DanielSonenberg.com

I ran out tonight to skate through the empty aisles of Hannaford in the desperate moments before the eleventh hour when they always lock their doors for good. I stopped first at the ethnic section, where you find the matzo, (I moved to Maine and became an ethnic, go figure). I wasn't there for the unleavened good stuff, however, but rather for a yarzeit candle, by means of which we ethnics, once a year, commemorate our departed. It was on an amber Halloween morn 25 years ago today that my father and sister ran and bike rode (respectively) past me as I walked up North Street towards the Great Neck Music Center and my first ever drum lesson. The colors of the day are emblazoned on my memory not so much from my 11-year-old perceptivity as from the photo that my sister took, one which wound up being framed and copied and framed again and distributed amongst immediate family for wistful rumination at all our ritual gatherings. You've figured how the story turns out. I get home from the lesson and find a locked house and no-one in sight, and cool my heels with the neighbors until hours later my aunt pulls up with my sister and "there's been an emergency." The resulting fog of teary and understanding adults, plates and plates of whitefish, visits from rabbis and relatives, followed by plummeting grades and eventually a move out of town, and then college, grad school, marriage, unclehood, job, blog and a rain of discomfiting and unpleasant All Hallows Eves marked by a particular aversion to Jack-o-Lattern carving and costume reckoning preceded my scammering through the shelves of our local supermarket, ethnic commemorative glassed wax in my hand, searching for Mallomars. Because we ethnics mourn with our hearts, yes it's true, but even more profoundly with out digestive systems and our noses, and dear old dad would - I'm guessing - be tickled to think that his gustatory legacy lived on in his progeny most profoundly as a holy reverence for that dark chocolate, marshmallow and graham cracker concoction sold in the plain white boxes with the yellow outer wrap. They're sold only seasonally, because the thin outer coating, the darkest of matte browns, takes unwell to the summer elements. And the vast majority of them are sold in the New York metropolitan area, a fact proudly proclaimed on the box itself. And in my desperate searching, with the clock ticking on towards eleven and banishment, the only yellow boxes I found housed Fig Newtons and I needed to search out the store manager who took me right to the spot, considerably narrower than those allotted for, say, Oreos or Chips Ahoy, where the Mallomars ought to have been and let me gaze all the way back to the peg board. Sold out. Sold, I imagine, to other raving and wild-eyed ethnics, transplanted and homesick, lonely for lost fathers, toting yarzeits and heavy hearts and yearning just for that transportative commingling of bitter sophistication, cloudy white goo and the perfect hint of crisp. We would keep them in the fridge, two separate white rectangular boxes (that have since been replaced by a single box), and Nina and I understood that parental writ was required for tresspass into that sacred realm. They were daddy's Mallomars, housed apart, doled out piecemeal and appropriate for those fleeting moments of familial wholeness that were able to make special occasions out of ordinary sections of ordinary afternoons. Only arriving when the cold wind begins to blow and the leaves swell and then fade and fall, when the spirits poke their cold noses, redolent of times past, into the comfy and organized present and urge us to grieve and howl and mount strange holidays. No transcendent goo tonight. Just the flickering flame on the stovetop and the gusts of wind banging up against our rickety and porous windows. No Mallomars, but spirits abound all the same. Neil Stephen Sonenberg, present as you've always been, reclaim thy rightful place in the search engines of the here and now.

*Addendum - apropos this blog post I've finally updated the Vault.

I'm not doing very well at keeping up with my blog duties, and I do apologize. It's a busy time is all I can say. Today Alex and I took the 45 minute journey out to Limerick, where we visited our friend Binney Brackett, who gave us a tour of her ancestral village. We got to peek inside all sorts of wonderful old farm houses, places where she grew up, and some built by her own great grandfather. What a connection to the land. This shot was taken by Mr. Moto through a screened in porch, and seemed just arty and strange enough to make the blog cut. It was a blustery and swirling kind of day, fewer leaves clinging to the trees and more circling through the air in that part of Maine, not so far from the New Hampshire border and even the town of Wolfboro where once upon a time I went to summer camp. Al and I are back in the saddle now, preparing to brace ourselves for another week of mayhem. Truth About Daisies played a fun gig at the Dogfish Bar and Grille last night. I swear, more people ought to hear us play - we're beginning to really put it together. Ah well...I promise to have something profound to say in this space some time soon. For now, I'm going to go for a run, since it's 4pm and it's, like, about to get dark. (insert contorted and evil internet ASCII face here)

