![]() ![]() No images or links will be allowed if they are directed at identifying or could be used to identify individuals or the location of those individuals or if they are used in a name-and-shame capacity. Some images may be allowed, at moderator discretion, if they contribute directly to the ability of the forum to answer the question at issue. This is not a forum for sharing links or images. No ticket sales/wanted, no apartment ads, no job/gig posts, no missing items. Please reserve your downvotes for posts and comments that are off-topic or offensive. Consult AskNYC's Frequently Asked Questions and quick searches for common questions.īefore posting, consider whether you're providing useful information.Quick Searches for Common Questions Make sure your question hasn’t been asked and answered.The best swap was made in that hour we spent and for that I am glad. “Do you remember them? Or we could always use the good old postal system.” I saw the message too late for the gig. He said he was playing at Bangalow with Galapagos Duck. “We could swap the CD and the book,” he said. Soon after I found out he had lung cancer and was undergoing treatments, and I realised I’d heard something of this as he spoke with the woman in white. ![]() The book I hoped to get to him had the back section of a yellow cab on its cover. Naturally David had put out an album that year, recorded in New York City, David Ades & friends, A Glorious Uncertainty, and when I saw the cover with the front section of a yellow cab I smiled. When I had a chance to look up and saw those blue eyes gazing out, I found out he not only played saxophone, he was one of the world’s finest. I awoke the next morning feeling buoyant, and carried the warmth of David’s story about his dad, Joe, the pitch man, into my own pitch that went so well that complete strangers approached me afterwards. We said goodbye and I felt gratitude that the uncertainty of this evening had led me to these people in that place. ![]() Here - Oh hey, I wrote a story in a New York literary travel anthology last year, I said. David urged me to read about his father on his website. Joe Ades was The Potato Peeler Guy and when he died the New York Times his obituary. It was a potato peeler that you will never find in a store. Joe’s merchandise was always the same thing, said David, and he did this for decades. By the time David told me this my lentils had arrived, glowing and golden in a white bowl. In the evenings Joe would go home to his fourth wife on the Upper East Side and would have a steak at a fine restaurant, every night. He always wore a three piece suit and Union Square was one of favourite places to pitch. He said he’d heard me speak about pitching and unfurled the story of his Dad, Joe, who had been a pitchman in New York City that people came from all over to see. David spoke to me right then and I turned to see his blue eyes. I am pitching my novel to a live audience and three publishers and I’m nervous, I told him. He had written a children’s book about the environment and planned to scale the barriers of the writers’ festival to show it to someone. The young man had asked if he could join me for dinner. David heard the woman in white speak to us of healing and spoke to her, something about cancer. I noticed his hair too, silvery white, back into a pony tale. I didn’t know his name them but I had noticed David sitting at the next table in dark clothes that must have held stories of many nights and cities. The café staff were starting to clear up but a few people arrived, a woman in stark white Indian cotton ordering a takeaway, and a young man. I walked along Jonson St, Fletcher, Lawson in the cold seeking a place and eventually spotted a warm glow at end of an open air arcade. I’d been to the Byron Bay Writers’ Festival launch party, and with no dinner plans, needed something warm to fill the spaces canapés had not reached. ![]() David Ades was a friend met once only in a cafe at an hour not as late as it felt. ![]()
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