Though undeniably bright, there is a stark quality to the March sun that makes the phlox (and the sempervivum) seem — oddly — both luminous and bedraggled.

The silver veins of the surrounding rocks add to this quality, and for a second I dreamed I was in the mountains of _____. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever visit a desert/mountain/rain forest and think: this place looks so familiar, I have seen it in a small garden in Washington Heights.

In this post, the garden is a metaphor for the city, while the plants and rocks are elements of the past that we may or may not recognize until we see them in the present (possibly while lost, driving around in the most labyrinthian sections of Queens/Riverdale/Lower East Side circa 1988).

Reader Lloyd — one of our many 80-something y.o. fans — recently sent us this “mash-up” cover of the New Yorker, and we wanted to share it with everyone.

Thanks Lloyd, and Happy Mid-February!

When the February blues hit — and considering this winter, how could they not? — we like to immerse ourselves into dreams of spring, which entails many hours in the seed and plant catalogs. Though our garden is dominated by perennials, bushes and trees designed to draw forth the essence if not the reality (given our limitations) of an alpine garden, we like to reserve the pots for annuals  — sorry, purists! — because even though “friends don’t let friends buy annuals,” we find that they really do help add color when our garden tends to need it the most, i.e., through the drab period of late July and August. Last year we tried growing our annuals from seed with mixed results; some never got bigger than an inch or so, while others did eventually grow to the monstrous proportions we had anticipated. This year, we’re trying again, with an eye toward picking varieties that will all maybe actually thrive in the extremes of stultifying heat and humidity we seem to inevitably face each summer. Herewith our choices this year, with accompanying descriptions from the catalog:

Sunflower Sunny Smile (Helianthus annuus)
The big Sunflower you can grow in a small pot!

Flowering Tobacco (Nicotiana x sanderae)
If your summers are hot and humid, Flowering Tobacco is the annual you MUST grow.

Zinnia Profusion (Zinnia)
Winner of Gold Medals Galore, this is the Best Zinnia EVER!

Salvia Park’s Whopper Lighthouse (Salvia splendens)
So big, bright, and bold it could only be a Whopper, this annual Salvia takes the world by storm from the moment you sow the seed.

Do you know about any “must-have” annuals for 2k9? (Keep in mind we live in the swamplands of New York City.) Let us know, or send links/pix!

The opening chords of “Vapour Trail” are high and open, yet filled with same (phase-shifted) melancholy we associate with ringing church bells. To hear this the other day, as we plodded through our thirty minutes on the elliptical at the gym, was to be swept away with a sense of forgotten potential — i.e., it was not hard to remember listening to the song fifteen years earlier — and an accompanying sadness at the inevitable failure to arrive at any destination we might have anticipated, or at least with any degree of pleasure.

This is less a statement of unhappiness about our current station in life than a reflection of the unrealistic nature of our ideals at the time, and a more molten sense of regret that — at least in our experience – is so often wrapped inside the hard truth as it dissolves on our tongue. At the time — 1992 – we were just about to start law school in New York City; perversely, we had applied to schools based only on our desire to play guitar — “alternative” was the phrase du jour — which we can now admit was mostly just a superficial desire, underneath of which resided a more hidden longing, although one barely acknowledged, and in any event always accompanied by waves of terror in complete disproportion (or perhaps not, in the context of AIDS) to the glimpses of our true nature we very rarely allowed ourself.

Most of our classmates in law school, we were sad and amazed to discover, were not at all interested in voraciously devouring the music of the early nineties to compensate for — or perhaps sublimate – their sexual identities. As a result we viewed most of them with a juvenile disdain, as if we were really biding our time in this prison before going on to a better — if completely (beyond vague and preposterous notions of rock stardom) undefined — future; like Morrissey, we wanted to be famous (although in an alternative sense, the way Pavement was famous then), but unlike Morrissey (or even Pavement), we had little courage or vision. One memory of law school: after a seminar, we overheard some girl say to her friend: “I just got a kitten and named her Tsunami,” to which we interjected: “Oh, like the band?” as if some obscure group (whose music, moreover, we didn’t really like) would be of utmost importance to everyone in the world. The irony of our situation was that while we successfully positioned ourself into an environment in which we were “cool” — at least in our mind — simply by virtue of the fact that we had no interest in working at a firm or a public-interest group, at the same time going to law school made us eminently less cool in those circles in which we most desperately wanted to succeed (in this regard, feel free to envision a bullseye with Matador Records at the center.)

