On A Clear Day You Can See Forever

I’ve been here before. A man reclines against a pillow, eyes closed, and presses his fingers alongside his nose and then between his eyebrows. A woman drags two fingers down the sides of her throat, looking serene. A group of people take notes while a doctor inserts swabs into a man’s nose. Yes, I’ve seen all these YouTube clips before, on another desperate middle-of-the-night internet search almost three weeks ago – that’s how long I’ve been suffering from the worst sinusitis of my life. I think I may be losing my mind. Is it just a long tedious march to the grave now with chronic illness? Treatments, doctors – is this my new calling? I try to put it in perspective, against all the pain and suffering going on in the world, a stuffed up head is no big deal. I try the meditation technique I half-paid attention to in yoga class.

At least I’m home in my own bed, not like last week when I was in the guest room at my dad’s senior living facility. There was no internet access, no phone service; a rubber sheet on the bed.  On the surface, it’s a reasonable enough room that the place rents out to families of the residents, a ground floor ensuite decorated in late 90’s period Hampton Inn: hunter green and burgundy accents and one of those scrolled strips of wallpaper just below the ceiling. Maybe it’s what’s above the ceiling that makes it so airless, so not comfortable – four floors of the aged, in varying stages of decline. I was truly in the Twilight Zone.

Great, there’s a TV! I thought, but it only fed my disorientation – ads for high-tech beauty products like airbrushes and battery-powered cleansing brushes that make my own makeup and skin care routines seem so bacteria-ridden and out of date, I would’ve dialed or gone online to buy them if only I’d been able to.

For a little while I was forced to watch the VH1 Awards. I didn’t know VH1 still existed. Who is Hozier? Who are any of these people?

I missed Eric. He and I have stayed in this place before and it felt the same, only upon entering the room he’d immediately loosened the corners of the rubber sheet, pulled it off with a toreador’s one-handed grace and deposited it in the closet without disturbing the rest of the bedding. This time I got up eventually and pulled it off as best I could, knowing he’d ask “Did you remove that horrible rubber sheet?” whenever I managed to talk to him again. Just knowing I could honestly answer “Yes!” made me feel a little better.

I couldn’t breathe in the old folks home either, but it was too late to take the Nyquil, my final stop when herbs and homeopathics and antibiotics and other crap haven’t worked. I watched a show where Meatloaf has a haunted room in his house, the very room where he’d rehearsed all the songs for Bat Out Of Hell, and a medium is there to help him make peace with the spirit. Eventually I got up, threw on some clothes and drove to Eat n Park. It’s a Pittsburgh classic – it had occurred to me a few hours back that I could go, but I couldn’t face it at four in the morning. Now it was almost six and people were starting their days with eggs and pancakes, dressed in Steeler black and gold. It felt like nothing had changed since my high school days in the seventies. “Oh yeah, she looks pretty good for her age, ‘n whart she’s been through,” one of the guys at the next table said in his Pittsburgh accent. I knew he wasn’t talking about me, but appreciated the sentiment. I texted my older brother John who lives nearby, knowing he’s up for anything, and sure enough he joined me. I was starting to feel like I could face breakfast in the breakfast room with my dad and his wife.

“Are you new here?” a tiny, white-haired lady asked me as I held a jug of what might have been orange juice up to the light in the senior facility’s breakfast room. Yes, it had been a hard night, but I must look rougher than I thought.  My dad and Lois my stepmother waited for me back at their table with Bill, another resident;

“Bill’s from Rochester,” my dad said. “Amy’s going to play a concert in Rochester tomorrow.” Oh lord I’m not up for this I thought, any of it. Please let me be well enough to play and sing. I’d just needed to see my dad. I’m losing friends in their fifties and sixties now – can the old man be far behind? Is the future just an endless ticking off on a long scroll of friends, loved ones, acquaintances, enemies and heroes? Gone, gone, gone.

