Maxine & Zeen: Beginnings of a Life

I'm writing a little article for the NYT about the New York blogging world. I don't know if I'll be able to mention this, but I think it's very fine. It's worth going back to the beginning.

Frankie Paris & Cold Sweat

We were in a bar in New York City and it was night time. There was a bassist warming up and a drummer shifting in his seat, fitting his foot to the hi-hat. Testing the microphone, the keyboard player said “dark and lovely” and touched his amplifier once or twice. Then he stepped up, through to the front, Frankie Paris, and in his hands he held a metal block and a drumstick. Frankie was wearing a black polo shirt with “Frankie” written on it and he had the kind of tan you can buy without going outside. Frankie wore a gold chain around his neck which ended, dangling down, with a squat and lovely “F.” He oozed hello and yeah-baby and started to bang his stick, making a flat metal noise. Then Cold Sweat, rumbling around him, the pianist rolling out a melody, over and over, and the guitarist, a long tall man with his orange guitar loose far down in his hands, standing over Frankie, started to play. The guitarist, so high, was the cat to Frankie’s rat, glancing back to the band while Frankie, the moustache and hair just edged with orange, gave us the eyes. “Baby.” Behind the band, the end of the dark bar was a mirror, quietly reflecting the fairy lights, the needles of orange and green and red that hung from the ceiling. Next to us, two women ate fries and drank Long Island Ice Teas with straws. “That’s right.” Back in town.