NYC Recap Part II: The Blow-by-Blow
Web dependence was felt acutely. The always-on wasn’t on. No broadband in the hotel room—instead, access was sold in the “business center” at the not-so-reasonable rate of $7 per 15 min. of surf-time.
Resolving not to succumb to price gouging, I figured I’d hit up Microsoft for a bit of access the next day. Nope. Not a computer in the classroom, nor a terminal or kiosk to be found. Unbelievable!
First day of class was a tiny slice of hell: overslept, missed the crucial morning shower, walked twelve blocks in the bitter, bitter cold to find that class started at nine, not the advertised eight o’clock. Talk of ditching was thwarted immediately, when it was discovered that seven or eight others in class were from our company, from different locations. Word would have spread.
Mild headache/hangover from the night before, already knew most of the class material, spent much of the day shielding my eyes, pretending to listen, catching up on sleep. Boredom. Did I mention, no internet? The heat went out. A crappy lunch was served—I bolted for a deli downstairs. It was like being locked up in a cage for eight hours with too many folks too serious for their own good. Let’s just say it might have been a better experience.
Afterward, a few drinks at some bar in Times Square, back to the hotel, catch a half-hour nap, finally get my shower. Meet up with Iwanski, 8:45 at the Jazz Standard on 27th Street, to wine, dine, and check out the pianist Jason Moran with his group, Bandwagon.
I have two or three hundred jazz LPs, but it’s doubtful that any of them were released after 1980—the latest I go is probably late-seventies Mingus. Of modern jazz, I am most assuredly a skeptic. I’d heard of Moran, but knew nothing about him, so I wasn’t expecting much. That said, he and his band blew me away with an engaging set of blues, Ellington-style ballads, a dash of free jazz, and reinterpretations of Albert King and Bjork. An absolutely outstanding set, as was the barbecue, the kitchen’s specialty.
We hit another bar for a nightcap, great conversation, all in all a very good night. I felt great and decided to walk the twenty blocks up Third Ave. back to my hotel, rather than take a cab. This was about 1 AM. The same night, about two hours later, an actress was murdered in the Lower East Side, not too far from where I was.
Friday’s class went a little more smoothly, I got my shower, so I wasn’t nearly as grumpy as before, managed to stay awake (almost) the entire day, and ducked out at 3:30. I shouldn’t really complain anyway when that class was the only reason I was in New York in the first place.
Met up with Skyscraper Andrew and his wife that evening at Grand Central Station, took the subway to Williamsburg, picked up some falafel sandwiches, and headed to the communal happy hour at the Brooklyn Brewery. It was a really good time, bouncin’ ideas around and swappin’ indie rock tales over brews.
Slept in on Saturday, hit that snooze ten or twelve times at least. Woke up with a sore throat—uh oh—but felt fine after procuring some Halls drops and Dayquil tabs. Saturday was my day—no obligation to the Boss-man, (finally) some agreeable weather, and events proceeded according to plan, that is, record stores and more record stores. Hiked all over lower Manhattan, met up with Iwanski again in the early afternoon, had lunch, bummed around Soho, waited in lines for bathrooms, visited more record stores.
Totally wiped out after nine hours of walking, I skipped the party he and his girlfriend were hitting up later that night for a quiet final evening back at the hotel. This time, I treated my poor feet to a cab ride back. Recollect my thoughts, pack, peel price tags off LPs, listen to my new discs; a wonderful Italian dinner and three glasses of wine and that was it for me.
Sunday was breakfast and a cab ride to LaGuardia. Reading material: the New York Times and G.I. Gurdjieff’s Meetings With Remarkable Men.
Don’t think I’ve forgotten to post my vinyl haul. Tomorrow.
N/P Musica Dispersa – s/t
Resolving not to succumb to price gouging, I figured I’d hit up Microsoft for a bit of access the next day. Nope. Not a computer in the classroom, nor a terminal or kiosk to be found. Unbelievable!
First day of class was a tiny slice of hell: overslept, missed the crucial morning shower, walked twelve blocks in the bitter, bitter cold to find that class started at nine, not the advertised eight o’clock. Talk of ditching was thwarted immediately, when it was discovered that seven or eight others in class were from our company, from different locations. Word would have spread.
Mild headache/hangover from the night before, already knew most of the class material, spent much of the day shielding my eyes, pretending to listen, catching up on sleep. Boredom. Did I mention, no internet? The heat went out. A crappy lunch was served—I bolted for a deli downstairs. It was like being locked up in a cage for eight hours with too many folks too serious for their own good. Let’s just say it might have been a better experience.
Afterward, a few drinks at some bar in Times Square, back to the hotel, catch a half-hour nap, finally get my shower. Meet up with Iwanski, 8:45 at the Jazz Standard on 27th Street, to wine, dine, and check out the pianist Jason Moran with his group, Bandwagon.
I have two or three hundred jazz LPs, but it’s doubtful that any of them were released after 1980—the latest I go is probably late-seventies Mingus. Of modern jazz, I am most assuredly a skeptic. I’d heard of Moran, but knew nothing about him, so I wasn’t expecting much. That said, he and his band blew me away with an engaging set of blues, Ellington-style ballads, a dash of free jazz, and reinterpretations of Albert King and Bjork. An absolutely outstanding set, as was the barbecue, the kitchen’s specialty.
We hit another bar for a nightcap, great conversation, all in all a very good night. I felt great and decided to walk the twenty blocks up Third Ave. back to my hotel, rather than take a cab. This was about 1 AM. The same night, about two hours later, an actress was murdered in the Lower East Side, not too far from where I was.
Friday’s class went a little more smoothly, I got my shower, so I wasn’t nearly as grumpy as before, managed to stay awake (almost) the entire day, and ducked out at 3:30. I shouldn’t really complain anyway when that class was the only reason I was in New York in the first place.
Met up with Skyscraper Andrew and his wife that evening at Grand Central Station, took the subway to Williamsburg, picked up some falafel sandwiches, and headed to the communal happy hour at the Brooklyn Brewery. It was a really good time, bouncin’ ideas around and swappin’ indie rock tales over brews.
Slept in on Saturday, hit that snooze ten or twelve times at least. Woke up with a sore throat—uh oh—but felt fine after procuring some Halls drops and Dayquil tabs. Saturday was my day—no obligation to the Boss-man, (finally) some agreeable weather, and events proceeded according to plan, that is, record stores and more record stores. Hiked all over lower Manhattan, met up with Iwanski again in the early afternoon, had lunch, bummed around Soho, waited in lines for bathrooms, visited more record stores.
Totally wiped out after nine hours of walking, I skipped the party he and his girlfriend were hitting up later that night for a quiet final evening back at the hotel. This time, I treated my poor feet to a cab ride back. Recollect my thoughts, pack, peel price tags off LPs, listen to my new discs; a wonderful Italian dinner and three glasses of wine and that was it for me.
Sunday was breakfast and a cab ride to LaGuardia. Reading material: the New York Times and G.I. Gurdjieff’s Meetings With Remarkable Men.
Don’t think I’ve forgotten to post my vinyl haul. Tomorrow.
N/P Musica Dispersa – s/t
posted by Jonathan Wright at 12:33 AM EMAIL POST
