tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43413087291899352732024-03-14T05:01:04.516-04:00The Unbearable BanishmentThe Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.comBlogger883125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-40684214701435673792013-06-05T07:18:00.002-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.350-04:00Human Nature Part II: NightfallI walked out of the Laura Pels Theater onto 47th St. It was dark out.<br />
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[I had just seen the clunkily titled <i>The Unavoidable Disappearance of Tom Durnin</i>. Primo character actor <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001556/">David Morse</a> is a white collar criminal home from prison to terrorize his family. A compelling story with some forced dialog and a few strained scenes. Morse, terrifying as always. Do you remember him from <i>The Green Mile</i> and <i>The Hurt Locker</i>?]<br />
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I crossed 6th Avenue to Rockefeller Center to see what Ugo Rondinone's <i>Human Nature</i> looks like at night. It was a satisfying enough work during the day. I thought the inky sky and floodlights might cast some interesting shadows. As I suspected, the work is much more nuanced and spooky in the dark. Isn't everything? <br />
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I usually don't upload this many pics from any single exhibit but I'm particularly pleased with how these turned out. It's a photogenic exhibit at its most satisfying when fewer people are around. <br />
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This guy looks like he's going shopping at that J. Crew for some overpriced socks.<br />
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The compulsion is to walk up and touch them. I've seen people stroke and even hug them.<br />
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The lights spill onto the plaza and give the sculptures more texture and depth. <br />
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A friend sneaks a shot of your humble author hard at work. Waiting for the pedestrians to clear my viewfinder <br />
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Have any of you had Lasik surgery performed on your eyes? Any regrets? Long-term negative side effects? How horrific an experience was it? The procedure looks like medieval torture but I'm so fed up with wearing glasses that I'm considering it. The operation can't be any worse than having my forehead cut open for basal cell carcinoma surgery and I survived that. Barely. The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-49856281188548598542013-05-30T11:45:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.368-04:00Human nature; that of a giant rock and my own.Envy.<br />
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What a useless emotion. You can't use it as motivating force. You can't build or repair anything with it. It's the leech of all emotions. And yet it's an ingrained part of our human nature. Why hasn't it been phased out via genetic selection? I just read an article that said the DNA of cockroaches has been altered so that sweetness is no longer an appealing flavor to them. They figured out that poisons are baited with sweetness, so over a few generations their molecular structure changed and they now avoid anything sweet. Brilliant! Why hasn't envy been genetically torn out by its roots?<br />
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I walk up 6th Avenue and it seems that everyone swirling around me, darting in and out of expensive hotels and restaurants, riding by in hansom cabs, well manicured, well dressed, youthful, are all more successful, smarter, happier, <i>together</i> than I can ever hope to be.<br />
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I went to the drug store next to Carnegie Hall to buy eye drops. The druggist was chatting with a very pretty lady in front of me. They knew each other. She lives upstairs in Carnegie Towers. She's back in New York from her home in St. Moritz. It wasn't a boastful conversation. It was all perfectly civilized. They exchanged pleasantries. Seemed genuinely happy to see one another after a long separation. I felt a hole open in the floor and swallow me.<br />
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As I get older I realize that certain things are never going to happen for me. I envy the young and their wonderful naïve sense of limitlessness. I know this is all a terrible illusion but I have to acknowledge it. It's a whispering voice. Human nature.<br />
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<i>I feel the sense of possibility</i><br />
<i>I fee the wrench of hard reality</i><br />
<i>The focus is sharp in the city.</i><br />
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Peart<br />
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My human nature <i>feels</i> a lot like Ugo Rondinone's <a href="http://www.publicartfund.org/view/exhibitions/6014_ugo_rondinone_human_nature">Human Nature</a> exhibit <i>looks</i>. (Now through July 7th at Rockefeller Center.)<br />
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Nine giant stone figures stand sentinel in the plaza.<br />
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There's something beautiful, sad and majestic about them.<br />
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Each stone weighs around 30,000 pounds. They had to do an engineering study to insure that the exhibit didn't crash through the sidewalk.<br />