When we finally started a band, during our second year in law school, despite our pathetic attempts to basically ape Galaxie 500 with perhaps a dose of Ride and My Bloody Valentine thrown in (speaking theoretically), we created a little “buzz” in the East Village — and among certain assistant A&R reps from major labels who incredibly enough oozed over and slipped us their business cards after the set, just like we were in movie — primarily from the fact that our show was packed with friends (from law school, because it was the beginning of a semester and there was nothing better to do) and we made Brownies an unprecedented amount of money for a Monday night. Soon we were hearing from “crazy Karen,” the booking agent for the club, who naturally liked to have a money-making act open up for someone “huge” like the Strapping Field Hands or the Magnetic Fields or the Grifters or Fuzzy. At one of our these shows, “Gerard from Matador” was spotted in the audience, but predictably enough — because we didn’t have much to say — he left disappointed (or so we heard) and from then on he never acknowledged our existence, even in Boston when we played with his band Envelope upstairs at the Middle East.

The first time we heard Nowhere, the 1990 debut LP by Ride, we were “kinda shocked” by the opening bassline, specifically with regard to how plainly derived it was from “Taxman,” which of course is the opening song on Revolver (arguably the best album by the “Liverpool Band,” as we preferrred to call them.)  Was this bass line really “necessary”? Similarly bizarre to our ears was the song “Decay” — it arrives about halfway through the record — which is equally “inspired” by the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black.”  Needless to say, we quickly overcame our aversion to the record and played it obsessively for perhaps a year or more, or at least until Ride released their next record and we became disillusioned with their failure to maintain our standards. These days, we would say that along with Loveless, Nowhere is the most successful example of the sort of late 1980s post-gothic, psychedelic wall-of-noise, unapologetically sweet (vocally), proto-electronic-ish (a la Manchester beat) music typically referred to (derisively or not) as “shoegazer rock.”  It’s a record that sounds as if the sixties were funneled through a jet engine and transformed into pessimistic odes to the ephmeral nature of life and sometimes death (obviously the lyrics would make ridiculous, terrible poetry, but are beautiful in the context of the songs); the actual recording of the record is sublime, too; as our friend Mike put it the other day, the drums sound like tree trunks hitting against vast lakes of still water.

“First you look so strong,
Then you fade away.
The sun will blind my eyes,
I love you anyway.
First you form a smile,
I watch you for a while.
You are a vapour trail,
In a deep blue sky.”

The first time we played at CBGBs was a Saturday night in 1994; Jawbox was on the bill (and were responsible for getting us the show, since our bass player knew their guitarist from college), as was Sunny Day Real Estate. The catch — as we learned after accepting the offer — was that we would be the “warm-down” band, a kind of terrible but exhilarating feature that like certain forms of torture should probably henceforth be relegated to museums and encyclopedias. (CBs sometimes used to have multiple warm-down bands, as we discovered one strange Wednesday night when we stayed there until three am with Beth — like the Kiss song — whose friend’s boyfriend’s band was appearing in one of these slots; even at the time we knew there was something awful and surreal about sitting in CBs at that strange hour, peeling the labels off our beers and fixating on the decaying fabric of the random couches and armchairs in our vicinity, perhaps realizing but not quite acknowledging a fear that this was a metaphor for our own future.) Nevertheless, for our show, even though tons of people streamed out after Jawbox (the headliner), enough remained to make the event a true pleasure — something nobody could ever take away from us — particularly in comparison to the thousands of empty venues — including malls, back porches and “art galleries” — we subsequently played during our years “on tour.”

