Listening to Shooby Taylor on WFMU, and laughing my head off. I had never heard Shooby before today, he scats over other people's records like some kind of cartoon parasite nesting in the song.
Maxwells was sold out, thank God. We have beautiful coffee, salad and a guava milkshake at a Cuban cafe called La Isla, on the main drag between 1st and 2nd street, on Annie's recommendation.
A very nasty accident happens seconds before we emerge into Manhattan from the Lincoln Tunnel, there are people scattered over the road. It seems unreal was we drift by under 3am Manhattan lights, a couple are lying restfully on the asphalt 6 feet from each other, the onrush of horrified onlookers towards the scene seems to be happening in slow motion, towards this point of stillness, the motionless eye of a tragedy. They must have tried to run across the street and been hit. The police arrive as we pass.
We head back, shaken, to Gary Olson's Marlborough Farms house in Brooklyn, which has room for everyone to sleep, a cluttered studio downstairs and unique inhabitants: a death row defence lawyer, a professional dancer, and two visiting Swedes from Gothenberg.