Autumn comes and goes quickly here - by the time you notice it's happening it's more than halfway done. Tourists come from, supposedly anyway, all over the world to watch the leaves. I like em fine, although my years in Annandale, smack in the Hudson Valley, spoiled me forever as far as fall foliage goes. There's nothing like that particular arboreal splendor anywhere else in the world, so far as I know. So as beautiful as it gets here in fall, I'm still always waiting for something more, and by the time I realize that the something more's not coming, whatall there was in the first place is just about gone. An afternoon pre-class walk to fetch my late lunch, or early dinner if you will, bucked up my spirits in this regard at least a little. If the trees aren't quite the transcendence I'm looking for, their dance with the Maine sky - which is uniquely stunning at all times of the year - can make for some heart stopping visions. Good thing poor maligned little Mr. Moto was on hand for the celebration: The walk into town. Trodden by many a harried student and professor in search of something finer than what's on offer in the spaceship-like student commons. Even in Gorham, which never quite became a real college town, there aren't many options. The campus heading towards dusk. Not a soul in sight, but think of all the thinking and professing, and listen to the pianos pounding, the vocal warm-ups, the euphoneums ablowin'. And a happy sight, sometime before evening counterpoint class, at the GHOP (Gorham House of Pizza). What you don't see are the jalapenos in that eggplant sandwich!

I bet you all imagine that this how life is in Maine - you know, the way life should be. Every afternoon around 4 saunter down to the Harbor Fish Market, pick out a couple of soft-shell lobsters, $4.99 a pound for 1.25 pounders, then take out the giant lobster pot from LL Bean, and without batting an eye, commit the double murders that will yield your evening's sustenance. Well, maybe not every afternoon. Okay, maybe about once a year. But more often would certainly be possible. There was a time when I grew squeamish at the prospect of preparing this meal. There's even a video out there somewhere of me screaming and cringing in a previous execution. But now I'm cold blooded and methodical. If you're going to eat meat, might as well face up to the task of taking the life yourself, you know? Anyway, these were delicious - lobsters purchased in Maine and cooked in the home somehow taste like nothing else in this world.

I'm sorry I haven't written. I really do feel bad about it. And there keeps being stuff to write about too. For instance, Alex and I joined the gym. Well - she joined the gym, and then discovered that every one of the exercise machines has a TV with 100 stations attached to it. Well she comes home and gives me this information and I set about doing the math. Membership at the gym costs $10 a month ($29.99 membership fee) and cable television costs $40. So I did it. I joined the gym only for television. And I got there just in time, about five minutes before Battlestar Galactica started. I like to exercise, to be sure, but I prefer to do it outside, especially seeing as I live in one of the more beautiful places around (see picture, courtesy of Mr. Moto). Anyway I had a real funny picture of Alex I was going to post in this space, but she argued against it, and so I just sort of sat on my heels. Yes, I've been playing a bit more scrabble. Today I unsuccessfully tried to play the words "oaty" "ee" (as in the letter E) and "oo" (as in "oo! I stubbed my toe."). All three were challenged and then disallowed. Oh well. What else? Oh, remember that book proposal I was yammering on about over the summer. Well I submitted it today - finito. Long time coming too. Anyway, I better sign off before I get even more boring. Just this little note to say I haven't forgotten about you, all my wonderful and dear friends out in blogoland, waiting anxiously each day for my next string of wisdom pearls. It outright kills me that you might think I've forsaken you.

You, dear readers of my blog, know that I have enough going on in my life, right? Not an abundance of leisure time on my hands generally, right? (I know I know, just like the rest of us, I'm not making a claim for being special here). So did I really need to develop a sudden and completely debilitating addiction to internet scrabble? I stayed up until 3am last night playing some guy from Michigan. I mostly lose, because I don't know words like qi and qat and nutria and rialto, or maybe I can't come up with them under the pressure of the clock. I need help... And hey, don't say I never did you any favors: click here, if you dare.

I suppose it's possible for a film to be funnier or more enjoyable than Little Miss Sunshine, but I haven't seen too many that are. Alex and I giggled our butts off tonight at the Tuesday night $5 special. I suppose the movie that comes to mind as somewhat similar is Happiness, although this is a touch less dark, and a touch less uncomfortable. But just so close to being perfect - a movie that understands that laughter is the gateway to all our emotions. This is old news, but I couldn't contain myself from proselytizing a bit.