There was a girl at this show — she was from Connecticut or maybe Westchester — who we will always remember: she was tall and gangly, well over six-feet with wide hips, a shock of red hair and large, expressive eyes, which in the glow of the nightclub appeared like mirrors.  Though she professed to like our band (she even bought a 7-inch, if memory serves), her true love was Ride. She published a zine (which had more than a few issues) exclusively about the band and her undying love for them, and she encouraged us to sign a petition she planned to send to the band’s U.S. label with a thought to encourage — or “force” — them to fund a Ride tour of the States. (By this point it was 1995 and the band’s third LP was considered an artistic and commercial failure by all concerned, except for this girl we met; sadly her name now escapes us and we threw out her zine when we left Brooklyn.) We expressed our disappointment at having not seen the band a few years earlier, when they had canceled an American tour after the drummer broke his leg playing rugby (maybe?).

“Tremble with a sigh,
Glitter in your eye.
You seem to come and go,
I never seem to know.
And all my time,
is yours as much as mine.
We never have enough,
Time to show our love.”

We thought of this girl from our past the other day as “Vapour Trail” ended and the chiming guitars slowly gave way to the orchestrated strings. We wondered where she is now (although we don’t really want to know), and if she still loves Ride more than any other band. (Did she maybe play “Vapour Trail” at her wedding? (Was it a lesbian wedding?) Will she one day pass on her love for this band to her grandchildren? (Will they accept it?)) That we think of her fondly and with a certain admiration gives us some comfort, if not exactly hope, knowing that even the smallest of waves can roll for thousands of miles across a flat sea.

(Listen to “Vapour Trail” on our Tumblr.)

Our friend Paul just sent us this from his phone:

“So what if I voted for McCain?” OMGLMFAO!

We’re not sure exactly where this was taken, but Paul lives in Harlem, so we’ll give our downtown neighbors credit for this piece of brilliance. (But Paul would also like you to click here, too.)

[Correction: Paul took the shot at the downtown Bleeker Street station, but whatevs, we still love Harlem!]

Today we decided to go on a walk with our video camera. The streets were slushy and frozen after the snow; the magic of the previous night had dissipated with the sullen day.

We trudged along, not really thinking about anything except how ugly everything looked, even on Jumel Terrace. But then we heard something in the sky — birds! — and we looked up and saw the geese flying in formation. To hear them suddenly made the noxious sounds of the city — the relentless traffic and thud of music — seem trivial.

We weren’t looking for these birds, of course, but we weren’t not looking for them either.

[Redacted]

Here’s the vlog. Sorry about the shitty quality (.mp4) and the typo, but we can’t seem to figure out how to upload anything decent (.mov or .avi) onto YouTube, and we’re too lazy to fix the typo right now. All suggestions welcome! (We’re working in Final Cut Express on a Mac Powerbook.) We’re still kind of clueless, obv!

Update: This one should be better! (Still has the typo, though!)

Just as the snow began, we finished Among Other Things, I’ve Taken Up Smoking, a 2007 debut novel by Aoibheann Sweeney. The book is about a girl — Miranda — who grows up with her father on a tiny island off the coast of Maine; her mother died when she was an infant and her father spends most of his time translating Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Given that the characters are loosely inspired by The Tempest, Sweeney presents us with a very compelling juxtaposition between what superficially appears to be a slender “coming-of-age” story and the heavy-duty literature that resonates through the work; in short, reading this is like going to a restaurant where the chef has successfully transformed a traditional boring dish into something surprisingly light and delicious, so that the second you finish one bite, you already want another.

The book is “gay” from pretty much the first page to the last, but in a way that recalls early 20th century writers such as Virginia Woolf and Willa Cather, i.e., it’s most often a subtext or perhaps even a viewpoint, and so never descends into the more tedious trappings of genre fiction. There is a lyrical quality to the writing — and ultimately the themes of love and truth — that transcends the need to apply the kind of labels — gay, lesbian, bisexual, etc. — that so often seep out of the political arena into art with such unfortunate consequences. Sweeney gives us a story, and though she deftly deconstructs (and adheres to) any number of gay stereotypes, her characters always feel more like people than statements.

The story is not complicated; Miranda finishes high school and her father helps to get her an internship for the summer in New York City; while there, she meets a boy she likes well enough but for whom she feels increasing ambivalence as she concurrently falls in love with a Dominican girl from Washington Heights.(!) From a very young age, Miranda understands that she is an outsider, and the suspense of the book relates to her gradual understanding of exactly why. We are drawn through this process by Sweeney’s amazing ability to infuse small and often awkward moments — attending a party, flirting with a stranger, making stiff dinner conversation, getting lost in the city — with poetic insight and mystery.