“I just came over in case I don’t get to say goodbye,” a woman with dyed red hair and big glasses was leaning over her walker by my dad’s chair. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us!”

My father and his wife just bought a condo. They can’t stand living in this place anymore –  everybody’s too old and decrepit, he says. My dad’s eighty-eight. Upstairs in his apartment are liquor boxes and copy paper boxes for packing. “Dad, you know you can go to Walmart or U-Haul and just buy a bunch of boxes,” I told him. “They don’t really cost a lot.” I couldn’t believe I was telling my dad how to move. But there was excitement and possibility in the whole enterprise. And I’ll never have to stay in the rubber sheet room again.

Back to my internet search. Acupuncture. It has never occurred to me before to try it. Apparently it has excellent results for sinus conditions. At three in the morning, I book an appointment online and immediately feel a little better. There’s always the possibility to learn about new things, grow and change. Until there’s not.


Gone To California

“Tony says you should come in and talk to him,” says the garage owner’s wife when I call to ask why my van is making a roaring noise so loud I can’t hear the radio with the window open.  “He can’t really ‘splain to you over the phone.” This can’t be good.

It isn’t. But I decide to put it out of my mind for the moment, because I’m flying to California.


I’m traveling light: one guitar to carry on, a medium-sized roller bag; purse. I drive the van to Albany Airport. It’s fit to sit in Economy Parking for a week but not much else. At 265,500 miles it doesn’t really owe me a thing.

On the parking lot shuttle, a guy climbs aboard with a wide case. It looks like a crossbow. Don’t let it be a crossbow, I think, and ask him without meaning to “What’s in the case?”

“A crossbow,” he says. “Going down to Texas to do some hunting.” Please do, I think. Go as far away as possible with that thing.

I’ve got a terrible cold and the flight to San Francisco is really hard on my ears. I get off the plane and can’t hear a thing. Partly it’s that the airport is completely silent at 10:30 at night.


Stephanie meets me at the 16th and Mission BART stop. There’s a girl with dreads and tattoos playing and singing for a big crowd in a little plaza outside the station. Young people sit cross-legged on the ground and there’s something sweet and retro about it. Everybody says this town is too expensive for the old counterculture types you associate with San Francisco, so little things like this that may have seemed annoying in the past feel good.

Stephanie feeds me soup in the yellow kitchen of the pretty apartment she shares with Chuck. He’s back east and will stay with me and Eric in a week. Meanwhile we talk about touring and books and music. She reveals herself to be a real friend by showing me how to use a neti pot


I chat with Elmer at Hertz Rental Car, tell him I’m going south to Paso Robles to hang out with friends. It’s easier that way. I’ve learned this trick from Eric, because in England if you tell them you’re a musician sometimes they won’t rent you a car.  We always tell them we’re going to see the grandkids over there. In the US it just saves time. Elmer tells me he’s going to Tahoe to play poker. The words “I’m going to Tahoe” have the most evocative ring, I see Frank Sinatra with a tennis racket, Raquel Welch in skiwear rather than Elmer off-hours from Hertz.


Driving south on the 101 in my rental car – it’s a Toyota Yaris – this weird thing happens. There’s lots of traffic but there’s a flow to it all, less aggression than back east. You can go fast or not go fast, everyone just blazes their own trail instead of trying to make you bend to their will. I relax. I realize how bad things have gotten with my van back home, the roar and the fumes and different broken doors and locks, because I’m in a brand new car now and I LOVE IT. I start imagining that I’m this normal person who makes car payments and just DRIVES A NEW CAR. Why the hell not? I sing along to bro country, under the spell of golden hills while a freight train glides past.

I sit in traffic behind an old Toyota minivan up on the back of a truck. It feels cosmic, heroic. It’s that bizarre lunar module the dB’s had; Duane Jarvis had one too, and I marvel how this one hung in there so long.


