New York to Republicans: Drop Dead

See this is what Republicans are about. Gerald Ford was actually the only president that may have been dumber than Dubya. I don't even know how I'm going to react to the Republican Convention. It seems like the clashing energies are going to test the limits of New York's ability to assimilate contradictions. I really find it hard to tell what's going on in Americuh anymore. Have you seen American Wedding, for instance? Is this what the average kid is watching these days? Does everyone go around making jokes about shoving things up their asses?

But the weather this week was slammin. Nice cold front keeping me somewhat lucid, but didn't manage to avoid lethargy, missed too much stuff. Like I still haven't been to Camaradas, and that whole Sidestepper gig at Avalon (yep, formerly Limelight) also passed me by, as well as the Café Tacuba/Maldita/etc. etc. at Spirit. Turned up at Croxley's again, just to take in morbid baseball game with Michael.

On Wednesday spent a few hours being interviewed by a Space Doctor from Britain, getting into some new revelations. My interviewer had devised a Spanglish chart, drawn into four quarters, each corresponding to some level of acculturation. But even though there were intersections and axes, and it looked a little like Four Corners in the Southwest, the "mapping" suggested easy, fluid motion between sectors. My main revelation was identifying the "backbone" of our people, the readymade hyphenations that find a static way to be American. Also that newer immigrants contained two categories, distinguished by age difference, one which dominated the Span-doms, and the other younger branch is the cutting edge of transculturalism.

Pero anyway I wound up sipping the Weissebier at that spacious German place on Rivington, the one reminiscent of the other spacious German place on Avenue C, and then shuffled down Houston with A. until a surprisingly good French salmon entrée manifested itself between the raindrops. Completed more research on my upcoming story about women and dogs. It's much more complicated than I had imagined.

The highlight of the week was of course the Andrea show at Prospect Park, which wasn't quite as jammed as it had been for Natalia LaFourcade, but maybe I'm wrong. There she was in the black dress and the psychedelic hippie guitar and some new players behind Héctor and Alejandro. Bela-Yuzzy was there, and Neal, Miriam and Mattias, Fernando, Maria Moreno, Bill Bragin, and A. and I sat with Ricardo and Lina.

The set was very tight, sound clean, and Andrea's voice did not fail. The songs, which this time reflected more strongly on Andrea's personal aesthetic, had a haunting quality. Ethereal, mournful...I'm really impressed by the depth of her interpretation of the child + partner experience. Every time it seems like things are going to get corny, Andrea turns it into something surprisingly profound.

I vibed pretty well at the Suba after-party, mixing martinis and chocolate. Aceituna, I said to Andrea, what a strange word. With Ricardo we babbled about the virtues of El Barrio and ultimately found a rambling post-dawn guitar-and-confessional session with the wily Claudia Luque, wacky back-up singer Sol, Alejo and other hangers-on. Towards the end I was reunited with a free Boricua spirit who extolled the virtues of Ramito, and fortunately I haven't forgotten yet, and Maya brought out a big bass and a six-pack. I think Alejo was trying to heal me and maybe it worked. I wound up sleeping through the morning newspaper.

As far as those terror alerts are concerned, how great that there's been so much doubt and questioning and it all seems to be revealed as an ineffectual manipulation. One thing I haven't figured out is this guy who they got the new information from, was he the same guy the New Republic was talking about? The'>http://www.tnr.com/doc.mhtml?i=20040719&s=aaj071904">The New Republic Online: July Surprise?

Speaking of no surprise to me, I leave you with this little tidbit:

The New York Times > New York Region > Village Voice Reduces Staff and Evidently Morale, TooI gotta admit I feel a little bit redeemed by this. These people take your best years, suck the life out of you, and then dump you in the trash heap. Does Donald H. Forst like, sleep at night, or is he just a carcass or a robot? Nope, robots are tall and good-looking. A pox on thee, running dogs.