  A Nightingale Sang In Tompkins Square It's not always easy for me to watch other performers.  A lot of thoughts and feelings come up and I get distracted from what's happening on the stage.  Usually I start off wondering why I didn't get this gig,  then move on to " why did he make that choice?  or "
that's great,  I would never have thought of that.  Comparing,  projecting,  dissecting. I think it's a lot of stuff that civilians (
i. e.  non- performers)  don't have to deal with it.  They can just sit back and enjoy.
 Me not so much.  So when I tell you that half way through urlLink Troy's first song,  I relaxed and listened to the music and not the questions in my head,  you'll know the man's good.  Really good.  urlLink RJ and I arrived at Starlight shortly after the set began (
I hate being late,  but there were no cabs in Chelsea. either that,  or they wouldn't stop for a boy in a too- tight soccer shirt and another with a spiky mullet)  and found the back lounge packed.
 It's not a typical cabaret space,  the stage is far too small,  but in that amount of space there were five musicians backing him up.  And Troy?  Unique.  He looks both comfortable and uncomfortable,
 but in charge,  and the effect is charming.  His voice has lots of colors and textures and he's not afraid to mix and match.  It's ballsy and romantic and way cool.  And smart.  There was just no way for me to be jealous or critical,
 because I was enjoying the music,  him ,  so much that I got taken out of my own head for a bit.  And isn't that what,  you- should-
forgive- the- expression,  art is supposed to do?  This is a really laid- back gig,
 with a brand new bass player just joining him last night,  and it felt like being a part of that scene in the urlLink Downbeat Club from "  urlLink A Star Is Born .  RJ and I sat in the very back on a radiator ( I think it was off. I don't have a particularly sensitive ass)
 and soaked it all in.  I don't wanna say too much about the set because,  really,  it's an experience and I can't do it justice.  Plus there are surprises.  But I will say,
 if urlLink you're reading this:  I hope you never finish that song,  because it's already perfect.  We hung out a little bit after,  and I finally got to meet the Man of the Hour and a Half,  but we didn't get to chat because he had many more fans to greet.
 So we headed out and who should I find at the bar but urlLink Michael and his friend Rick ( although now that I think about it,  I guess I'm not surprised to find either of them knocking back the vodka on a Thursday night)  We chatted for a little,  but I was beginning to feel the first shimmer of sleepiness and,  wanting to court that particular muse,
 we excused ourselves.  Since we were just around the corner,  I walked RJ home ( for the exact address of his apartment,  please forward a photo as well as your qualifications and,  after reviewing them all and not discussing them with him,
 I'll send it to you)  We sat on his much- blogged- about urlLink stoop for a bit and soaked in the East Village.  I want to live in the East Village and be groovy.  Within the span of the 40-
or- so minutes that we sat there,  we saw seven stretch limos ( one which expelled seven fat straight Jerzey boys on a drinking tour)  two identically- blond-
corkscrew- tressed vaguely foreign girls ( each weighing 14 pounds and looking for a bar that doesn't exist)  a shirtless,  muscley tattoo artist with a Lexus ( through the tinted window we could see his urlLink OnStar glowing)
 an allegedly famous artist with enviable sideburns and a woman who wasn't his wife,  a bickering homeless couple ( the husband had inadvertantly begun dreadlocks)  an ambulance which nearly collided with a cab,  Puerto Rican drugdealers,  the exgirlfriend of a Puerto Rican drug dealer (
who wasn't particularly friendly,  but then again,  I guess " friendly"  is what got her in trouble in the first place)  and on and on.
 The Big Parade of Life.  And RJ and I talked very deeply about. nothing.  Maybe he can remember what we discussed.  I do remember him telling me to breathe in the summer night ( sometimes I forget to breathe)
 but other than that my memory is of very pleasant but very forgettable conversation.  And that's.  okay .  I was feeling drowsier and drowsier and I was so pleased that I might finally get a full night's sleep.  But I was enjoying being exactly where I was ( again,
 follow the simple directions,  be hot,  and you can have the exact address.  Extra hot =  phone number)  Also,
 I wasn't rushing to return to the House of Urine.  Eventually I pried my considerable ass off the stoop,  walked RJ to the Brightest Deli in the World ( where the poor child almost broke down sobbing because they didn't have his special urlLink crackers )  I staggered on to the R train,  zipped uptown,
 did my parental duty ( now I know the answer to the musical question:  " Who Let The Dogs Out?  and. and.
 Oh yes:  I slept.