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30 Rock, indeed.<br />
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A sliver of light from the rising sun finds a crack between skyscrapers and catches the fountain outside my office.<br />
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The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-55863362941623725072013-05-20T12:12:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.382-04:00Old dog. New trick. Rollover!I've been bored with everything recently, especially myself, but instead of spending the evening wallowing, I taught myself how to code a rollover of a photo. You young punks who are laughing because a rollover is coding 101 and you knew how to do it when you were 12-years old can all kiss my ass. It's a minor miracle that I figured it out and I am in short supply of minor miracles, so I'll take it.<br />
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One of Agatha Christie's most popular titles is <i>And Then There Were None</i>. It's been reprinted hundreds of times, made into plays, movies and even a point-and-click online game in 2005—more than 60 years after its publication!<br />
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<i>And Then There Were None</i> is NOT the original title of this book. It was once titled <i>Ten Little Indians</i>. But we live in a more enlightened time, so they gave it an innocuous title.<br />
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Actually...<i>Ten Little Indians</i> wasn't the original title, either. Hover your pointer over the image (or, if you've got an iPhone, tap it) to reveal the <i>true</i> original, utterly shocking title.<br />
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<a a539="" albums="" href="http://s1282.photobucket.com/img%20src=" http:="" i1282.photobucket.com="" nd_then_zps61c47d5b.jpg="" nymark777=""></a><img alt="" onmouseout="this.src='http://i1282.photobucket.com/albums/a539/nymark777/And_Then_zps61c47d5b.jpg'" onmouseover="this.src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nn71C178TPI/UZlxQ7CAn_I/AAAAAAAAFdc/aYoBM7mncM8/s1600/ten+little.JPG'" src="http://i1282.photobucket.com/albums/a539/nymark777/And_Then_zps61c47d5b.jpg" style="height: 320px; width: 240px;" />
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Good God in heaven! What was she <i>thinking</i>?! That's a first edition that I saw at the recent Park Avenue Armory bookfair. Yours for only $12,000. The rollover functionality doesn't work on some mobile devices. Get thee to a desktop and prepare for an outrage!<br />
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Look at this poor bastard. Is he dead? Sleeping? Drunk? Comatose?<br />
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He could be any of the above. He's a commuter. This is an excellent depiction of what the grind of a long commute does to a human being. I know there are a lot worse things in this world, but it really does wear you down as the years peel away.<br />
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I rarely post pics of my kids. First of all, I think it's an unfair intrusion into their lives—this isn't Facebook, after all, which is a closed environment—but aside from that, I never wanted this to be a daddy blog. I'm not judging. There's nothing wrong with daddy blogs but that's just not me. Writing about my kids feels forced. And we all know how forced writing reads. But this, I couldn't resist.<br />
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Over the weekend we went to a community, suburban family fun outing. I am such a fish-out-of-water at these affairs. All the dads are sports-minded. Some of them are athletically inclined. I've always felt kind of separated. Removed. Anyway, there was a face painter there and my little one had hearts painted on her cheeks.<br />
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How cute is that? Later in the afternoon she was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time and one of the dads, a clumsy oaf of a human being, a monstrous mound of flesh, stupidity and dull, hit her in the thigh with a softball. Hard. He was showing off his "fast pitch" softball skills and the ball sailed wildly off course. I wanted to smash his face in. My little angel cried and her tears made the paint run. As though her little heart were weeping.<br />
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The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-79350482941013951422013-05-13T21:36:00.003-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.409-04:00Voilà. Right before your unbelieving eyes. I've seen some things.<br />
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While on a search-and-rescue mission down in Florida with the Coast Guard, our boat cut through a large school of flying fish. Dozens of silver fish with insect wings flew<span class="st">—</span><i>flew</i><span class="st">— just above the </span>surface of the water in every direction.<br />
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While in Las Vegas, I bought into a craps game with $100. I took the dice in my hand and rolled for :40 minutes without rolling a seven. I was surrounded by high rollers who made tens of thousands of dollars off of my good fortune. When I finally crapped out, a few of them tossed black chips to me as a tip.<br />