CBGB has closed its doors. It happened the other night - Patti Smith came back to partake in the farewell festivities, and true New Yorkers shed a tear for the club that established the Big Apple as an incubator of great rock and roll in the mid 70s and early 80s. But this has special poignance for me because I played the first non-local gig of my life there in 1985, as the 15-year-old drummer of Delayed Green Wait. At the time, I didn't even know what CB's was - the bands, the history. I just knew I had to convince my mom to let me go, and she ultimately came to the gig and had a swinging good time. It was a Monday night audition showcase, and we did a nice job. The band on before us was smitten with our earnestness and tunefulness. We were Green (in every way), not so tight, but we had great songs and the genius guitarist Lexi Stern. Friends schlepped in from Great Neck and it was a real trip. I called back for weeks afterward. First they told me that we passed the audition and they were going to book us. Then they said that we weren't quite tight enough, and that we should re-audition and good luck to us. Then I lost the CB's board tape and told the other band members it was stolen out of my high school locker, and some members of the trio (not me) had a falling out, and some members (not me) went to college, and the history that we all felt certain we were poised to make didn't get made. In the intervening years I've been in a few bands, and even had the opportunity to play CB's again a couple of times manning the kit for Billy Dechand's Trike. But the hall - the pit, as everyone told me it was when I was 15 and impressionable - has always brought me back to that bright early and eager time, when the city was mucky, alluring and frightening, and the future was only possibility. Possibility for a call-back, a return engagement, a discovery, signing, well-deserved career of fame and jamfests and San Tropez and remembering that golden moment back in the pit, back there on the dusty old Bowery, one Monday night in the middle of the roaring 80s. Adieu dear CB's, and OMFUG too.

Sorry Anne, I can't vote for you. And it's not just because your opponent is my former student, or because I never really got into that whole Fountainhead business. No. It's your atrocious grammar.

Look friends, I'm not trying to be cryptic here. But I've had a breakthrough and I can't exactly tell you what it was. It's about the opera - not notes and rhythms, not even libretto...I'm back to tinkering with the actual treatment. It's late in the day for that, what with music already written and such, but things are so falling into place. It all goes back to when I saw Jenufa up at Glimmerglass. Artsy fartsy is fine for some, but I think at core I'm like Janacek insomuch as I'd prefer to have people bawling, you know? Get sucked in. So I've wrenched the opera - with the consultation of my good friends at American Opera Projects - into something of a more conventional narrative space. The guy in the photo is Gus Greenlee, who was the king of the Pittsburgh numbers racket in the 1930s, and also, for a time, the owner of the Pittsburgh Crawfords. For a few seasons that may have been the best baseball team ever assembled anywhere. But it's Gus and his numbers who are at the core of my little eureka day today, and for quite a while going forward you're going to have to take me at my word when I tell you just how thoroughly good old Gus ties everything together. No idea whatsoever what I'm talking about? Click here. Next on the agenda for me, although I don't know when it'll fit, is a trip to Pittsburgh and Homestead. It's time, at long last, to walk in the footsteps of greatness. Anyone got a couch?

I've stolen a moment to think back on my lovely visit with family and friends last week in NYC. Here's the newest family member, Sylvie, who is close to turning one and a half. I guess maybe because I don't yet have kids of my own, I've never subscribed to that whole age-by-months thing. You know, I suppose she's really 17 months old or something, but those kind of numbers just confuse me. We get on fine, anyway. I'm back in the Maine October swing of things now, which is to say exhausted. We've reached that point, Alex and I. There's no food in the house except for various incarnations of starch. There's no time or energy to shop, nor to cook, and there's no money either (we just paid a thousand bucks for a car repair. A whole thousand, and even a little more, in case you think I'm rounding up). There are projects and deadlines and grading and prepping and baseball playoffs populated by strange, but at times endearing teams (Go Tigers, I think). There are performances - a great USM production of Equus last night, and a recital by USM faculty pianist Laura Kargul tonight. And band practices and gigs and running when there's maybe a moment, and lots of music to write but no concentrated time for it, and applications for every odd thing. And email correspondence and recommendation letters. This is life, right? Just going and going and not really reflecting or evaluating...just going and hoping that somehow you're carving a bit of an honorable trail. I'm off to bed I guess. At least this weekend we're both home. We might even see a movie despite everything.

Man - another Yankee felled in his own plane. Very strange. I haven't time or energy for you. No photo even. But I just wanted to use a little bandwidth to shout out to the #4 starter that we hardly knew - a late September breeze, and an October flame-out. Very sad.

