DanielSonenberg.com

The City was filled with surprises and adventures for us, as always. Alex stormed into City Hall on my birthday, armed with a power point presentation, three foam core models, a mosaic sample, and 3 cast paper turtles, and walked out with a public art commission from the city of New York. This means we’ll be coming back often. We went to a foundry, practically right next door to the Steinway factory in Astoria, and saw how bronze sculptures are cast – a mind boggling process. Al will be jetting around to New York and to Montreal (where the mosaicists are – that’s probably not spelled correctly, but you try spelling mosaicist). There was ping pong on my birthday at Fat Cat Billiards, and a trip out to Mandolin Brothers in Staten Island – the greatest guitar shop I’ve ever seen (and maybe also the hardest to reach). We saw the Yankees clobber the Red Sox Monday night, waited on line with Bernadette Peters for a Broadway Musical Tuesday night (Lovemusik – about Kurt Weill. Decent show with great music); I caught some new opera by Eddy Ficklin on Wednesday eve; Thursday night we made it out to Sripraphai, the best Thai restaurant in the world (expanded, refinished, swanky now, but the food and prices remain as amazing as they always were), and Friday, after a walk on the Brooklyn Prom with some friends and family, we battled the masses leaving New York for Memorial Day Weekend and wound up in Connecticut.

Tomorrow it’s off to Bard for a Chris Hume memorial. You can bet I will report. Meantime, hit reload to see some different pics!

Alex and I are house sitting for our dear friends Jeff and Charlotte over on East 9th street. I'm sorry so sorry for not having written. What happens is you let a week get away from you, then another, and then life keeps happening and happening, and all the wonderful and terrible events that, pasted together, make up the life you all tune in for (every last one of you) pile up like old New Yorker issues. One day you just up and realize that you’re not going to get to all of them. So you – perhaps because your loving wife makes you – chuck them out on recycling Wednesday. Unless you’ve got foresight, in which case you rip off all the covers and stash them in a drawer to paper your bathroom wall, sometime down the road when you find yourself actually owning a bathroom (and maybe even a house to go with it).

Suffice to say that you simply won’t hear about everything. You won’t even see all the pictures. The big Merrill Auditorium concert from last month may end up being as ignored here as it was by that loathsome classical music critic at the Portland Press Herald. The glorious end of the semester, just a puff of vapor now. Even my last trip to New York, with all the pictures I took of Dom at DiFara, seem hopelessly dated now. Well that’s not entirely true – I bet I can dig one of those up.

But I’m back now and I’m going to try to shift the focus of my leisure hours a little bit more towards Argh-a-blog. I’ve been paralyzed by Fantasy Baseball, a pastime I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Avoid it like the plague, especially if you’ve an obsessive personality like I do. I won’t bore you with all the fantasy details, save to tell you that Carlos Delgado and Andruw Jones are KILLING me. They’re outright killing me – I’m losing sleep over it.

I’m in the City Bakery near Union Square contemplating if I should order an espresso drink as a follow-up to the half-iced-tea-half-lemonade I just drank. The kindly old man at the counter mistakenly gave me a large, so he charged me for a small which was bonus. Especially since the large isn’t as offensive and gut busting as, say, the one you get at 7-11. Oh, I also had a pretzel croissant, which has sprung up in a few locations since these folks started making them back in, oh, the early 90s? But no-one does them like City Bakery.

I’m also working on the opera treatment, still. I’m treating and working, except that I’m not. Since the madness of the last semester and all the accompanying activity subsided, I’ve been in a near state of catatonia. I accomplish nothing, and I’m really just taking up space on the planet that could probably be more profitably utilized by someone else. If this blog had a subtext, a motto, something, it might be: “I promise to try harder,” since I think that comes rolling off my fingers with some frequency.

I’m sitting next to some sort of person on the phone. She seems important, and I think she might be involved in theater. I look like shlub, wearing Good Humor colors and not looking at all local to Union Square. So I won’t say hello.