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But I've never seen <i>anything</i> more astonishing than the :90 minutes of magic performed by Steve Cohen at the Waldorf Astoria.<br />
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I've seen plenty of magicians over the years. Here in New York. Las Vegas. Atlantic City. Both big and small venues. Penn and Teller. Ricky Jay. Chris Angel. David Blaine. A whole slew of unknowns, too. You tend to see the same tricks performed with slight variations. I don't mind the repetition as long as they're executed cleanly and with some panache. I'm a bit of a magic snob, though. It's become hard to impress me in my old age.<br />
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<a href="http://www.chambermagic.com/">Steve Cohen's <i>Chamber Magic</i></a> is an intimate, close-up show performed in a private suite at the Waldorf Astoria (an art deco masterpiece). It's a quintessential New York City experience that harkens back to an era when people were entertained in their parlors. The audience is small. No children are allowed. In keeping with the surroundings and spirit of the evening, cocktail attire is required.<br />
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I love close-up magic. With the audience sitting just a few feet away, only the ninja grand masters of misdirection can pull it off. All the tricks in Cohen's show, save one, were new to me, so the show was remarkably fresh. It's not padded with a lot of pedestrian, off-the-shelf tricks. There's no let-up in the pacing. I'd love nothing more than to detail what I saw<span class="st">—or what I <i>thought </i>I saw</span><span class="st">—</span>but that would be a disservice to Mr. Cohen and any of you who might be lucky enough to see his show. I'll give you a taste and beg his pardon. If you know how this, or any of his tricks, are executed keep it to yourself. Don't bother to post it in the comments section. It'll be deleted unread. I don't want to know. I NEVER want to know! I can assure you he doesn't use audience plants because I participated and I'm not a plant.<br />
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How many times have you seen a magician take three large, silver rings, couple, and then uncouple them? It takes some dexterity but it's a fairly common trick. Cohen's version is more complex. He took my wedding ring and rings from two other audience members, dropped them into a wine glass, swirled them around and when he pulled them out they were linked together in a chain. He brought them over to me so I could confirm that it was my ring in the middle, with the other two linked to it. He then held the rings in his fist above the glass. Asked for quiet. We heard a <i>*click*</i> and my ring dropped out of his fist into the glass. He held up the two rings, which were now connected to one another. He held them in in fist, another click and they dropped in, separated. Amazing. And there's plenty more where that came from, brothers and sisters.<br />
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I met him after the show. He's an interesting chap. Fluent in Japanese. Lived in Japan and worked as an interpreter for the Japanese government. He obtained a degree in psychology from Cornell which, he said, helps with his magic. The magic bug bit him at age six when his beloved uncle showed him a few tricks. His audience has included titans of business, politics, entertainment, royalty and, most recently, your humble unbearableness.<br />
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See that kettle? That's <i>Think-a-Drink</i>. Guess what it pours? Whatever the hell you tell it to. It defies the laws of time and nature. Needs to be seen to be believed. <br />
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<i>Twilight on Park Avenue. The Waldorf Astoria on the left flying the South Korean flag, the Helmsley Building front and center and MetLife (née Pan Am) behind that.</i></div>
The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-37438673692322408022013-05-08T21:00:00.001-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.343-04:00Grab your paddles! It's auction time!It's time for the semi-annual Impressionist and Modern Art auction at Christie's. Obviously, I cannot afford to spend tens of millions of dollars on art, but what I <i>can</i> do is attend the auction preview and, best of all, pass judgement on the work.<br />
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The vast majority of these pieces are being passed from one private collector to another. They've never been seen in public and after the auction, they won't ever be seen again. They'll hang above some swell's mantelpiece. I've provided the pre-auction estimates and have included the prices realized where available. There's lots to cover so let's get busy!<br />
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Two by Edward Hopper. I like Hopper a lot. I know a lot of art aficionados sneer and lump him in the "pretty picture" category, but does anyone depict sunlight better than Hopper? Nay. I don't see many Hoppers at these auctions. There's always a gaggle of Warhols, Lichtensteins, Picassos, etc., but not so many Hoppers.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0UXgCSB_bb8/UYpHYr44PBI/AAAAAAAAFW0/gL4lrrjpyAA/s1600/hopper1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0UXgCSB_bb8/UYpHYr44PBI/AAAAAAAAFW0/gL4lrrjpyAA/s400/hopper1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Blackwell's Island</i>. $15,000,000 – 20,000,000. That's a lot but it's a big piece. 35 x 60 in.</div>
