I’m old today. I attempt the grocery store right after the snowstorm, the second one we had in New York this winter, about five or six inches of slush—a real mess. As I’m walking through this stuff I’m so conscious of the possibility of falling. During the last storm I cut a walk in half because I was slipping around so much on the sleet.

Carolyn's gone for five weeks and I’m on my own. I’m sick; I think it’s a cold. Nonetheless I have to get to the grocery store since I'm out of milk and I need to arrange some kind of dinner. Arriving at the store my head is spinning, maybe from looking down so intensely during the walk. So I stagger through the aisles filling out my list. I can barely read it; I can't read the labels on anything on the shelves.

I pay for the stuff and I start home. I’m sweating; the interior of my skull feels like a cavernous space with no fixed horizon. It’s not vertigo but a light-headedness; there are a lot of terms for it on the medical websites. None of my many doctors has been able to establish a cause. Maybe it’s a drug interaction; I take so many drugs.

I’m clumsy in the slush looking for places I can step. The buildings around here are quick to clean the sidewalks; in this part of the city routine maintenance happens fast. Before this I lived in the South Bronx where things are a lot different. Outside the New York City Housing Authority buildings near my loft—the Mitchel Houses—no one would touch a frozen sidewalk for weeks. Litter and clogged drains would be there for months. We used to call the corner of Lincoln and 136th Street Lincoln Lake.

I’m carrying two heavy bags. I hold them with one hand while I look for my keys. I open the door and the cat is there making needy noises. I can see he wants to sit on my lap. I put the groceries down and try to untie my wet shoelaces. It's very hard to do: my cold fingers are stiff and clumsy and the cat is rubbing my ankles. The spinning in my brain is turning into a headache and the cat is driving me nuts.

I think I would never have a cat if I lived alone. It's not true but it's the kind of mood I'm in. I remember a line from Kill the Dogs, a song I wrote back in 1980 or '81. The jaundiced singer is complaining that dogs are just another claim on my time and my responsibilities. Guess I can’t blame these feelings on bitter old age; I was the same guy at twenty-six.

I see the plants that I haven’t watered; of course I’ve forgotten again. When I was single all the plants died. I like having plants around; I even like having cats around (though not dogs). But today I don’t want to have to take care of anything, I don't want to be distracted and prevented from doing exactly what I want right that second: old man panic.

We put on a show!

Ed Davis Band: Fuck Each Other

Night At Downtown Beirut

The Look of Love: Episode 3

Old friend Abby invited me to show something at Lucky, her bar on Avenue B. After scrambling a bit we set up in the bar's backyard patio.

I learned nothing from the many daylight-savings-time nights I spent at Ohio drive-ins and scheduled start time way too early—we were bombarded with photons. It didn't bother anyone since the crowd came for alcohol and conversation. There was a DIY-vibe to the whole event that was very much in keeping with the 90's videos. I think we can count this as my first-ever NYC retrospective. I enjoyed myself thoroughly.