And this little mish mash is all I’ve got for you today. Just a little New York ramble. Sometimes the thing to do is just write something, so the pressure lets up a bit. The feeling that every utterance, spit out into cyber space for my adoring six readers, needs to be earth shattering in one way or another. That’s what leads to blogstipation, if you catch my meaning. So I’ve assembled these few paragraphs, full of sound and fury and signifying nothing, just to stretch the old noodle into shape. I want to write more. It is time to start clicking Refresh on Argh-a-Blog once again. Yessiree.

Hi everybody...

Just a quick note to say I haven't forgotten about this blog - I just took about a month off from all worldly responsibilities....Oh I'll be in honest, I've been playing fantasy baseball basically non-stop. I'm a pathetic excuse for a person. But it's my birthday!

In NYC right now - and gonna write w/ updates and more.

even a pic coming soon - I swear it.

This flash trip to New York turned out to be all about the miraculous Brooklyn Bridge, which turned up around every corner, no matter what the means of transportation. (reload this page to see different random views from and of). Running across the bridge, with Henry Cowell's "Dynamite Motion" blasting on my ipod, I felt my life take on a particular bigness. The spirit of Walt Whitman coursed through my veins, and I thought of all the possibilities that lay in wait for an ambitious practitioner of this American existence. From the window of the N train, which rumbled across the neighboring Manhattan Bridge hours later on the same day, that sense of possibility still seemed present, though framed by glass and steel and somewhat less tangible. Each time I visit this vast and variable city my love for it grows. It has become my Paris, a wonder at every turn, but a more gruff and moody metropolitan beauty with stiffer and chewier baked goods. Speaking of which, I must take my leave to do some chewing - a borough full of bagel holes awaits me.

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.

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.

Even after a day in bed, a night in transit, and a late night on a deflating air mattress, freezing and swatting at a mosquito in a Hell's Kitchen apartment, it feels good to breathe these city rhythms once again - been too long. So here I am, heavy of throat, sitting in Bryant Park engraving musical examiples for the New York Philharmonic's Playbill. I'll be able to send them too, since wireless at this particular spot is free. I'm in town for a meeting and a rehearsal - almost canceled the trip due to ill health, but soldier on we must (especially when bagels are involved). More dispatches soon, hopefully.

Oh I'm just a boring food-obsessed Jew sometimes, I know. Now I've got a freezer full of bagels, a fridge full of lox and herring. You can't buy herring here in Portland. Oh, I mean, you can all over, but it tastes really raunchy. Kind of like what most people imagine herring to taste like, I suppose. So even though when I lived in the city herring was very, very rarely on the shopping list, it always feels very important to cart some back. But the first stop was Absolute Bagels by 107th St. and Broadway. This is the ultimate in authentic bagels: hand rolled, water boiled. Okay, run entirely by Asians who only very occasionally display the requisite New York grumpiness (the man who packed my order was disorientingly and overwhelmingly lovely). But whatever ethnic cred they may be lacking, the bagels are chewy, always fresh, perhaps a tad too large (but that's the trend, you know?) Of course, you could go down to 79th street and Broadway and overpay for some H&H bagels. I stealthily photographed the price list, just in case you don't take me at my word. It might actually be worth it to get one of these usually hot, always too-sweet doughboys at, say, 4AM, when you're stumbling home from the 1 Train, having spent all your cash in the East Village and then having had your tab picked up for the next two hours by visiting Finns benefiting from a healthy exchange rate. Not that I'd know what that's like. But I pity the poor Sunday morning fool who walks in to buy three dozen for the arriving relatives. It's highway robbery. He should instead buy the cheapies next door at Zabar's, which used to and probably still do come from Columbia Hot Bagels. When I lived in the hood they were selling them for about $.39, but I believe those days are gone. I did make it into this mecca, this time around, as promised, and I know if you're a regular reader of this blog you're sick to death of the place already. But for the rest of you, mom, I took some pictures. First and foremost, here's proof about the olive bar: It's a common misconception about Zabar's that it's expensive. True, they sell expensive items, such as caviar and smoked salmon. But they sell these luxury goods, usually, at the best prices in all of New York. Their upstairs housewares department is by far the best place anywhere to buy pots and pans and Farberware coffee makers, and downstairs they sell their famous coffee for $6.99 a pound, compared to the $8.99-$12.99 I seem to have pay up here. Anyway, I had a swell time, and speaking of stealth, I stole a little picture of my beloved David, who no longer has any idea who I am or that we once spend many minutes talking about Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich. David's the best fish cutter on the planet - can be moody, but the slice is a serious art form for him, and I've never known him to go into a slump. I drive 300 miles for my Norwegian (don't follow the masses into ordering "Novie" - get the good, dry stuff), I'll wait the extra several minutes for the guru. I couldn't resist photographing one more great deal: That's right - $7.80 for half a pound of salmon caviar. If you're up here in Portland with me, go see what they charge you for the same amount of the same product at Brown Trading Co. on Commercial Street. You could almost afford round trip tix on Jet Blue. If you get the stuff at either place, also get some creme fraiche and some olive oil potato chips, and lastly some chives. Then invite some friends to the park for a picnic, have them bring the champagne, and you bring the cooler. I'm telling you. Well, it was check out time by now, and you'll notice some other usual suspects on the conveyer belt: I am a man of few and simple pleasures.