Just a little familial fun down at Brooklyn Bridge Park today. Serena - the one in the light blue tee shirt, leftmost on the tire swing, is my niece. She rode the tire for a full hour, but fortunately I only pushed for about 30 minutes. Momma Sonenberg's the photographer. (p.s. the concert went great! More on that soon!)

First of all, sorry for silence. I'm back in New York, and this city is the best in so many ways, but just completely and totally lame when it comes to wifi access. Walking from my sister's place on 97th and Westend up towards Columbia University, there was not one single (non-Starbucks) opportunity for wifi access, either free or pay. Fortunately I had read earlier in the day that Columbia gives it away for free, so now I'm sitting by the lovely quad riding the Ivy League bandwidth. Ultimately it's pretty convenient, since in a few short hours the South Oxford Six will be presenting our concert at the Broadway Presbyterian Church just across the way (here's a shot from our rehearsal in the church yesterday - Charles Kigor setting up his percussion instruments in the balcony). I imagine my core readers, if indeed such beings exist, are eagerly awaiting my take on the horrendous demise of the Yankees. Of course I'm disappointed. But ultimately, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I catch a lot of heat up in Red Sox Nation about the Yankees' astronomical payroll (never mind that Boston's payroll is #2), and about the fact that the Yanks' number 9 hitter hit .342 during the regular season (never mind that he's homegrown and making just above MLB minimum wage). There's some fairness to the criticism, even though it's always hurled my way as sour grapes after the Sox or some other team have been purged from contention. But the fact of the matter is, the Yankees didn't win their recent championships with money alone. The teams of '96 and '98-'00 featured a homegrown core (Jeter, Bernie, Posada, Pettitte, Rivera, Mendoza, Soriano, and even guys like Ramiro Mendoza and Brian "boom boom" Boehringer), with a carefully selected mix of big money free agents (David Cone, Cecil Fielder, John Wetteland) and much more important workaday scrappers, guys like Paul O'Neil (unquestionably the heart and soul of all those great teams), Tino Martinez (ah for a defensively sound first baseman), Scott Brosius (here's a funny poem my friend Ken Greenfield wrote when the Yankees traded Kenny Rogers away for Scotty: I hate Kenny Rogers; He's simply attrocius; Hoped he'd go to the Dodgers; But I'm glad we got Brosius. Strangely apropos after this series, huh?) And then there are the bit players, guys like Graeme Lloyd, Luis Sojo (Playoff GOLD), David Weathers (well, maybe not him actually). The Yankees made all these unexciting little moves, and the roster did not read like the A.L. all star team from three years ago. In returning to the big money free agent superstar model of the 1980s (when the Yankees won more baseball games than any other team, but no championship), the Yanks have certainly jolted their attendance numbers (they broke 4 million this year for the second year in a row), but they've forsaken chemistry, forsaken Team. They're a collectiion of big numbers guys who for whatever reason -and I think perhaps because it's not how they "grew up," unlike the products of the Yankee farm system - are unable to function at full capacity under the glare and pressure of October ball. It may seem like I'm backtracking here, but I'm really not. I boycotted the entire 2004 season - when the Yanks ditched Soriano for Arod - in protest. I came back in the playoffs that year, only to have my fears confirmed. Recently I've been trying to follow more closely, and this year it seemed as though the boys really had heart. But they proved that they don't. The Detroit model is instructive: a bunch of players on that team were there when they stunk up the American League, losing 119 games. But they've come together as a team, and despite their dismal play down the stretch, they knew how to rise to the occasion. Because let's face it - the wildcard, as nice as it is for many fans who now have the chance to enjoy more playoff action, pretty much takes the teeth out of a lot of pennant races. The Tigers lost 5 in a row to lose their division in the last week of the season, but did that really matter one iota? Meanwhile the Yankees came close to winning a hundred games, even though for the last month the division was wrapped up. When it was time to play games again that really matttered, we saw who was the better team.

Here's what I'd like to see the Yankees do (but they never will): Trade away as many of the big-name, big money players as they possibly can, ideally for good prospects, turn their attention inward - to bulking and nurturing the farm system - and accept two years of mediocre seasons, "rebuilding" years. I'm willing to wait. I'd like a leaner and meaner team, a lower payroll, and - while I'm on the topic - not to see Johnny Damon's grinning face on my TV while the Yanks are being thoroughly humiliated. I mean jeez, I've got his name on my shirt! So I'm somewhat saddened now, but I'm already almost over it. And I'm rooting for the Willie Randolph-skippered New York Mets. Nice seeing that man, who was disgustingly passed over by many clubs who opted for less qualified, but lighter hued, managers over the years, shove that mistake back in the offending faces. Go Willie! Go New York!