That she ultimately finds herself — in both literal and metaphorical senses of the expression — in Washington Heights is something we not only appreciated but understood, particularly today, when the snow fell on all of us, equally.

Before Friday night’s show at the Met, both the lead Isolde and her cover were sick and had to cancel. This sometimes happens!

At the last minute, the Met was able to track down Waltraud Meier, who agreed to fly in from Munich for the show.

Though a very experienced Isolde — and who has recently worked with Barenboim* — this production was new to her; and then the weather was horrible and the plane circled JFK for five hours! (Omg jet lag!) By the time she arrived backstage, there was no time to rehearse, so the director quickly coached her through the staging as the minutes ticked down to the prelude.

It was a sold out house: adrenaline was running high on both sides of the curtain.

It could have been a disaster, but by most accounts (except sadly, ours!), Waltraud Meier’s performance was filled with a remarkable fury and vulnerability made all the more incredible by the fact that she hadn’t slept or rehearsed.

Though sorry to have missed it, we’re consoled by the idea that even at the highest levels, things in the theater can and do go wrong, yet can sometimes be restored with such serendipitous brilliance.

It gives us hope as we consider the inevitable mishaps our own life, to understand that an alchemy exists by which these failures can be transformed — at least for a little while — into something better than we could have ever expected.

*Here’s a clip of Waltraud Meier from last year’s production at La Scala.

Yesterday it rained so hard that we felt sure today would arrive bright and sunny, as so often happens in New York City, where weather really doesn’t tend to linger the way it does in say, Pittsburgh or Ithaca. We had visitors in from out of town and told them our theory: then in an act of bravado — and the bad forecast notwithstanding — we promised that the weather would be perfect today, just like in the above photograph.

Sadly, this is what it looked like when we woke up. We were embarrassed until a few hours later, when it finally did clear up a little, although it had turned cold. Next time, we’re going to try to restrain ourselves from promising more than we can deliver, in the event that it concerns something more important than the weather.

Remember how we said that one good reason to move to Washington Heights is that it’s home to the hottest gay statues? While this remains undoubtedly true, we have some groundbreaking news for our gay lady friends! This just in from Reader Roberta:

Hi TGR, I thought you — or actually your lesbian readers, coz I know there’s at least a few — might like to know that there’s a gay couple, by which I mean two gay ladies, on display on Broadway in the Heightz. I’ve taken a few shots over the past couple of months, which I attach for your consideration, with captions (my gf Suzanne helped)! Feel free to post, because these gay gurlz are hot and I’m never going to have the time to start my own blog!

Ok, Roberta, you’re on! Let’s check these gay ladies out, shall we?

Hi girls! So you’re new to the neighborhood? And you’re a couple? Love it!

(Delicious buns!)

So are those jeans painted on or what!?  (To be twenty again!)

Welcome, ladies! It’s good to see more lesbian couples in da Heightz!

Thanks Roberta! We think you should start a Tumblr like us, but in the meantime, we’re more than happy to post for you! You definitely opened our eyes to a world we hardly knew existed…

The Hot Gay Statue round-up:

• Rules and Guidelines
• Dan Savage Endorsement
• Washington Heights (New York City)
• Washington, DC
• The London Eye Clarifies an Important Issue
• Florence (Italy)
• The Park Avenue Amory (Upper East Side/NYC)
• Murray Hill (New York City)
• Madrid (Spain)
• Los Angeles
• Philadelphia
• The London Eye: “In Your Face”
• The J-Man Inspires
• George Washington
• Georgia (Republic of)
• New Orleans
• Columbus Circle (New York City)
• Two Davids (Florence)
• Franco Harris Statue (Pittsburgh)
• London Firefighters and Other Heroes
• Columbus Circle Mall (New York City)
• Miami
• Paris
• Grand Central Station (New York City)
• Albany, New York
• Chicago
• Albany, New York (Hot Gay Statute)
• The Metropolitan Museum (New York City)
• University of Southern California (Los Angeles)
• More Getty Villa (Los Angeles)
• Union Station Centurions (Washington, DC)