And it's check out time for July, which means, keeping with tradition, I'll probably leave this blog alone for a few days, and then usher in August 3rd or 4th with a photoless entry. But then, that's exactly what you're expecting me to do!

The big city greeted us with great love and warmth. It is balmy and breezy and lovely and empty here - there was a parking spot right outside sis's building, so we plunked in our luggage and went out walking. If you head north on a night like this you'll inevitably end up at Sal and Carmine's. And they'll inevitably be the same old reliable second best slice in all of New York. First best, unless things have really changed, is Difara, and it's way in Midwood and a fortune and a total, total scene now that Dom's been discovered and written about in all the local press etc. I've debated the merits of Sal and Carmine's with no less an authority than the great Jim Leff, founder of Chowhound.com. You can see the exchange here - be sure to scroll down and read Jim's amusing and certainly accurate take on the real secret behind the brothers' mastery. I won't go into it here - just saying that the pizza was divine. We weren't even hungry, but it was our civic duty, so we indulged. Then circled around past the old Masters Building on 103rd and Riverside where once I lived. The sweet doorlady who I knew and loved well was working her shift today, but Alex couldn't remember her. But then Alex remembered a maintenance guy that I had forgotten, and so we wandered back southward through the warm and windy streets remembering our lives and thinking how funny it is that things change - like, really change. But our love of this city only grows. Let's see how we feel after tomorrow hits 100 degrees!

Good friends,

This first post of the month of June necessarily archives the flurry of activity with which I closed my May blogging. Go have a look - I really got going for a moment. Our trip to New York filled me with blogging energy, and I had a whole bunch more posts I was thinking of writing. One about Zabar's, another about going to a Yankee game, which I did, and still another about New York ping pong. And I'm not saying these posts won't some time materialize. But now that I'm back in Maine where it rains always (except, apparently, for the gorgeous several days that occurred while we were away), I'm in a more quiet and innig sort of mood. Pounding away, once again, on the opera, and trying to be disciplined about social commitments and frolicking - not so hard right now, since you'd sort of need an ark to venture out into the world from here.

Well, before they're totally gone from my mind - some final, scattered NYC thoughts.

If you go to Zabar's for smoked salmon, take a number, but then wait for David to become available (when they call your number, just go up to him and say "I'm waiting for you, ok?") He's the one with the big thick mustache, long salt and pepper hair in a pony tail. Been there forever. Cuts like nobody's business. He's moody - can be a delight or somewhat sullen - but no-one can slice a salmon like him. Oh, and ask for "Norwegian," which is dryer than the standard Nova (unless you like the oily stuff). If David's not there, try to wait for the oldest fish cutter available. I swear it makes a difference. Then walk to the shelves just to the right of the smoked fish counter where they keep all the canned fish products. Get about five cans of D'Agostini anchovies, which come in a white can and are imported from Sicily. You think you don't like anchovies because you haven't had these (I used to be able to get them up here at Miccuci's, but they've been sadly out of stock for over a month). Mix em in w/ all kinds of cooking, or just eat them out of the can. OR, do this thing, which I got out of an Iris Murdoch novel (The Sea, The Sea). Make some dark toast, butter it, and then mash the anchovies into a paste on the toast. Don't try to substitute another brand, or it'll be nasty.