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<b>Sold for $19,163,750</b></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r5Q5Lr6fMBQ/UYpHYh1REeI/AAAAAAAAFWw/bBuxk4kJkFw/s1600/hopper2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r5Q5Lr6fMBQ/UYpHYh1REeI/AAAAAAAAFWw/bBuxk4kJkFw/s400/hopper2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Kelly Jenness House</i>. $2,000,000 – 3,000,000. The master of shadows, too.<br />
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<b>Sold for $4,155,750</b></div>
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Look at this beauty by Matisse. The red! You won't see this in any Matisse exhibit catalogue.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7H8LI8KVuUc/UYpHibQPcuI/AAAAAAAAFXA/hUhloS6lkvA/s1600/matisse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7H8LI8KVuUc/UYpHibQPcuI/AAAAAAAAFXA/hUhloS6lkvA/s400/matisse.JPG" width="347" /></a></div>
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<i>Jeune femme assise en robe grise</i>. I'll say. $5,000,000 – 7,000,000.<br />
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<b>Sold for $4,939,750</b></div>
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Here's the obligatory Monet. If you press your face close to the painting, you can see that he did a very nice job with the surface of the water. The frames on these Monets are always quite gaudy. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1YX73vrJy8k/UYpHidkte2I/AAAAAAAAFXE/EsyxuN4iOpU/s1600/monet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1YX73vrJy8k/UYpHidkte2I/AAAAAAAAFXE/EsyxuN4iOpU/s400/monet.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Argenteuil, fin d'apres-midi</i>. $5,000,000 – 7,000,000.<br />
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<b>Sold for $6,059,750</b></div>
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Here's a delicious sculpture by Degas. It took my breath away when I turned the corner. She's not attached to the wall. That's a shadow trick. She's on a pedestal, where she belongs.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wWlG0OWWD8Y/UYpKCER6D2I/AAAAAAAAFYQ/erFHJkuI9dQ/s1600/degas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wWlG0OWWD8Y/UYpKCER6D2I/AAAAAAAAFYQ/erFHJkuI9dQ/s400/degas.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Grande erabesque, troisieme temps</i>. $600,000 – 800,000. Is that ALL? Where's my paddle?<br />
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<b>Sold for $1,203,750</b></div>
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There are several works by Picasso being offered. Boy, was that guy prolific! Here are two that I like. Please don't ask me why I like some Picassos, but not all. That's a question to be explored by the boors who write for ARTNews.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kflWHq0w3f8/UYpIPLDiwMI/AAAAAAAAFXY/s4aB0wOw0Fk/s1600/picasso1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kflWHq0w3f8/UYpIPLDiwMI/AAAAAAAAFXY/s4aB0wOw0Fk/s400/picasso1.JPG" width="348" /></a></div>
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<i>Broc et Verre</i>. $2,000,000 – 3,000,000. I like the piano keys.<br />
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<b>Did not sell.</b></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GKueitqC1O8/UYpIReu_seI/AAAAAAAAFXg/2gPfcXVR5b0/s1600/picasso3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GKueitqC1O8/UYpIReu_seI/AAAAAAAAFXg/2gPfcXVR5b0/s400/picasso3.JPG" width="323" /></a></div>
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<i>Buste d'homme a la pipe</i>. £900,000 – 1,200,000. It's painted on a piece of corrugated cardboard. The ribbing looks cool. Vibrant.</div>
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Here's another Picasso—oh, no...wait—that's Roy Lichtenstein ripping off Picasso. That guy ripped off a lot of people. He ripped off the entire comic book industry. Made a bazzillion dollars doing it, too. Pretty fucking lazy, but I don't mind too much.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q7mcG7tk8t4/UYpIfjXA8qI/AAAAAAAAFXo/AXYe9lxNH4U/s1600/rashenberg2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q7mcG7tk8t4/UYpIfjXA8qI/AAAAAAAAFXo/AXYe9lxNH4U/s400/rashenberg2.JPG" width="342" /></a></div>
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<i>Woman with Flowered Hat</i>. Estimate on Request, but an internet search turned up $12,000,000 – 16,000,000. Why the big secret?<br />
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<b>Sold for $56,123,750. Ripping off other artists pays.</b></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p7dVLcAdri4/UYpI4s972QI/AAAAAAAAFXw/TmnY1irhlSg/s1600/rashenberg3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p7dVLcAdri4/UYpI4s972QI/AAAAAAAAFXw/TmnY1irhlSg/s400/rashenberg3.JPG" width="303" /></a></div>
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<i>Nude with Yellow Flower</i>. $12,000,000 – 16,000,000. I think she's a shot of hot pop.<br />
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<b>Sold for $23,643,750</b></div>
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Speaking of pop, here's a quarto of Andy's flowers.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fC0NV0Pq41Y/UYpLqWTx7SI/AAAAAAAAFY4/HhYzKVFfR_4/s1600/warhol2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fC0NV0Pq41Y/UYpLqWTx7SI/AAAAAAAAFY4/HhYzKVFfR_4/s400/warhol2.JPG" width="381" /></a></div>
