Two years later

Friday marked two years sans Elliot Smith. I saw him perform three times, all three times in Boston if I remember correctly.

The first time I saw him remains one of the best shows and warmest musical experiences I've witnessed. It was at the Paradise Rock Club, between its bouts of being shut down for underage drinking violations. It was small and intimate, warm with a good PA.

The set was great. And for the encore, he shyly strolled back on stage, looking small and nervous without the accompaniment of his band. Just before starting the first song of the encore, a giant of a man, easily twice Smith's size, drunk and loud, stumbled onto the stage from the crowd. He gave Smith a bear hug, wrapping both paws round the singer/songwriter and speaking toward the microphone: "I love you, Elliot. I love you."

Elliot Smith's response: he hugged the stranger right back and said softly, "It's okay, man. It's okay. I love you, too."

It was truly one of the coolest things I've ever seen.

I'm sure you already have the link to it, but just in case, 22 tracks leaked from Elliot Smith early last week and are being called the "Basement II" demos. Some are quite good:
http://www.elliottsmithbsides.com/BasementIIDemos.htm

Jobs I'd like to someday get a go at (in no particular order):

Window washer
Minor league manager
Florist
Courier
Record store owner
Anything at a cool label
Flasher

80 years late, but at least we get Lou Reed

(and Laurie Anderson and Nellie McKay and some film and more)

Canal Park dated back to the 17th Century under various names and public uses, at least until it was torn up "temporarily" in 1921 to make way for the Holland Tunnel construction. The deal was it would be restored within four years.

How about 84 instead?

Over the course of time, it was more or less forgotten about until local residents learned the history of the area and decided that restoring the park would be a better use for the space than parking for city trash trucks.

Tucked between Canal St. and the West Side Highway, this small battle of green space re-opens tomorrow night with a full-fledged celebration. In addition to other random pieces of entertainment, Lou Reed and his partner Laurie Anderson will be performing. Ditto for Nellie McKay. And it's all free.

Woodacres

I'm nearly done painting my rooms in the apartment. When that it occurs, I can actually move in for reals, not the for fakes transient-living-out-of-a-bag-and-dresser-that's-located-in-my-roommate's-space style I have been.

I opted for Woodacres, a strange, creamy color from the good folks at Benny Moore. I was aiming for "warm and comfortable" and, at least in the bedroom, I think I've pretty much nailed it.

Woodacres. It's like having my own forest in a Brooklyn brownstone.

Incidentally, I thought the dude who had to name the 64-crayon box of Crayola's had a serious job. That shit is like a required internship on the way to naming colors for a paint company. Honorable mention color selections included:

Shabby Chic
Firewood
Broken arrow
Yuppy's demise
Gentrification's glow
Sticks and leaves
Autumn for the wealthy people
Color for idiots looking for a paint named after nature
brown

Well, maybe I made some of those up. Benjamin Moore doesn't sell a brown.

People seem to be worried about my ability to function as an adult

And while that concern may indeed be warranted, I thought I was doing a pretty good job of hiding it: tucking my laces into my shoes instead of demonstrating my inability to tie knots; willingly getting lost instead of admitting defeat and pulling out a subway map in public; refusing to ride any bus out of fear that the bus operator will yell at me for incorrectly inserting my MetroCard (again).

First, a high school friend tried to get me to email her little sister. A little sister who allegedly crushed on me way back in the day. A little sister that I am having great difficulty picturing older than 13. A little sister who apparently got tired of waiting for my email and contacted me first. I replied today and immediately felt like I needed a shower.

And now, I find an email from a cousin of a Salt Lake acquaintance waiting for me in my inbox; someone who I have never met, but is wondering how I am settling into the city.

I kind of feel like Kramer on the episode of Seinfeld in which he receives too much novocaine, walks around wearing the strength-training jump sneakers and is serenaded to by Mel Tormei because he is so "independent."

If anyone is available tonight, I'll need help eating and bathing.
Thanks in advance.

It's happening again

And all this rain isn't helping either.

Of course, this is a little later than normal, but nonetheless, I'm starting to have dreams about skiing.

It's far more enjoyable in real life.

14 to 2?

That's not even a baseball score. That's actually two touchdowns and a safety.

And a major league pitcher that is only comfortable throwing one mediocre pitch? What a joke.

Behind enemy lines

I've traveled to New York specifically to see the Sox play at Yankee Stadium, but this weekend was definitely an interesting first.

I watched all three Sox/Yanks games, played at Fenway Park, in various venues and boroughs across New York.

Safety in numbers, as they say, or at least, the safety of not getting into arguments even with those you care for, proved to be the preferred method of viewing, as I snuck from one Brooklyn apartment to another, and finally up to 96th Street on the Upper West Side, to be among the proper company of Sox fans.

While I would have loved to see the Sox take the division of course, I can't help feeling that it's a win-win and that, thanks to Cleveland, who opted to throw in the towel about three games early, everyone's happy; I have yet to be razzed at work, or be the razzler.

Instead, I can quietly continue my role as the dazzler.