In the morning, I jumped up and got behind my computer. Blogging.Everyone was rising slowly, and getting their meds. Wendy marched up and down the aisle, calling out: "Medication!!" This was another morning in the Box.
I gingerly slipped my feet into my sneakers and made ready to leave to go to Starbucks on Madison to meet up with my brother. We had planned to meet there at 1:30PM today. Regardless of all the questions that I was asked, I made certain that I was prepared to leave early. Angel danced about the dorm when he rose, making a great show. "My dude," he said to me. "I found the powercord, my dude. I'm taking the computer to Fourteenth Street to sell it to my man there." You do that Angel. You just go ahead and do that. Just don't tell them that it works, because it doesn't. He's happy though. I think he wants me to jump up and intercede with his plans. I think he wants me to up my numbers. The next time he comes around with the stupid thing I'm dropping it down to fifty dollars, just for the aggravation. My father used to call it the: 'Asshole tax'.
I pack up my gear, snagged my Meds and high tailed it out of the Box. I get to the Bryant Park stop and there are two choices to make, two exits to leave out of. There is the East Side of Sixth Avenue, and the West Side of Sixth Avenue. One right and one wrong, I will later find out. I hop out on the West side, which is in fact the wrong side for later. And head to some business that I had to take care of. On my way I find hordes of people wearing the flag of Puerto Rico on their bodies as shirts and capes and bandannas and flags of course. This mob thinned out the further West that I headed, so I thought that this was just an isolated event. But as I walked downtown towards 34th Street, I found the mass of people oppressive. There were literally thousands in the streets, making merriment with noisemakers, whistles and boom boxes playing upbeat Puerto Rican beats. And then it struck me. This had to be the PUERTO RICAN DAY PARADE! Shit!! I had already fucked up. I looked at my watch. I had a half an hour to get to my brother on the east side. The problem? This fucking parade moved like a snake down Sixth Avenue. There would be no crossing the avenue. I saw a cop standing on a corner, blocking off the street to Sixth Avenue.
Ma'am, where can I cross over. "On Fortieth Street!" She shouted back over the din. I nodded, gave her the thumbs up in thanks and began moving uptown. It was slow going, with my bummed foot and the crowds moving at spectator's speed. I got to Fortieth Street, finding a cop near the Avenue. I shouted to him, where can I cross? "On Forty First Street, bub." I nodded and moved off, up the street to Forty First Street, finding that the street is cut off from Sixth Avenue by the Park. There would be no crossing here. That I should have known. Fuck! I head up to Forty Second Street where there are cops surrounding a jury rigged pen of people standing and waiting. How do I cross? I asked one of the Police. "Get in there," he pointed to the crowded pen. "They'll all be crossing momentarily. He was right. I climbed into the pen, and when the light changed, like a lower intestine, we were pushed out and across the street rapidly. Before I knew it I had crossed the wide Sixth Avenue, and was now on the East side of the Parade.
I hobbled as fast as I could to the Madison Starbucks, arriving fifteen minutes late, and not finding my brother anywhere in sight. I copped a squat inside and hung around, blogging for another half hour, waiting for him to show. When it was obvious that he wouldn't I moved out, heading to the recording studio on 28th street.
Now first, my directions were off. Oz told me it was West 6, 28th street. James told me it was 6-8, 28th street. Upon walking by and checking out the awnings of the buildings all I found was 6 or 8. Secondly the directions said that the studio was between Broadway and 6th. I was between Broadway and Fifth. So I went down a block finding nothing 6-8. Then I thought it was 68 but that was even further down, between 6th and 7th. Waitaminute. I had the phonenumber to Lofish Studio. I'll just give them a call and get the directions. The phone number was an answering machine.
Miffed, I remem- bered that James said that I could text him to come down and let me in. I can't text anyone unless I'm within a WIFI signal, free Internet, and on my laptop. That was a plan that was impossible. Why don't I just retrace my steps? I said to myself, before giving up. I went to the awnings 6 & 8 and found a door between them with 6-8 above it. In front of the door was a swarm of hoods. Strictly vultures, loitering and up to no good. I stopped cold. If they turned on me with this sixty pound backpack on and Oz and James are upstairs behind closed doors, that would be bad. But I trudged on, passing the specters in the doorway. So far so good. In the vestibule was a mailbox wall. A large silvery sign, LOFISH STUDIOS, third floor, directed me to two steep and tall flights of rickety stairs in a narrow and dark hallway. A perfect place for a trap, I thought. I looked behind me for the thugs, but they had cleared the vestibule. Good sign. I moved on.Up to the third floor, it was just a matter of following the signs to a door marked Lofish Studios. I knocked, and for some reason, tried the knob, which opened to me. I walked into a small, dark office, and ahead, a door marked Studio 2 opened and James emerged. I had made it despite the obstacles.
Inside was a chip heads dream. Or more accurately, and audio- phile's. There was a mixing board, speakers, LCD monitors, carpeted walls, sound equipment, two studios behind glass. And the mixing area was like a living room with a couch and chairs. I got comfortable on the couch and listened as a sound engineer, John did his magic on the keyboard, and mouse. He flipped through window screens and wave signs, and virtual equipment, cutting and pasting and lengthening and cutting short sounds and tracks, literally working the music to new life. When he was done it sounded fantastic!! It was like he was building with sound. It was captivating to watch, even though the sleep monster tugged at the ends of my consciousness. In time, he was done 'laying down' four tracks. He burned CDs for Oz and James and backed up the entire session on James' hard drive.
When it was over, we bade John farewell and filed out of the building and down the block. They were going downtown and I up. I wished them goodnight and headed off, alone, hobbling uptown to the Madison Avenue Starbucks to kill the rest of my night. On my way, walking downtown towards me was Igor. To my chagrin, he stops, talks and comes with me to Starbucks. Now it's not that I don't want to be around Igor, it's just that I was looking forward to being alone. Some alone time. Something that I get very little of. There's always someone around. In Starbucks, I can be in my own little bubble. Alone among many.
Igor instantly can't stay. He has CDs to return to a video store. He pats me on the back and heads out. Unbelievable! I stand shocked, then smiling. I get a few minutes from the Box's influence. I order a drink and cop a squat, blogging, as usual.I am in heaven. I am made perfect.
I'm blogging.
Hobobob
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