stalactites

Halfway through singing "Lord Knows" at the rowdy, rambunctious Sidewalk Cafe, I realized something.

I was being between blinded by lunatic spotlights, trying to figure out where the edge of the stage was, where my friend Curtis was sitting, and if the wildly eccentric nightowls who run it actually work a job in the day that could even possibly compare to the gypsy life they lead after rush hour ends. And suddenly it seemed that the microphone head was surprisingly ergonomic. Considering the motley decor of broken trumpets, busted drums hanging on the wall, old cutouts of kids who'd made the big time and bong jokes, that seemed unlikely. The ancient metal microphone I was singing into had formed to shape lips.

It's the only geology the East Village has. No stalactites. Just old instruments, young bucks on pianos who explode into superstars, and bathroom graffiti. Old, metal microphone carved by lips like cliffs by the mouths of two generations of troubadours. It makes you emote harder, look sultrier, somehow reverse kiss Regina Spektor and Ani DiFranco. They never got rid of it. Just like they will never get rid of their emcees or the woman who plays banjo there, brilliantly. What would do a better job?

One thought ran through my head, not "swine flu" or "cooties", just, simply, "New York."