Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

This deluptuous Japanese place in Williamsburg is a dim and mysterious labyrinth. We traipsed through narrow corridors and up and down stairs on stepping stones between riverbeds of igneous rocks. It was like a moonlit stroll through the bowels of a fully kitted-out maximum zen walk-up, all low slung with chutes and bamboo ladders. The waitress led us into a booth with walls floor-to-ceiling. She tucked us in there and rolled down a bamboo privacy shade. Karen, Anna, Tom and I enjoyed warm hand towels inside our own little cupboard. I suffer a fondness for a warm towel, especially when it gets dangled before me on tongs while I am nestled in my own cupboard.  Moments later, the waitress whisked back. Zip zip, she rolled up our privacy shade, took our towels and explained that if we wanted anything, we should press the buzzer on the edge of the table. She stressed this. If you want anything from the broader world beyond your cupboard, ring for it. Immediately after we p

Photo Credit: Robert Altman http://consequenceofsound.net/2015/01 /live-review-future-islands-at- new-york-citys-terminal-5-18/ A swirl of fake fog slithers over the stage, lit by glowing blue lights. Under the cover of twinkly  dimness, Future Islands trots out and the crowd goes wild. We’re at Terminal 5, and our view is top notch from where we stand leaning against the balcony railing. Beside me, I hear Tom begin squeaking. The squeaking does not concern me. I’m more fascinated by the lead singer’s dance moves. The man is a powerful dirigible. It would be something to get him into a cage with  Shia LaBeouf for an interpretive dance-off.  Meanwhile, Tom executes a set of eight little jiggles. Then he tells me he’s getting woozy and his chest hair might be a bit crisper than it was when we arrived. Finally I notice the people sitting between Tom’s legs. They come to my attention mostly because they lit up a bowl three feet under my nose.  I think these people, the ones comfo