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<i>Flowers</i>. $6,000,000 – 9,000,000.<br />
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<b>Sold for $8,411,750</b></div>
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These haunted, hollow eyes are by Kees Van Dongen. I dated this girl once. I'm not kidding. She was a firecracker in bed but I was paranoid that I'd wake up one morning to find her standing over me clutching a Ginsu knife in her fist, so I had to break it off.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wuKMd9-V52Y/UYpJVZCvj2I/AAAAAAAAFX4/7J90FMJV1-g/s1600/van+dongen1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wuKMd9-V52Y/UYpJVZCvj2I/AAAAAAAAFX4/7J90FMJV1-g/s400/van+dongen1.JPG" width="328" /></a></div>
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<i>La femme au collier vert</i>. $3,000,000 – 5,000,000<br />
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<b>Sold for $2,587,750</b></div>
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Finally, here's something by Clyfford Still. Man, I love this piece. This photo doesn't do it any justice. It's more vibrant in person and you can't see all the beautiful textures that are layered on the canvas.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jh1z06M16UQ/UYpJlyYcJZI/AAAAAAAAFYA/KzJdjsxjMRM/s1600/sill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jh1z06M16UQ/UYpJlyYcJZI/AAAAAAAAFYA/KzJdjsxjMRM/s400/sill.JPG" width="348" /></a></div>
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<i>PH-1</i>. $15,000,000 – 20,000,000. $20 mil! That's what I'm talking about! You'd think for that kind of money he'd have put some thought into the title.<br />
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<b>Did not sell.</b></div>
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Now for the fun part. The crap. I'll go easy this time. This is the stuff that I wouldn't hang in Coco's sleeping crate. Proof positive that tremendous wealth is a lousy barometer for good taste.<br />
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Here's some very large, very expensive CRAP-OLA by Jean-Michel Basquiat. I have tried over and over again to understand and appreciate his work but the well of comprehension is bone dry. Here, he tries his hand at using pretty colors.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EfW3ceSOkzE/UYpJ0yJ35BI/AAAAAAAAFYI/TDfjBXMUrE0/s1600/basquait1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="350" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EfW3ceSOkzE/UYpJ0yJ35BI/AAAAAAAAFYI/TDfjBXMUrE0/s400/basquait1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Dustheads</i>. $25,000,000 – 35,000,000. Not a typo.<br />
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<b>Sold for $48,843,750. Not a typo.</b></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dtcJz9UaqMU/UYlZLlt3xtI/AAAAAAAAFWg/DM3WY23SzXQ/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dtcJz9UaqMU/UYlZLlt3xtI/AAAAAAAAFWg/DM3WY23SzXQ/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Ribs Ribs</i>. $3,000,000 – 5,000,000. Ach. So ugly and lifeless. <br />
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<b>Sold for $5,163,750. Suckers.</b></div>
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William DeKooning, once again, pulling the wool over the eyes of the art world. Gross.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gvHZkp2oS-E/UYpKV9J2lRI/AAAAAAAAFYY/ols68d3D4fk/s1600/dekooning.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gvHZkp2oS-E/UYpKV9J2lRI/AAAAAAAAFYY/ols68d3D4fk/s400/dekooning.JPG" width="331" /></a></div>
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<i>Woman (Blue Eyes)</i>. $12,000,000 – 16,000,000</div>
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<b>Sold for $19,163,750</b></div>
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I like Francis Bacon. I always have. Baroness Thatcher called him "that horrible man." That's good enough for me! But just because you admire someone's work, it doesn't mean you have to love EVERY piece. I don't see any merit in this one.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/---_ddsb6J10/UYpKcgvPLtI/AAAAAAAAFYg/9UJBHnOqek8/s1600/bacon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/---_ddsb6J10/UYpKcgvPLtI/AAAAAAAAFYg/9UJBHnOqek8/s400/bacon.JPG" width="303" /></a></div>
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<i>Study for Portrait</i>. $18,000,000 – 25,000,000. </div>
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<b>Did not sell. Told ya.</b></div>
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Ditto Picasso. Nice stuff, but not this one. She has flounder eyes.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KPMAq5RxPA0/UYpLKiPHn7I/AAAAAAAAFYo/lEt0dqwBa1M/s1600/picasso2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KPMAq5RxPA0/UYpLKiPHn7I/AAAAAAAAFYo/lEt0dqwBa1M/s400/picasso2.JPG" width="358" /></a></div>
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<i>Femme assise dans un fauteuil</i>. £4,000,000 – 6,000,000. I'm so fickle. I posted this pic early in the day. Now that I've taken a second look while doing the captions, I've changed my mind. I like it. </div>
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I think I'm getting sick of looking at these Warhol <i>Mao</i> paintings. In fact, I think I might be getting sick of Warhol. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1glFAH_TSPg/UYpLa7VY29I/AAAAAAAAFYw/8UcA_yrufDw/s1600/warhol1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1glFAH_TSPg/UYpLa7VY29I/AAAAAAAAFYw/8UcA_yrufDw/s320/warhol1.JPG" width="297" /></a></div>