When the cold medicine wears off and the traffic lightens up, the local public radio station is holding their fund drive and I’m so in love with the car and public radio and the 101, I feel like pulling over and calling to pledge. Instead I exit to blow my nose and find myself in a KFC drive-through. Grease and salt feel like the only things that can cut through this cold. I ask through the intercom what’s the smallest thing they serve: popcorn chicken in a cup with potato spears – it’s delicious. I think.


Vic and Jenn own a winery in Paso Robles, Vines On The Marycrest. I love their wine. I love a lot of wine but I know there is something special about theirs, it’s like a musician you discover who isn’t well-known but the art and craft is all there. “Mom, your idol is sleeping on our floor,” their son says to Jenn. Eric and I played at their annual harvest weekend event three years ago and it’s fun to come back and get to spend a day, sampling wine and even getting to visit a few other vineyards courtesy of Vic.

“Try our von rouge,” a tasting wench says at one of the elegant wineries we visit. A guy in khaki shorts and ballcap comes up and asks her for some of that “van rogue”. I only wish Eric were here, he would truly love this little slice of Americana – Sideways is one of our all-time favorite movies.

I play outside and it’s a soft night, I’m getting used to playing on my own again and have a few odd moments where I try to launch into familiar songs but there’s no Eric to my side and it’s like a couple of strings are missing off my guitar – I can’t think for the life of me how they go. Other ones that I haven’t played in ten years roll off my tongue and out of my hands without thinking.

After I play, I talk to people and one woman tells me she listened to my first album for all the drives she made from CA to Texas to visit her dying mother, I have to make a joke to keep from weeping.


I get up very early next morning to drive to Santa Cruz to play on the radio. Car Talk is on the NPR station, I’m a fan of this show and not just because they’ve played both Til The Wheels Fall Off and Astrovan. The miracle of radio keeps Tom and Ray the brothers together even though Tom passed away last year, but it really chokes me up when one says “Don’t drive like my brother” and the other one chimes in “Don’t drive like my brother”.

I’m just coming through Gilroy when I tune in KPIG, the station I’m headed for like a bright blue arrow in my Yaris. Please Stand By is the long-running Sunday morning live music show hosted by Sleepy John who also promotes shows around here.  He’s reading a feed store ad while the morning’s first act tunes up. I’ve stayed at his house many times and he’s even taken me surfing in Santa Cruz. His voice is the sound of sand and pot smoke and wet dog fur, sunshine through the pine trees.


I have a show at 2 in the afternoon in Felton. It’s at Don Quixote’s, part Mexican restaurant, part Music Hall. There’s not really a dressing room and I end up going onstage in the clothes I put on early this morning.

It’s a good crowd. I’ve always liked playing in Santa Cruz, they make their own rules for life. I apologize to the audience: I have never played a show in a plaid shirt before. It’s the default setting for male musicians who don’t know what to wear onstage and now I’ve joined their ranks.


“I was so glad you said that about your shirt,” a woman confides at the merch table after telling me how much she loves me. “I’d just said to my friend ‘She needs better clothes’.”


Back in San Francisco I return the rental car and Elmer tells me he made out alright at the poker table up at Tahoe. Now I’m on foot and public transportation. There’s always been a dense layer of street people here and that doesn’t seem to have changed much or maybe it’s gotten worse. I see this couple: he’s gaunt and stubbled, grins at babies; she looks like the chicest woman in town from twenty yards away, striped French jersey, straight jeans and white sneakers, dyed reddish brown hair, pale face – it’s only close up I see the scalp through her hair, clenched jaw, mad eyes. History – there’s a special brand of west coast history and it’s so unpinned from the map back east I can’t even begin to guess at her story.

I play a few songs at the Makeout Room for Tom Heyman’s once a month show, it’s casual and everyone is really good. I remember playing here years ago and a load of drunks making so much noise I had to tell them to shut up or I may have even cried or pleaded, it’s a bit of an exorcism for me to stand up here again. I’m growing up.


