After walking the circumference of the island, I ventured into the interior and rested near Fort Jay, which is surrounded by a moat. I’ve never seen an actual moat before, and it exceeded all of my expectations. I took pictures of it, but I’m too tired from traveling via boat, eating an ice cream sundae, watching True Blood and playing Magic: The Gathering to find them.
The Best Summer Ever
Sunday, I went to the Dinosaur Jr. concert at the Summerstage in Central Park—the second time I’d been to the park that weekend, even though I’d only been there once before in my previous 32 years. I’m making up for lost time.
It was worth the heat stroke to see J. Mascis tear it up on the guitar and play all the songs I knew and the ones I pretended to know. I met up with two people from my previous life in California. They’d moved to New York before I got back and had spent the summer working for the City Parks. They snagged me free water and even got me a wristband so I could watch from the side of the stage J. and Lou Barlow tolerate one another long enough to play an entire set. It was beautiful, the sun was setting and I was sweating profusely. I loved it, and I wasn’t even drunk.
Afterward, good fortune smiled on me again. My friends informed me that, since the Dinosaur Jr. show was the last Summerstage event of the season, that the staff was having an end-of-season party after the show with free food and booze. It was staff only, but they suggested I just hang out anyway, so I did.
An hour after the concert, the party kicked off, and I did my best to look inconspicuous—easy for me since I look like scenery. Coworkers played Wiffle Ball and clamored for free barbecue. On the empty stage, the interns were hugging and dancing and taking pictures. They’d all be heading back to where ever it was they went to school, and this could be their last moments together. One of them was a pretty young girl in a short yellow dress. She was taking the most pictures and delivering the most hugs. My friends and I joked that she was having the best summer ever.
We were just making fun because we were a bit jealous, and who wouldn’t be? She was young, pretty and apparently having the time of her life. She was away from home in the greatest city in the world and had her whole life ahead of her. She will probably always remember the summer fondly and want wholeheartedly to keep in touch with everyone she met, even though she’ll probably find out that that’s impossible.
Of course, that day, I was doing pretty well for myself too. I’d seen one of my favorite bands live for free; I was sitting in Central Park (for the third time ever) after midnight, drinking ice cold free Coronas and hanging out with cool people who didn’t seem to mind that I was crashing their get-together. The girl in the yellow dress may have been having the best summer ever, but I was happy to come in a close second.
Review: Superchunk at South Street Seaport
When I sat down to write this, I realized that I haven’t written a concert review in well over a year. I think I’m going to have to go back to taking notes at shows until I re-learn it. As it were, the review turned out alright, and I’m happy to have another outlet. Also, my calves are still sore from dancing at the show. Beyond Race’s new print issue is out now, and it looks great.
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