I just had ribs.

When I work everyday, OH man how the 'Blues suffers. And when I am so busy I can't nurture these binary codes that express my inner thoughts and tendencies, THAT is when I am inspired most.

It's late now, but I have to share the recent acknowledgment of how much I love this city:

Just one of those few days. Maybe it's because I am reading a good book. When I am reading a good book I walk around this city with the flush only shared by young girls in nascent affairs with dashing men. Or like getting new prescription lenses that for a few days actually surprise you every morning as you say, "By GOD! What a clear, sparkling world we live in." What book is this? Post to follow soon... I am trying to elongate the end of the book by taking subway rides with people and reading articles on the internet. Facebook. Etcetera. I have been celebrating Carnaval and Chinese New Year with people displaced and missing home. But I am home, and I'm a lucky dog.

Sunday I ran in the park, 9 miles with MJ. Every time I run I see someone I know. In this gargantuan city... I see someone I know. After a day of work, I went to Whole Foods got a bunch of snacks and snuck them into Lincoln Plaza Cinema to see Broken Embraces. Perfect Valentine's Day movie of heartache and love and Penelope Cruz's PHENOMENAL breasts. The movie has the best sex scene since 300; the lighting director must have a resume saturated with artsy porn. Remember when I ripped apart John Irving for being redundant in his work and metafictionalizing his life and career to the point of nausea? How on earth, then, did Almodovar do the same thing (repeated plot, references to film making, personalized stock characters, etc) and it be BRILLIANT?! The answer, I suspect, lies in Penelope Cruz's breasts.


Monday, after a full day of work of course, I traveled downtown to Yoga to the People and took the 6pm Vinyasa Flow, which is 60 minutes of people making ridiculous breathing noises that sound somewhere between people orgasiming, lifting file cabinets filled with divorce papers, and snoring (and I don't mean light-adorable-boyfriend snoring, or even Dad's-low rumble-of-a -nore, I mean deviated-septum-veteran-back-from-war snoring.) Yoga to the People, for a SUGGESTED donation of 5 dollars, gives a solid hour of intense, active yoga, a sense of community, and entertainment. I feel floaty and gumby for an hour afterward.

From the lighted hubbub of St. Mark's to the strange desolation of Allen St. on the LES (A feeling that the neighborhood can't shake, despite its recent spate in ribald hipsters and over-all poshness. There is just something in the layout of the streets: wide yet absent of illuminating headlights. Bifurcating housing project islands named after the famous Jews that exodized their people into boroughs and cul-de-sacs, offering the current constituency two promises, the first: Yes, you will get out of here. The second: There will ALWAYS be another group to replace you). Anyway, Rockwood Music Hall stands as one of the coolest music venues I have ever been to. Small, with tables to make an effort towards a lounge atmosphere, the cozy space plays approximately 6 or 7 bands every weeknight for free. FREE.

We got there at 9 (I would have gotten there earlier if anyone had remotely told me about how awesome it is) to see an old friend of MJ's Joe Thompson. Joe is simultaneously from Northwestern Pennsylvania and the Heart of Darkness...wait I mean Texas. Heart of Texas. He had one of those voices that make you want to jump on stage and stop him in the middle of his set:

"Excuse me, but what are you doing here?"
"Tryin' to play my gee-tar for y'all"
"You realize you should be opening the CMAs?"
"There's many miles on life's highway."
"Schmoosin' with LeAnn and Faith!"
"We are all where we're at."
"Covering Patsy with Carrie!"
"Sometimes the wind blows against ya."

The steel guitar pedalist was phenomenal, and did NOT fit the common understanding of what a steel guitar pedalist should look like. He looked 16 and was wearing a Mets hat. I will be seeing Joe Thompson again. I hope on a bigger stage.



Kojo Mojido Sun must have been chosen to go next simply because of the hilarious juxtaposition. All black, (except for one ethnically ambiguous guitarist) hailing from Harlem, NY, the lead singer/keyboardist must have been over 350 and was wearing a t-shirt with a bedazzled skull-and-crossbones. Nice. His voice has the excessive smoothness of butter on velvet. Right before the set began he took a step back in what looked like a meditative self-collection, small benediction to God. When he breathed out I prepared for something divine. He leaned toward the mike, "I just had ribs."

From that moment on, I was inundated with the vibrations and harmonies of Soul Rock, the unique genre whose influences are more varied than the 5 dollar CD bin at Walmart. However one influence both MJ and I came up with was it sounded like something that could have been on the Hair soundtrack. When they finished their set, I almost asked him what church he attends on Sundays. I want Soul Rock in my life.





New York on a Monday night in the snow with my amazing friends and great music. This giant Rock of a city has definitely got some Soul.