There's more, much more to report. This morning I ran straight from the UWS to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, along the Hudson River the whole way. I proclaim New York to be the greatest running city in the world. More on that at some point. I also went to see the M Shanghai String Band last night, who were brilliant as usual (here they are, nearing their finale - you go Mr. Moto!) If I can find more wifi, you'll get more details.

Hey - I've made it to the Phoenix, the local cool paper. I didn't even know. Not available on line, so I'll make it so...(frrom Sam Pfeifle's column on p. 18 of the September 29 issue)

Sibilance: Since former Phoenix "Classical" columnist Mark Scearce (sorry, J. Mark) skipped town, we haven't been paying much attention to the resident composer spot at USM's School of Music. Really, how could anybody replace that Scearce fire? Well, our bad for not noticing Dan Sonenberg before now. Word is he's into electronic music and jazz as much as classical and Broadway. Look for a recital of his works in the spring, featuring pieces from his opera, which is based on a Negro League baseball player. This is also another opportunity for us to call for the School of Music to come to Portland. Gorham is just not happening.

Yeah - it's true about Gorham. But it's not our fault. Still, I hope when March 9 rolls around people will make the trek that my colleagues and I make once or even twice a day. I mean, Bach walked hundreds of miles to hear Buxtehude play the organ, you know?
And I also hope New York people will come here my concert this coming Sunday.

Alex ambled back eventually from the metropolis. Her flight was delayed, I guess, by the same gusty winds and sheets of pissing rain that washed away a Yankee game, and then eventually found their way up north and soaked us proper. Her US Air flight 3188 landed, and exhausted but happy with each other's company we drove off to the Downtown Lounge, which is open till 1 (as late as any place stays welcoming around here). There we saw the great politician Ben Meiklejohn, my one time student, who now finds himself polling ahead as the Green party candidate for state legislature. He'll be our rep if he wins, so we enjoyed his company as he railed against the tyranny of the majority and the inherent nonsensicality of the two-party system. Alex, who has shows and classes and daunting responsibilities all piling up drank cosmos, one for each of my whiskeys, as we giddily stared out at wet and vacant Portland. The old State Theater, now a studio building, where old Bobby Dylan used to play (he was friends with the owner, the locals tell me), glistened, its art deco lettering a shout-out to faded glory. It was an Indian summer night, balmy and breezy before the rains came in, and we reveled in our irresponsibility, but eventually you just know we had to come home. And here we are, our jet-lag-inspired cracks of dawn a memory, caught once again in our cycle of late nights and early but not early enough mornings, of never fitting it all in, of breakfast from a bag and a paper cup and punched bonus cards at Hilltop Coffee even though Phil has left for San Francisco. Here we are in our little happy flat up on the hill, desperately clinging to these simple fleeting hours before the dawn.

Alex flew off to Connecticut for work tonight, and I visited the cash machine and then Yosaku, which, I've come to agree with Big Al, is the best sushi joint in town. Throwing caution to the wind, I showed up just in time for first pitch (surely you're aware that the playoffs started tonight) and ordered Omakasa. That means let the sushi chef take charge and give you the freshest and most creative offerings he's got. Couldn't do this in New York, of course, because the price would just be obscene. And I probably couldn't do it anywhere else in Portland - where even the sushi chefs bleed Red Sox red. Not here. Yosaku is Yankee-fan owned, and the atmo in there for expats such as myself is downright embracing. The Yanks set about bopping the Tigers around (although the game is a bit closer and still going on now) and I decadently ate about three plates of sushi and a green tea ice cream. The highlight was this blurry spicy scallop roll, brought to you by our old friend Mr. Moto. Spent $55 + tip, so I guess it won't be a nightly occurrence during these playoffs, but the evening lived up to my various and sundry sushi bar fantasizings.