I’m meeting a friend at Ocean Beach in the morning. I start to walk across the sand to see the ocean and there’s an older man next to me hobbling on a cane. “Beautiful morning!” I say to him, and then I see this office chair alone in the sand and I really want to take a picture but the man is right beside me, practically racing me – I realize he’s making a beeline for the chair too. Maybe it’s his chair? I feel rude but I have to hustle past him and beat him to the chair so I can get a photo without him in it. I snap my shot and seconds later he plops into the chair.


A little later in the café I’m having breakfast with my friend and the man hobbles in and sits right next to me. I want to apologize to him about the chair but out west I never know what I’m dealing with – back east we’d end up laughing, but here?

I get on the train and am admiring this chic woman in black blouse, navy linen trousers and brown sandals when I realize it’s the mad-eyed woman, yep there’s the gaunt stubbled guy grinning at a child. She juts out her jaw and motions to him to get off at Embarcadero stop. San Francisco is a small world.

I take the train to Lafayette and Joyce meets me. I’ve been a fan of hers since Seventeen magazine printed her “An Eighteen Year Old Looks Back On Life” piece – I was twelve. I’ve kept up with her writing and eventually wrote her a letter and she answered me back! That was over ten years ago and since then we’ve kept in touch, but this is the first chance we’ve had to hang out.  It’s a thrill, she’s got those same incredible eyes that looked at me so soulfully from the pages of Seventeen all those years back and she is still that girl but a woman of the world too. And funny. We talk all afternoon and I play a few songs for her and husband Jim on his Martin.  I pull out my phone later and see she’s written up our afternoon, I feel honored.


Stephanie and I have dinner in the Mission. I could talk to her forever. She travels the world playing in Mission Express with Chuck Prophet and is an ace musician and person. We go home and watch this clip Caryn Rose made of Patti Smith doing Gloria this very night at Olympia in Paris. Patti spits on the stage, twice, and struts and stomps proudly in her boots and it does give a woman hope.

I read M Train all the way home. It makes me cry a lot, and my ears open a little.


Back at Albany Airport I unlock from the passenger side cause the driver side lock doesn’t work, then roll down the window a bit even though it’s cold, because of the whole problem Tony had to talk to me in person about. He said the fumes would make me sick. But – it’s almost winter.

Iris DeMent is talking to Terry Gross and turns out Let The Mystery Be is the theme song for The Leftovers tv show.  Way to go Iris, one of the best.

The news comes on and they say Toyota is recalling many million cars for faulty power windows that could result in fires and death. They read out the models: ”Camry, Corolla, Highland…Yaris.”

There is no normal.

After Taxes

I know it’s foolish to say NEVER AGAIN but I’ll say it anyway – NEVER AGAIN WILL WE FILE FOR AN INCOME TAX EXTENSION. It’s hard enough reconstructing the previous year from spring-fresh April but in October, when this entire year is on the wane, how is it possible to remember the year before? Both Eric and I still work by the old “bag o’ receipts” method, so there’s a constant “Oh look, here’s a menu and business card from Lexington Barbq, was that last year the guy thought you were Roger Daltrey or was that this year?”  With all the technology available to us, we still reconstruct our touring lives from pages torn out of Moleskine notebooks and fading scraps of paper along with online bank statements, though there came a point in the receipt sifting where we were further reduced to scrolling through Facebook timeline 2014 trying to recreate a patchy section of last year: “Eureka! It says here ‘I’m driving an ashtray to Dallas’, the date is June 10 – you were in TEXAS that month?!”