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<i>Mao</i>. $3,000,000 – 4,000,000.</div>
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<b>Sold for $6,283,750</b></div>
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Oh, my.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jgc8u7LlKeo/UYpwuPvU3UI/AAAAAAAAFZI/R8klBfLYfsg/s1600/richter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jgc8u7LlKeo/UYpwuPvU3UI/AAAAAAAAFZI/R8klBfLYfsg/s400/richter.JPG" width="315" /></a></div>
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Gerhard Richter. <i>Abstrakts Bild, Dunkel</i>. $14,000,000 – 18,000,000. Pure SHITE.</div>
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<b>Sold for $21,963,750. Suckers part deux. </b></div>
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Let's imagine you can take one of these home with you. Which one? Remember, you have to look at it every day.The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-80656447386080513402013-05-01T09:39:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.413-04:00We're off to never never-land<i>...and that title is from? Wait...here's a hint.</i><br />
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I was walking through Union Square on my way to meeting and drinking and I stumbled across the sandman. This is <a href="http://www.joemangrum.com/artnews/">Joe Mangrum</a>. He uses sand to create intricate designs.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sudloHKa7Ss/UYEdbGRNfEI/AAAAAAAAFVs/9MUNy2-3Q1E/s1600/sand2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sudloHKa7Ss/UYEdbGRNfEI/AAAAAAAAFVs/9MUNy2-3Q1E/s400/sand2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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He pours colored sand through his hand. The piece lasts until the wind and weather say that's enough.<br />
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I chatted him up a bit. He started around 2:30 that afternoon and I walked by around 5:30. I mentioned that it reminded me of a mandala. He said he prefers to call them sand paintings. He feels that <i>mandala</i> is a quasi-religious eastern term that might box-in his work and alienate potential customers. He's absolutely right, you know. It's all about branding.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U0n7aVdTF-w/UYEQZ6yWlQI/AAAAAAAAFUM/aAyNNBxdYUg/s1600/sand3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U0n7aVdTF-w/UYEQZ6yWlQI/AAAAAAAAFUM/aAyNNBxdYUg/s400/sand3.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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It looked like painstaking, back-breaking work. The crowds were appreciative and respected his space. Check out that red. It really makes the work pop.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--YX6qJj8zog/UYEdnFC0cyI/AAAAAAAAFV8/VgNY1egR7MI/s1600/sand4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--YX6qJj8zog/UYEdnFC0cyI/AAAAAAAAFV8/VgNY1egR7MI/s400/sand4.jpg" width="396" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
I sat next to this brick to read. Guys like this used to take my lunch money away when I was in junior high school. Tattooed neck. Piercings. Big stomping shoes. A steely look in the eye. Doesn't smile easily.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WfqdLMX-K2k/UYESHlFlRuI/AAAAAAAAFU0/veYbKxoiy0k/s1600/boots1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WfqdLMX-K2k/UYESHlFlRuI/AAAAAAAAFU0/veYbKxoiy0k/s400/boots1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Except that most of them would <i>not</i> have used a teddy bear iPhone cover or painted their fingernails black.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GkKBiIpbmGs/UYFft92q82I/AAAAAAAAFWM/PLkwKi822cQ/s1600/phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GkKBiIpbmGs/UYFft92q82I/AAAAAAAAFWM/PLkwKi822cQ/s400/phone.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
After the sandman and my junior high flashback, I met two former colleagues for margaritas. We wanted to practice for Cinco de Mayo. I got a little drunk. I'm not a drinker and don't treat myself to a proper sousing very often. It's not my thing. It never really was. I was always more of a narcotic guy. I snobbishly thought that narcotics were more elegant and had more panache than alcohol. Can you imagine? What idiots we are in our youth.<br />
<br />
I hadn't planned on a dunking (especially, it being a Tuesday) but we started talking and laughing and that always leads to another round, doesn't it? Two guys and one girl. The conversation is different than if it had been three guys. This is my preferred configuration. Girls are fun. Each round peeled away another layer of reserve. The conversation pinged between hilarious anecdotes and deep intimacies. You can't plan evenings like this, folks. They unfold unexpectedly, happily.<br />
<br />
The restaurant had this cool little diver sculpture against a lighted blue background.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dwmFryyMS-8/UYEX7QdujRI/AAAAAAAAFVM/l4TSmeN8LWk/s1600/diver1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dwmFryyMS-8/UYEX7QdujRI/AAAAAAAAFVM/l4TSmeN8LWk/s400/diver1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As a matter of fact, there were a bunch of them.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N6gQ4BFuUio/UYEX7d1GhFI/AAAAAAAAFVU/xIefXWbtIGQ/s1600/diver2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N6gQ4BFuUio/UYEX7d1GhFI/AAAAAAAAFVU/xIefXWbtIGQ/s400/diver2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Actually, there was an <i>entire wall</i> of them.<br />
