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Crawling back to the ‘blog

Since last posting here, I’ve –

Tripped on a Flatbush Avenue sidewalk and consequently slammed the side of my head against a wall so hard that it’s still tender to the touch 8 days later. I tripped because I was checking the weather on my phone, and perhaps partly because there was a 30 lb toddler on my back who had been screaming “I don’t want to go to school! I don’t want to go to school! I don’t want to go to school! ” intermittedly over the prior 45 minutes. For the record, when traversing that same corner carrying that same child a few days ago, he congratulated me for not falling.

Driven (well, sat shotgun on) a round trip to mastering session in Portland Maine with Mr. Crump, and only Mr. Crump, inside 24 hours, resulting in 12+ hours of uninterrupted mellow conversation and music in two installments, and my 1st and 2nd ever stops at Chipotle. (Not bad, and I can feel mildly ok about it, now that they’ve finally committed to purchasing tomatoes only from farms that pay their workers minimum wage and respect basic human rights, thanks to the tireless efforts of the Coalition of Immokalee Workers.  But I digress.)

Spent the night in the hospital with that toddler (yes, his name is Van), who needed IV antibiotics after his parents (and dentist) let him develop a cavity too deep to be filled, and an infection too formidable for the regular bubble gum version of kid antibiotics. So much for my healthy cooking claims.

Stepped on stage with beloved old friends at The Bitter End after said sleepless night to sing a couple great songs written by,and in honor of, my late friend Jill Seifers Walsh, a marvelous musician with a magical voice and a glowing spirit who left us way too soon. Switched off with Mr. Crump so he could relieve Grandma at the hospital and stay for night #2. And I could drink Jameson with the old friends and then awake 5 ½ hours later to pack lunch and take the never-sick (like, I mean, never, ever) child to school.

Written a few hundred emails begging people to give me money so I can make and give them music. Or as Amanda Palmer calls it, engaging in the “art of asking” and inviting people to pay for music rather than, um, steal it.  Yeah, what she said.

Visited the Whitney Museum and Carnegie Hall, the Brooklyn Historical Society and the Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture, Cornelia Street Café, The Cutting Room, the Metropolitan Room and the Church of St. Ann’s and The Holy Trinity.

Talked to a group of parents in a cooking and nutrition class at our local elementary about the benefits of community supported agriculture.

Changed sheets in the guest room for delightful visitors from southern Illinois, western Tennessee, and Idaho via Long Island.

Reveled in the sounds of guitars, voices, piano, Farfisa organ, clavinet, trumpet, and harp as they were laid down on my songs. Giggled from the sidelines as Kevin Killen was instructed in the finer points of helping to load said massive harp in and out of our apartment.

Commissioned and then endured a photo shoot and several video shoots. Experienced mild torture and then saw proof of such in my expression in much if not most of the resulting shots.

Sang Bulgarian and Macedonian folk songs around my dining table.

Cheered at Maceo’s first at bat. Admired his resilience when he struck out and kept his head up.

Ate like a typical American, grabbing processed food on the fly and consuming it while walking or seating on the subway. Or skipped meals altogether, and floated on sleeplessness, Irish whiskey and the love of friends. (But, just this evening), Made a nice French lentil soup with onions, garlic, celery and carrots sautéed in lamb marguez sausage fat left in the skillet from dinner a few nights past, and simmered in venison broth made from bones of the Delaware deer given by my cousins at Christmas. (Better than Chipotle.)

Finished a record and sent it to the factory!

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