Last year, after decades of using accountants, we decided to go it alone with Turbotax – after all, most of the work is gathering the information, right? Just a matter of putting those numbers in there…by the point when we were filling in all the numbers for 2013 after many moments of doubt and one desperate phone message left for my friend the accountant who wasn’t taking calls since it was after all April 14, we convinced ourselves “This is fun! This is easy!” and decided to hang out our shingle as The Musical Accountants. “It’ll be great, we can have a bunch of instruments around the room and people can play while they wait for us to do their taxes.” Yes, we were that good last year, but wait – it wasn’t October last year, it was April and – remind me, what year are we in NOW?


I’d been crowing about how great Turbotax is, but yesterday at a crucial moment, when I’d been plugging numbers in for hours and coming to the end of the process – the program just shut down. Updates started updating and when I went to open it again, you guessed it – everything was gone. The smarmy clip art accountant guy was asking “Would you like me to walk you through everything? Let’s see how we can get you the biggest refund!”

“You already did that you bastard! Two days ago! God no, this can’t be happening!” Will you think I’m a total idiot when I tell you I never bothered to save the whole time I was working in Turbotax?

The HELP page took me to a Community Board where desperate people just like me typed heartbreaking questions into the void: “Worked for three days, ALL DATA LOST, tell me how to get it back?”

After collapsing on the couch to watch an Adam Sandler movie that made me question my entire life (there was a time I loved him…so much) we got back up and running again and managed to get it all done, saving all the while. FILED. SMALL REFUND. High fives in the kitchen. But there isn’t that camaraderie with the rest of the country like in April. In October you’re really alone in this.

I’m worn out – for next year, let the record show that October 15 I went to California for a few days.

  • SUNDAY OCTOBER 18      PLEASE STAND BY KPIG.COM    10 AM – 12 PM  (listen)
  • SUNDAY OCTOBER 18     DON QUIXOTE’S                 FELTON, CA   2 PM SHOW




Who Are You?

Screw you Marie Kondo and the porcelain 14th century horse figurine you rode in on!

I have to blame somebody, and as much as there’ve been hints that life might indeed become miraculously more clear and streamlined thanks to her cleaning/organizing book The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up (my daughter and I were in such a feel-good frenzy of purging and organizing we actually texted each other photos of our t-shirt drawers), I am now even less sure who I am than usual thanks to her. Admittedly I haven’t had time to do the tidying steps exactly as the author insists they be done so that could be part of the problem. Whatever it is, it made dressing for this wedding party I’m on my way to almost impossible.

I’d been really calm since seeing that the invitation to a wedding party in the city called for sparkly festive attire. Sure, I thought – I’ll stop in TJ Maxx and get something low-cost and showy…as if that has ever worked for me.

The area we live in is odd – there’s Walmart, Kohl’s, with TJ Maxx the higher end of the chain stores, and then all-organic expensive boutiques. Nothing in between and anyway I live in fear of purposeful shopping, still believing thanks to decades of thrift store scores that if a fabulous item is out there with my name on it, it will find me. Less and less true as the years go by, but I know no other way.

Vintage! I thought, I’ll go vintage! remembering this bold geometric arty tunic in red and purple, turquoise, green and black I’d seen at a local place. Even the label: Penthouse Gallery, which at first glance I’d believed read “Penthouse Goldberg”, somehow even better – was calling. Could I pull it off though? It was mid-calf length but had a certain Brenda Vaccarro in Midnight Cowboy pizzazz, enough that I dared to emerge from the vintage store dressing room to take a turn around the store in it.

“I always wanted to be a lady who could wear this kind of thing – you know, with bold earrings and tights – I’d have to cut it off mid-thigh of course…”

“You are!” said the shop owner. “You ARE that lady!” I didn’t think she was just angling for a sale – I really liked it. I Believed – SOLD.

But…the night before the wedding I carefully measured and cut. Pinned up the hem…damn pockets, I swear I know I always see it as a plus “AND it’s got pockets!” but they add bulk and tend to complicate things. I tried my pinned-up Goldberg shift with tights and my Young Edwardian purple sixties shoes – it could work.