Yankee game. Had fine fun with my friends Anton and Eunice, but always feel completely abused when I go there. Paid $42 to watch the Yanks pummel the Royals. Refrained from the beer, which was $8.75. But did manage to get, for $25, my Johnny Damon Yankees shirt. I'm wearing it right now - but you can't see it. Hey Eunice, where's that photo? If you're in Maine, you'll be seeing a lot of this tee.

Anyway, that's all I've got for now. I know I haven't updated the "From The Vault" section like I was supposed to...temporary technical difficulty over here. So listen to DGW for a little longer before it's zapped.

In documenting this trip I'm relying more heavily than usual on stock photos - our camera is barely hanging on, and while I did manage to squeak a few shots out of it, most of the time I was recording only with me eyes. So I pulled this photo from Google image search, and if you search images for "Arepa Lady" you'll find it, and only it, too. The Arepa Lady, so dubbed by Chowhound's Alpha Hound, Jim Leff, is a veritable institution, offering perhaps the greatest street food (some would say food period) in New York, but only on Friday and Saturday nights starting at 11:30pm, on the corner of 79th Street and Roosevelt Avenue. For all you folks who live in "the city," and for all of you who visit "the city," and never venture out of Manhattan or the fashionable sections of Brooklyn, you're sorely missing out on the best eats in town. How to find about these? Well, shame on you if you're clutching a Zagat's Guide. First step: throw it away. Really. I know it's convenient having all those listings of hours and locations and phone numbers, but you'll be tempted to read the reviews, which are invariably out of date, and generally just plain wrong. Zagat's, last I checked, still raved about Ubol's Kitchen in Astoria, which was actually the worst of the four Thai places in town (I hear it was good about 10 years ago). Switch to the message boards at Chowhound.Com, and your world will begin to open up. It's not only New York, but the New York coverage is best. (For Portland, Maine, the same six or seven people - I'm one of them - post over and over with much of the same info - worth an occasional glance, but you have to filter through a lot of other New England info). After you've been reading the Outer Boroughs message board for a while, you'll come to learn what the most exalted spots are. For years it's been Difara - the godly pizzeria in Midwood, Brooklyn, Sripraphai, probably the best Thai restaurant in America, in Woodside, Queens, and perhaps above all else, the "sainted arepa lady," out in Jackson Heights. Is it worth the trek by train or car, later than your bedtime, risking that she might not even be there? I suppose it depends on what you're looking for on this world. I don't think I can better Jim Leff's description of exactly what it is she sells: "The arepas themselves are snacks from heaven. Coursely ground corn, fried in pancakes about 6 inches in diameter and an inch thick, slathered with butter and topped with shredded white cheese, they're brown and crunchy, chewy and a little bit sweet, the butter and cheese imbuing the whole with salty dairy meltiness." In addition, she is a lovely, nearly transcendent presence, who gazes on her arepas as they lay on the grill with deep, maternal care and spiritual contentment. In the best of all possible ways she reminds me a little bit of Yoda. As the lone non-Spanish speaker every time I've been there (and this latest trip makes twice) I always feel a bit like a dork, but she emanates so much love it makes it okay. Jackson Heights at that hour pulsates with music and activity, depending on what cross street you're at the vibe is Colombian, Indian, Ecuadorian, or an endless array of alternatives. It is a joy to behold - but the arepas are the real miracle.

