Sunday Morning, NYC
It’s a beautiful day. Sunday morning, NYC: 50 degrees, clear skies, light breeze. I just got in from my usual run up the West Side and through Central Park where a duathalon was just concluding. (I had intended to compete — really — but the race was full.) So my windows are wide, the Sunday Times is in hand, and I’m listening to Nick Drake, trying to learn “Time Has Told Me” (which I have to play at my friend Heather’s wedding in a few weeks).
It’s been a mostly un-rocknroll weekend.
Friday: late night at work, DVD rental (“Diner”), bed.
Saturday: trips to Pottery Barn (new rug) and my rocknroll stylist Andrew at New York Hair (he educates me on early Rolling Stones, Who and Small Faces records while doing his best with what God’s left me up top), some out-of-towner hospitality for my Aunt Helen and Uncle Jim from Waterloo, Iowa, plus some male-only poker with my brother and cousins.
I’ll play tour guide, then settle in for the Oscars.
Sunday, I resume my search for a drummer for the April 13th show (both Rosa and Walker are on tour with other bands).