wilco and the hungarians

for almost 24 hours it looked like I'd be snapping photos of Wilco either tonight (Hammerstein) or tomorrow (Warsaw).

so I departed from the shores of New Jersey (I was leaving anyway, but it was a long, late night journey up the Garden State Parkway), leaving behind Hungarian fiction (last book read: Imre Kertesz' Fatelessness) and language tapes (transferred to the iPod (I'm attempting to obtain knowledge through osmosis (kinda) - playing the tapes but paying absolutely no attention just to see what'll stick; thus far I believe I can pronounce the Hungarian word for "beer" but precious little else)), but bringing with me a well-earned sunburn (yes dear, I'm moisturizing).

but first there was the morning commute: the ride to the train station, the train ride into Newark, the transfer, the train ride into New York, the E train up to 53rd and Madison.
which is precisely enough time to listen to Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Being There (both discs).
I wanted to be prepared, you know.

but Deb Bernardini says no press passes (at least for tomorrow night - don't know what the hell happened with tonight's show) so while I'll be travelling to Brooklyn on the morrow, I'll have no Tweedy, no Sansone (hey Pat) in my viewfinder.
(other shows I won't be attending on Tuesday include Ryan Adams at the Hiro Ballroom and Sinead O'Connor at Joe's Pub)

damn, I was so very, very ready.