It's funny how it's taken leaving the city for me to understand how much I love it, and just what it is I love. After you've been gone awhile, you wander back in and let longing be your guide. Chinatown, for instance, was never a very central part of my existence in NYC, but every time we go back I feel this desperate desire to visit - walk amidst the dried shrimp and writhing fish, streets propulsive with kinetic sparkle. Sure I love to eat there too - despite all the new-fangled $4-a-scoop "gelato" places (yes, those are derisive quotes - there's never been convincing gelato outside of Italy, he said, snootily) the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory is the best scoop shop in this ice cream deprived town. This time we checked out Joe's Shanghai, and were generously treated by my aunt and uncle. I snuck a soup dumpling - just ate around the pork - and we also had soft shell crabs, spicy whole yellow fish, baby bokchoi, and pan fried noodles. The place has a rap for being overhyped and overpriced, but I thought it was just peachy - especially sitting at the big round tables with strangers, passing eats around on the lazy suzan. Afterwards picked up some sweet taro buns at one of the fab new bakeries that seem to have sprung up everywhere. There is no better pastry in the world than Chinese buns (and I don't even eat the pork ones - what's with this obsession of sticking pork into every type of consumable? I haven't come across any pork drinks...yet, but I bet they're out there). All this yumminess aside, it isn't so much the food I miss as the exilharation of being bounced off bodies, sailing down the street past the karaoke bars and bubble tea parlors, past the hucksters and the teapot shops and umbrella men, past the carts of various munchables and the pigs hanging in a window. It's the population density and the profusion of hard fast culture...more people on a single block than in all of Portland, Maine. And certainly more unidentifiable dried fish products.

Our NYC trip is over - and in 3 days Alex and I packed about a month of livin'. Will need to blog multiply and often, lest my widespread readership feel neglected. Here's but the first installment.

On Friday night I made it out to Freddy's Bar and Back Room in Brooklyn to hear the M Shanghai String Band. I've had them on my links page for quite some time, and I've been a fan since I first saw them at the M Shanghai Bistro, the Chinese restaurant in Williamsburgh from which they take their name. In fact, the group started as an informal monthly jam session at the restaurant, which drew a bunch of ex (and current) rockers interested in trying their hand at bluegrass. I like bluegrass music, although I'm pretty illiterate when it comes to the genre, and my general impression has always been that there's an emphasis on instrumental virtuosity and energy while sometimes maybe less of an emphasis on originality in songwriting (I don't mean this as a criticism, it just hasn't always seemed to me that the songs are equal in importance to the performances - and there's often a focus on traditional material). Early on the M Shanghai String Band decided that they probably didn't have the instrumental chops to do battle with established bluegrass acts (but based on the other night's performance, this is absolutely no longer true, if it ever was), and that their best hope was to emphasize original, rather than traditional, songs. With such major songwriting talents as Austin Hughes (formerly of Very Pleasant Neighbor) and Matthew Schickele (formerly of Beekeeper), drumming up material never seemed to be a problem, and according to Matt the band now has more songs than they know what to do with (at the Freddy's gig they did about 5 songs from their first album, the rest all from forthcoming releases). Anyway, don't mean to ramble so much - I wouldn't waste my breath or your time if this band weren't breathtakingly phenomenal. They now consist of two banjos, multiple guitars, two fiddles, string bass, mandolin, harmonica, and multiple vocals (several songs featured everybody in the group singing - all ten of them - to soul-shuddering effect), as well as various occasional miscellany. The band radiates pure joy (partly because Austin Hughes, the front man, and Rose Thomson - an incredibly overqualified bit player here - are the most joyful performers I've ever seen), and excels with both foot stomping hollers and plaintive ballads that are always remarkable for their intricate and tight construction. These folks never just plug into a traditional form and let it work for them - they write, thoughtfully, melodically, rhythmically, and generally brilliantly. And a newish addition, Glendon Jones, fiddler, has added the requisite bluegrass virtuosity - the night I saw them he was almost literally on fire. I could go on all day. There might be one or two better country singers than Philipa Thompson in New York, but do they also play the fiddle, spoons, and musical saw? Is there a musician in the world more fun to watch than "Shaky" Dave Pollack? Is there a better songwriter than Matt Schickele (whose April November is the best album you've never heard, or I'll give you a dollar). They've got a record deal now, and will soon be on itunes, but if you can you should see them live. They're at the Knitting Factory later this week, and at their traditional M Shanghai perch on Saturday. Go.
More NYC news from me coming very, very soon.