NYC October 07

Saturday, 10.6.07

This was the day we'd planned around. The reason we'd booked the trip. Out on Randall's Island, a rock and roll show to beat all rock and roll shows would occupy us from afternoon til late in the night. The Arcade Fire headlined, with LCD Soundsystem, Blonde Redhead, Les Savy Fav, and Wild Light supporting.

The day started a bit slowly, as we took our time getting out of bed and going. Soon enough we were on the subway to Harlem, this time the 1, as the A shut down at midnight Friday for a weekend of maintenance. We'd planned to meet up with Harlan and Kristin (friends from Austin) and Cara and Jesper (friends from Boise now in Portland, Maine) at the M
&G Diner on 125th at Broadway. We'd heard this was a no-frills soul-food diner that Bill Clinton called one of his favorites, and we were excited.

The joint looked just like I thought it would: long and narrow, a formica counter running the distance, a jukebox on the near wall next to a table crammed into the window corner, chocolate cake on the counter, grease in the air. The staff, all middle-aged black women, were in scrubs. We grabbed seats at the counter and waited for the others to arrive. Harlan and Kristin got there first, and as both are vegetarians to differing degrees, this place didn't exactly excite them. She had milk, he had chocolate cake. Sheezus.

Cathy and I, on the other hand, went after it: Chicken and waffles, coffee for me and coke for her. Hell yeah. And man, the food was as good as the help was surly. Not 10 words passed between us and the waitresses, but that chicken, perfectly tender and juicy inside with a thin and crispy skin, and that waffle, all big and fat and fluffy and golden brown slightly hinting at cinnamon when you bit into it. Pure heaven.

Cara and Jesper showed up as we finished, and we all strolled down 125th St. toward the river and the Triborough Bridge. It was a long walk, weaving slowly along the sidewalk through the pedestrians and tourists and locals with their folding tables hawking incense and sandals and t-shirts and music and philosophy and anything else you might think of.

Harlan got his when a black man with long braids, dressed as some sort of space commander, flanked by three men dressed similarly, who had been conducting a nonstop stream of urgent and belligerent preaching about something, pointed into Harlan's face and announced that the white man was a bum and a vagabond.

Guess he told your ass, I said.

We walked on.

Many blocks later, we found the intersection we were after, and shortly we were on a bus headed over to the island. We were early, and that meant we had to wait around on the grass before standing and rushing to the front to wait packed together and standing, while other people who arrived later just strolled right in, but hey, we were early.

The show, though, would soon erase whatever we endured to get to it. Jump on over to the Range Life and read all about it.