Meanwhile Eric was texting me from his own solo wedding uncertainty. He was performing at a ceremony down south and it’s just hard to know what to do with yourself at these things when you’re on your own. That’s part of what made picking an outfit even trickier – the thought of going to a party is hard enough; if I’m not performing I don’t know how to present myself, but solo – it’s confusing at events when you’ve become used to being half of a pair and there’s no one to bounce ideas off beforehand of the “Honey does this outfit say ‘I made an effort/I clean up well’ or is it more ‘Tired Old Cougar on the prowl'”? variety. I mentioned to Eric over the phone that I had a new dress to wear that was maybe a little “wacky” but he must have been distracted or unable to grasp that I was asking for some kind of guidance. Still, I took his “uh-huh” as a blessing. Maybe this would be my “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple” moment?

But hemmed and ironed two hours before departure, it felt wrong. I mean, I loved the dress, even looked up the label and saw that it was Edie Sedgwick’s party dress of choice. But something about thick black tights on the last weekend of summer felt like a bummer. Bare legs looked better but since I’d cut it so short and had no time for vein therapy and/or a tanning parlor, the idea of walking through Penn Station in such a short skirt told me the dress was wrong. I thought of removing the precious pockets but that would have required getting out the sewing machine, relearning how to wind a bobbin and I couldn’t risk destroying the dress which I now clearly planned to get A LOT of wear out of in the future – just NOT NOW. This is where I really started cursing Marie Kondo because all my clothes are in transition. They’re either on their way out or taking their place in some Hall of Fame of joy-sparking (her criteria for holding on to an item). One of the in-betweens was this cool gold dress I’d worn on one of me and Eric’s tours, but I couldn’t think what shoes would work, plus it was fraught from that time a guy told me after a gig how much he hated it.

Shoes! Those bejeweled sandals I found at the beginning of the summer and never had an occasion to wear – that’s it, I thought – I’ll build an outfit around those sandals. It could be simple, classy – with the sandals adding that something extra.


I pulled out my precious black skirt, the one I’d searched high and low for in France and hadn’t needed in over four years. Now it felt slack, but it could work, let me just tuck this patterned silk shirt in – oh my God, there was a massive stain on the front of the skirt like one of those black lights that shows stains on hotel mattresses, but this was ongoing and covered the entire front of the skirt. I kind of remembered a whole beer knocked off a merch table onto my lap and trying to dry clean it back in England…thanks to Life Changing Magic I prepared to bid farewell to a treasured friend who’d gotten me through several years of weight gain and menopausal confusion – “goodbye, it’s been an honor, you have served me well but now I must let you go” followed by a slight bow. At this point I was considering wearing jeans with the sandals and a sparkly blouse but that felt like a lack of respect.

Then I saw the black skirt with white dots: I’ve worn it a lot this summer but it fits and would be a good length with the sandals. I had a sheer black blouse, not super-see through but enough that I thought it was worth running to Walmart for a camisole or something to wear under. The clock was really ticking now and there was nothing at Walmart unless you were XXXL and wanted to wear a complete set of spongy flesh-colored armor or a what looked and felt like a scuba diving suit underneath. I grabbed the sandals and shirt and ran for the train, thinking that Macy’s was just upstairs from Penn Station and I could find something there to wear under the sheer shirt.


As soon as I exited the train and came up into Penn Station it occurred to me how absolutely absurd it was to try using that hellhole as some kind of wearability yardstick – clearly you could walk through in a Walgreen’s plastic bag and no one would bat an eye. There were goths in torn tights and platforms six inches tall, a lady in a black undershirt, thigh high boots and nothing else, six men in Lederhosen and knee socks rushing to catch a train. I started to realize what a fool I was to think anyone would notice or care what I had on. Still – I had fifteen minutes to complete my outfit and get down to 26th Street.

