The Big Apple. The big red juicy apple, filled with hurried people and the sounds of car horns. Despite signage on some streets admonishing horn blowing at the cost of a hefty fine, the sounds fill the air. Some cars just seem to honk for the novelty of honking, or just being noisy. Because if they weren’t belching out brass like tunes no one would know they were there. If these drivers, predominantly taxi drivers, want due attention at the push of the center of their steering wheels maybe they should get a little more creative with horn sounds. A horn tribute to Paginini would certainly get my attention, and probably earn the admiration of other music lovers as well. Or a horn that says what the driver really means, like: You dumb mother fuck@r, your in the way. A little on the lengthy side i know but one can not be brief in the use of expletives for he then runs the risk of looking unlearned in the art of profanity spewing, and not knowing how to swear in the city would leave you like a de-clawed house cat in a den of ROUS’s (rodents of unusual size).
Last night we saw a great live show from the Super Seaweed Sex Scandal, an experimental Jazz, dare i say fusion, six piece jam ensemble. The sounds achieved were analogous to a STOMP band with out a definite time signature, with a few King Crimson like climactic moments. The musicians were obviously all talented and no two notes were predictable. The hour long scripted cacophony was driven by a very talented drummer who somehow incorporated his entire body, a bow, and a light sprinkling of angst into his playing.
Today we are gong out to see the free side of New York, or what little of that side we can find. The Smithsonian and whatever other museums/exhibits/demonstrations we can find. Then tonight, we go out to Brooklyn.
When I Get Home 