Yu Nork

Saturday


So, the Friday flight out of ACV was cancelled.

Woke at 4:00 am Saturday to catch the next flight out, which was Sac->DC->NY.

All went well on the plane, no troubles. Except for one thing.

You know when you're sitting outside at a campfire, and your eyes can't help but be sucked in by the flame? How awesome is that? OK, now, instead of being outside, imagine you're on a dark plane, and switch that campfire out with the guy in front of you's porta-DVD. And, instead of flames, make it a live Eagles concert DVD. Not even old Eagles. Farewell show, Melbourne, 2005. Of all the bands. I hope it's not a sign.


So, I step out of the NYC subway at 42nd street, which happens to be Times-Square. Sirens, traffic, mayhem, noise, and kettle corn all over the street (I guess a snack cart got smashed or something). I LOVE travel. Serious.

I'm pretty wiped from what turned into a 13-hour door-to-door day, so I've been walking around New York in a daze. It is, though, Saturday night and the streets are hopping.


Blinking lights and screens everywhere. At Times Square, a guy ten feet away collapsed in a what looked like an epileptic seizure. Here's the thought process as I watch this happen:

First few seconds: He's faking it
:10 seconds: He's not, where's a cop?
:20 seconds: This is a total test of whether or not people stop to help him (which, by this time, several people were on the ground with him.) Where's a fucking cop?
:25 A lady is on the cell calling an ambulance
:60 FDNY sirens close in and help arrives; I split.


Sunday

Perfect, just perfect.

Ran for 80 minutes out to the Hudson, chilled for a few, made it over to Central Park and ran back to midtown. Radio: WFUV, WMFU, K-Rock (which should be W-Rock), and Hot 97. Beautiful fall weather. Crisp and golden.

I had not really planned on doing anything other than going down to Greenwich Village, reading the Bob Dylan book, and finding that street they shot the photo of "Freewheelin' Bob Dylan" on. Jones Street. Steve Earle lives on Jones, too.

Hopped off the subway at Christopher Street. Wandered for hours. Got just lost enough. Read the local edition of the Sunday NY Times.

I found Washington Square Park, which is a landmark if you're into folk music. Read the Dylan book and watched the action: awesome buskers, street comedians (who were funny and racist against everyone, and the mixed crowd was loving it), picnic-ers.

Close the book and walk off the square. 6:30 pm and the light is doing cool things to the trees, so I'm setting up a photo when this guy stops.

Him: "Can you believe it? Right there in the open. Man."
Me: "What are you talking about?"
Him: "That girl. With the glass pipe. Isn't that what you're taking a photo of?"

Turns out I must've looked like the biggest narc ever. I was evidently framing a shot that had a girl smoking crack in it. My bad.

The guy and me talk for a half hour; George was a 40-something bricklayer from Queens. Used to be in the Marines, his baby-mamma lives in NY but he wants to move back to Tulsa, because New York is heading for social collapse. "I gotsta go, man, I gotta buy a new T-Mobile because I dropped mine into a hollow wall. Fuckin' 200 bucks." I never took that photo.

Monday

Murrow Day.

Patrick and me tour WFUV in the Bronx. Holy smokes. Radio wonderland of gear, staff, and perfect, brand-new studios. Rita the music director was hella cool. We come back through Harlem.


The dinner is that night. It's at the Grand Hyatt between Park and Madison avenues. Doesn't that say it all? Tuxedos, TV and radio people everywhere. CNN's, Anderson Cooper, NBC's Brian Willams, NPR's Michelle Norris, but no Fox people.


Getting the award was weird, they shuffled everyone through the podium quickly. A PA came and got me; put me in line. "When you get the award, shake hands with your right, grab the award with your left, pose for the still, and move down to your left." Then they shuffled us off to the green room for more posing, gripping, grinning, etc. They give everyone a bottle of commemorative white wine.

I walked the mile back to the hotel at 10:00 PM.

Strolled through Times Square in my tuxedo, Clem Snide on the iPod, bottle of wine in hand, which totally made up for that Eagles DVD.