The Knitting Factory is a pleasant coffee house/performance space above an Argentine restaurant on Houston, and Josh was wrong when he said everyone would be wearing black. I had my Soho Soda, Josh his white wine, and Pete, in his usual performance suit, came out at 9 PM. His routines about his vain, selfish, unsupportive and greedy mother were funny and kind of poignant.
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The energy of the room was less like a punk show and more like a family affair with a hundred or so cool cousins you’ve never met. I wasn’t worried that my jacket would get stolen. I didn’t care that I was wearing Ugg boots and not combat boots.