Friday Happy: Anarchy with a note attached

I wish I could remember how or why this song landed in my iTunes (according to iTunes chronology, it arrived somewhere between the Brighten the Corners: Nicene Creedence Edition and immediately preceding T.I.’s Live Your Life [ayyy ay]). But it has floated to the surface of the pile in recent weeks and affixed itself as the constant-repeat soundtrack to the season, that being fall, more specifically special urban fall, with all its hyperkenetic-super-frenetic energy rushing in like these sudden brutal winds leftover from tropical storm Ida.

Also, great use of alarmist Phil Donahue footage here:

Tullycraft – “The Punks are Writing Love Songs”

Download it here.

fall at Brooklyn Bridge Park

Fall at Brooklyn Bridge Park

 

 

As I wrote in an e-mail to Lauren Golfer a few weeks ago, it was just recently that I discovered the probably not-so-secret fact that fall is the season of romantics in New York. Not spring, with too much pent up energy after a brutal and damning winter exploding back onto the streets and patios to ever allow you to focus too much on one source; not summer with the heavy plastic wrap of humidity surrounding skyscrapers and tunnels, preempting all escapades of the heart with the smell of hot garbage and the preoccupation with finding a breeze, any breeze, somewhere up from the cracks in the sidewalk or the particular angle of a roof pointed at the Verrazano and just a faint hint of hazy green somewhere in the distance that could be the tip of real nature out yonder, or maybe just a hopeful trick of the light.

But fall, glorious lo-fi fall, the guitar of seasons tuned to an open E chord, cruel in its fickleness but rewarding in its sudden moments of brilliant resurgence. I learned quickly, as August gave out with barely a whimper of protest and September barged in like a harried commuter on the D train late for an appointment in the Bronx, that fall in New York is where the real city lives. Then the sun bursts back into the “on” position and you find yourself walking down a street crackling with browns and reds, the rhythmic seasonal change somehow perfectly paired on a genetic DNA level to the brick-and-mortar lining the streets, their facades seeming more crisp and brisk to the touch.

Summer is still tops to me, but I’m reveling in this newfound appreciation for the season that comes after.

 

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