There's an awful lot to talk about, but Monday's madness has me running on fumes, and barely at that. Here's a view from the M60 bus, on the Triboro Bridge, as I careened forwards past my old Astoria neighborhood and on to LaGuardia Airport. The world is a strange place tonight. This horrible Amish school shooting sucks the life out of most of the silly blather I have prepared. Every week now we're asked to expand our capacity to imagine the unimaginable. Lonelygirl15, meanwhile, veers deeper and deeper into the occult. I'm having trouble keeping up - especially with the bizarre development that is cassieiswatching. I wanted to do a post on bagels - maybe I need to divide and conquer.

Bagels I tried the bagels here, at harpist Arielle's suggestion (that's her whole name, by the way). It's BagelWorks on 66st and 1st, and the bagels are authentic...on a late Sunday they only had sesames and poppies left. Smaller than Absolute, more seeds, maybe just a touch less satisfying but definitely genuine. I have a feeling about bagels, one I've inherited, I think, or at least absorbed from endless Sunday bagel brunches with the family as a child. Bagels are not meant to be toasted. You toast only old or inferior bagels. A bagel, if it is to be heated, should be heated uncut, in an oven, at maybe 350 degrees for a few minutes. When the outer crust develops just the slightest crispiness, and the inner dough steams wildly when exposed to the elements by the blade, bagel perfection has been achieved. Outside of New York, I notice, an ordered bagel is almost always toasted without even asking. But few self-respecting fresh hand-rolled bagel shops in NYC toast at all. Freeze yes. But don't toast.

Pizza Patsy's wins the prize for most authentic by-the-slice atmosphere. It's so spartan there, almost like a surreal David Lynch imagining of a generic pizza place. Especially the giant $1.50 per slice sign. Next door (this is at 117th and 1st ave.) you can sit down and order stuff, have some variation, but here it's just slices and a Coke machine. The pizza slices are similar in size to Difara's, and a little similar in appearance and consistency. They taste very good, but that's about all. Not transcendent, and in the same league neither with Dom's Midwood magic (Difara) or Sal & Carmine's at 101/Broadway. The atmo is kicking, in its way, but it's also kind of a lonely spot to visit.

Licorice I'm only concerned about two kinds of licorice right now, and they're both red, so purists - yes, there ARE licorice snobs - don't really consider either to actually be licorice. But the heck with them. As I see the world there's Kookaburra red licorice, which I suppose is Australian, and there's Panda raspberry, which is Finnish and less expensive and I think more widely available. I am unable to refrain from eating an entire box of either. But the Panda comes with purity of ingredients - it's mostly molasses and natural flavoring stuff. When I eat the Panda I think, how could I ever really have been tempted by the sticky Kookaburra stuff that has: sugar, flour, citric acid, artificial flavour and colors? But then at Eli's on the Upper East Side (which is an oddly empty Zabar's knockoff...I think Eli's last name IS Zabar, actually) I saw the six dollar container at the checkout line and crumpled like a foil bag. You should probably decide for yourself.

Pumpkin What do you think of this pumpkin that I saw at Grace's marketplace on E71st and 3rd (or so). Notice the price tag?(It's uh hundred dollahs buddy) My hand is there for scale (those that know me can attest I have very big hands - might have been better to use my head by I couldn't stretch it).

But now I'm back home and sleepy as well. Here's a picture of some hints of krazy orange light outside my kitchen window, and with that I bid you good morrow. New York's a nice town, but so is dear old Portland. Why choose? I'll take both.

I've found the loveliest little coffee place - M. Rohr's Cafe on E 85th right off of 2nd avenue. It has lower eastside gemütlichkeit, for lack of a better word, and a friendly vibe - if I hadn't quit coffee a month ago I could tell you about that too. I've eschewed my usual Upper Westside haunts for this foreign upscale nabe across the park, since my rehearsal this morning was on E62nd. The rehearsal went swimmingly, and our host, harpist and fashion designer Arielle, amazed us with her omelette cooking prowess. I contemplated jetting back west to pick up Absolute bagels and Zabar's herring, but I opted to explore new territory. Oh you may well get a report...but right now, after all these years, I'm finally planning to head up to 117th St. and 1st Avenue and sample Patsy's famous pizza (the "real" Patsy's, not one of the countless imitators scattered throughout the city). I'm still coughing, but the city to me is like lightning for King Kong (or was it Godzilla?) it just makes me stronger. And had a great night's sleep last night on a new mattress, fresh pillow, no mosquito, and snug blanket. Off to find my slice now...

Oh - I've noticed the comment spam has started. Not sure what to do about it from here - for the moment I'm going to temporarily disable comments. Judging by the frequency with which they were used, they probably won't be missed.