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The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-30192588668184974852013-04-25T20:31:00.001-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.328-04:00Ask me! Ask me! Ask me! I won't say no. How could I?I got memed! I suppose that’s better than being maimed. Is that even a word? <i>Memed</i>? It’s a verb, right? Mrs. <a href="http://savmarshmama.blogspot.com/">Savannah</a> pinged me to answer the following questions and I am happy to oblige. Anyone who’s been here a long time will find these answers somewhat redundant.<br />
<br />
<b>1. If you could change one thing in your life, what would it be?</b><br />
<br />
I’d have gone to college and gotten a degree. Who knows how far I could've gone? I wouldn't have wasted all those years wracked with low self-esteem. I also would have tried to get something published. I was so certain that I’d fail as a writer that I never even tried. I never gave myself a fighting chance. I’ll have to warn The Daughters about such self-defeating tendencies.<br />
<br />
That was two things. Tough shit.<br />
<br />
<b>2. If you could repeat any age which would it be?</b><br />
<br />
One early Sunday morning in the springtime of my 26th year, I was sitting alone in my apartment in Brooklyn. I was reading the <i>Sunday New York Times</i>, a cup of coffee next to me. One of my cats, a sliver Siamese named Mr. Chow, was sitting in my lap. I lived in the top-floor apartment of a brownstone that had two tall bay windows. It was Sunday-morning quiet. The sunlight poured in and spilled onto my hardwood floor. Lying in the center of a sunbeam was my other Siamese cat, Lucy. She looked at me, blinked slowly, contentedly, and raise her chin a bit. She swished her tail.<br />
<br />
I was seeing a pretty girl at the time. We were both quite fond of one other but we weren’t in love. There was no jealousy or need. I liked the work I was doing. I was in excellent health. I was still acclimating myself to New York, which was exciting. I was kind of broke but didn't care. I felt free. Something washed over me and I thought, “This is as happy as anyone can ever hope to be.”<br />
<br />
I’d repeat that year.<br />
<br />
<b>3. What really scares you?</b><br />
<br />
Losing my family. I’ve lost jobs. Lost money. Lost love. You think you’ll never get over it, but you do. What would I be if I lost my family? I'd be nothing.<br />
<br />
<b>4. If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be?</b><br />
<br />
I'd be Jesus Christ. No joke. Because then I’d know if I <i>really was</i> the Son of God. Then I’d finally know the truth to one of the greatest mysteries. I am wracked with doubt and I’d like to know, once and for all. Wouldn't you?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
Do you have any friends who are actors? Ask them and they'll tell you: when inside a theater, you're never supposed to say "Macbeth." It's bad luck. Amongst the acting community, the play is referred to as "The Scottish Play." It's silly but fun. That's what this planet needs. More silly but fun.<br />
<br />
I just saw creepy, excellent Alan Cumming perform a one-man <i>Macbeth </i>on Broadway. I wouldn't say it's got universal appeal, but I enjoyed it. I got lost trying to follow along a few times. I find Shakespearian plots complicated to navigate normally. Trying to hold on with ONE GUY playing all the parts (including evil queen Lady Macbeth) was a challenge. But worth it.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZYWhU_FekU/UXl9ph5Xf4I/AAAAAAAAFTw/WOqV02Wt2Jk/s1600/macbeth1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZYWhU_FekU/UXl9ph5Xf4I/AAAAAAAAFTw/WOqV02Wt2Jk/s320/macbeth1.jpg" width="288" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Patrons entering the Barrymore Theater are met with this advisory:<br />
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That's a first. What do you think? Is that pretentious? Before the show my friend bought a round of drinks. One Jack Daniels (a double) and one Maker's Mark. $45. $45! (Albeit, including tip.) It's the most I've ever seen anyone pay for two drinks.</div>
The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-46624504738862584952013-04-20T23:13:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.358-04:00Course Title: Bukowski and the $12,000 PoemSettle down, class.<br />
<br />
Last week I attended the annual Antiquarian Rare Book Fair at the Park Avenue armory. I saw something that, in over two decades of attendance, I had seen on only one other occasion. This:<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aMis49VocuE/UXNGvEeK6qI/AAAAAAAAFTI/eqPVnnqDsFE/s1600/genius.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aMis49VocuE/UXNGvEeK6qI/AAAAAAAAFTI/eqPVnnqDsFE/s400/genius.jpg" width="370" /></a></div>
<br />
This little pamphlet is a single poem by Charles Bukowski titled <i>The Genius of the Crowd</i>. It's considered by many to be his masterpiece. I'm going post the poem in its entirety. If you're just glancing and have limited time, read it and skip the rest. It's pretty good stuff. Afterwords, stick around and I'll tell you the wild history of this little book and why the dealer's asking price is $12,000.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