I hustled my way up towards Macy’s corner but was sucked into the H&M on the other side of 34th Street which was a huge mistake. Music pulsed relentlessly at high volume, the place was a madhouse as if the whole city had the same goal, find something to wear TONIGHT! TONIGHT! The music shrieked. I grabbed a few camisoles and then had to wait in line for a dressing room, listening to an impeccable young woman describe her awful case of the runs to an eager male co-worker. I hardly bothered trying on my shapeless items, instead deciding to just put on the sandals and the shirt in the dressing room, shove on some earrings and get out of there. Confidence! That’s the main thing. Then I had to catch a cab because there was no way I could walk seven short blocks and five very long blocks in those sandals. Some kids and their dad were getting out of the taxi “Come on, Come ON! Move it you three!” I wanted to shout but the kids were clutching little boxes from Magnolia Bakery like they were precious and the little boy even said “We got cupcakes!” to me and waved goodbye as I rode off in the taxi and I thought oh who cares how you look as long as you’re smiling. But in the cab I lost confidence and pulled a black v-neck sweater on over my head while removing the shirt from underneath, sure the driver probably sees this sort of thing all the time. Yep, they’ll take me as they find me I thought – got to be comfortable above all.

But when I exited the elevator up to the party space, there were a half dozen of Antonio Banderas’ younger brothers holding trays of flutes of Champagne and Manhattans and goblets of wine and I thought this is a fancy affair, fuck it, the sheer shirt it is, it’s really not that see-through and oh my God, there’s a little sign saying NRBQ will be playing and all eyes are on the joyous wedding couple, who I have the honor and pleasure of knowing separately, it’s so good to see them spin around the room together and maybe it’s the Manhattan talking but when I’m really old I shall look at a photo of this event and say “wasn’t I young and lucky to be there?”

Summer Snapshots

While I try to get work done it’s hard to write a new post, so I thought I’d put up some photos from the summer.


Brooklyn flower pot inspiration

I accompanied Eric to Red Hook for his record mastering session, it was pouring most of the day but the sun came out for a little while when I saw these clever bucket planters

man buns at the barI decided to face my fear of man buns head on – view of a couple dudes and ceiling of the bookstore/bar

schoefo at half moon

Schoemer Formation at Half Moon, photo by Karen Crumley Keats

We played a couple shows with the Schoemer Formation this summer, another one coming up next Friday Sept 25 at Low Beat in Albany!


Catskill Creek at sunset

This had to be the smallest carnival ever – I love our little town


David Crosby at the Egg in Albany

Hard to get a good shot when your hands are shaking in the presence of greatness


Back patio

The picnic table at the back of our house, I spend a lot of time here in the summer


The set for Eric’s video

We filled the back room with a load of people and instruments – for Several Shades Of Green


Waiting for the train

Mundane but romantic meeting the train


Weber in action

I have to admit we only used it one time this summer!


Hazel & Ben at Artist Rock

It’s nice being “the country house” for my daughter and her boyfriend to escape to


Ian Hunter & The Rant Band in Hudson

The man and his band played around the corner so we had to go. It’s always a thrill, yes we got to get up and sing “All The Young Dudes”!

drink & draw0001

Drink & draw on Avenue A

I went into the coffee bar by my brother’s place and they were setting up for a little drawing session. I didn’t have the right materials but I wanted a glass of $5 rose and it was fun drawing with a bunch of 20-something girls


Old post office on 14th Street

I’m always hearing how things are changing but it really struck me this time – the post office between Ave A & First was famously miserable, crowded and long lines to wait in – I know I left there in tears of rage a couple of times. Still, it made me sad to see it gone.

Generated by IJG JPEG Library

Cabinet of Wonders City Winery

Wes Stace invited us to play with a wacky assortment of characters – it was a good night in the city.


To wait for a train back home I sat up in Greeley Square and thought some things about the city had changed for the better – places to sit in midtown, a cheap empanada stand, a clean public toilet – in midtown…weird



Those long shadows, it’s almost over


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