The Genius of the Crowd<br />
<br />
There is enough treachery, hatred,<br />
violence,<br />
absurdity in the average human<br />
being<br />
To supply any given army on any given<br />
day.<br />
<br />
AND The Best At Murder Are Those<br />
Who Preach Against It<br />
AND The Best At Hate Are Those<br />
Who Preach LOVE<br />
AND THE BEST AT WAR<br />
<span class="st">—FINALLY</span><span class="st">—ARE THOSE WHO PREACH</span><br />
<span class="st"> PEACE</span><br />
<br />
Those Who Preach GOD<br />
NEED God<br />
Those Who Preach PEACE<br />
Do Not Have Peace.<br />
THOSE WHO PREACH LOVE<br />
DO NOT HAVE LOVE<br />
<br />
BEWARE THE PREACHERS<br />
Beware The Knowers.<br />
<br />
Beware Those Who Are<br />
ALWAYS READING BOOKS<br />
<br />
Beware Those Who Either Detest<br />
Poverty Or Are Proud Of It<br />
BEWARE Those Quick To Praise<br />
FOR They Need PRAISE In Return<br />
<br />
BEWARE Those Quick To Censure:<br />
They Are Afraid Of What They Do<br />
Not Know<br />
<br />
Beware Those Who Seek Constant<br />
Crowds; They Are Nothing<br />
Alone.<br />
<br />
Beware<br />
The Average Man<br />
The Average Woman<br />
BEWARE Their Love<br />
<br />
Their Love Is Average, Seeks<br />
Average<br />
But There Is Genius In Their Hatred<br />
There Is Enough Genius In Their<br />
Hatred To Kill You, To Kill<br />
Anybody<br />
<br />
Not Wanting Solidute<br />
Not Understanding Solitude<br />
They Will Attempt To Destroy<br />
Anything<br />
That Differs<br />
From Their Concepts<br />
<br />
Not Being Able To Create Art<br />
They Will Not Understand Art<br />
<br />
They Will Consider Their Failure<br />
As Creators<br />
Only As A Failure Of The World<br />
<br />
Not Being Able To Love Fully<br />
The WILL BELIEVE Your Love<br />
Incomplete<br />
AND THEN THEY WILL HATE YOU<br />
<br />
And Their Hatred Will Be Perfect<br />
Like A Shining Diamond<br />
Like A Knife<br />
Like A Mountain<br />
LIKE A TIGER<br />
LIKE Hemlock<br />
<br />
Their Finest<br />
ART<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
This was a cheaply-made pamphlet back 1966 by 7 Flowers Press of Cleveland. There were only 103 copies made; an extraordinarily low number. I don't know what printing technique was used, but it looks like they may have had rubber stamps made of each text block.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R7YTqbMw6N4/UXNSKk4vjjI/AAAAAAAAFTU/c1Pp57f3ClU/s1600/genius4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="392" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R7YTqbMw6N4/UXNSKk4vjjI/AAAAAAAAFTU/c1Pp57f3ClU/s400/genius4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The publishers were so broke that they printed it on the back of
business envelopes. If you look at the top leaf, you can see the verso
of the envelope where it was sealed.<br />
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<br />
These were sold by Jim Lowell at his Asphodel Books in downtown Cleveland. In the 1960's, Asphodel Books sold radical, left wing literature. They were rabble rousers and not popular with the local politicians. One fine day, the Cleveland Police raided the bookstore on trumped-up obscenity charges, closed it down, and confiscated all of its merchandise. It wasn't Cleveland's finest hour. At that point, only approximately 40 copies of <i>The Genius of the Crowd</i> had been sold.<br />
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<br />
Most of the surviving copies reside in University special collections. There are just a small handful in private hands. To this day, nobody has ever been able to locate the 63 copies that the Cleveland Police absconded with. Presumably, they rotted away in an evidence locker in the bowels of a Cleveland police precinct. <br />
<br />
The poem put Bukowski on the map and the raid by the police gave it a prescience and a special gravitas. (<i>They will attempt to destroy/anything/that differs/from their concepts</i>) It's important. But $12,000? Give me a break. At auction it would probably fetch a quarter of that. Still a lot of money, but rare book dealers live in a fantasy world.<br />
<br />
Finally, here's a recording of Bukowski reading <i>The Genius of the Crowd</i> with his surprisingly soft-spoken, slow, Pasadena drawl. Beautiful graphic transitions of the text in this as well.<br />
<br />
Class dismissed. <br />
<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/gifEn61dZBc" width="420"></iframe></center>
The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-56413863067831176162013-04-13T23:54:00.001-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.384-04:00Set the way-back machine to 1992Here's some more fodder from the journals I unearthed. Nothing shocking here. Just a beautiful slice of life. As of these writings, I was still living in Brooklyn. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the Lower East Side of Manhattan was just a few months away.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<br />
Monday, November 16, 1992<br />
<br />
I walked over to Brooklyn Heights to get a haircut. I fired Anita, even though she brushes her tits against me (intentionally, in my opinion). She charges too much ($28) and doesn't always do such a great job. Picking a new barber is angst-inducing, to say the least. I impulsively walked into Golden Fingers on Court Street. I sat down, looked around, and suddenly realized it's an Arab barber shop. Nobody was speaking English and there was strange Arabian music playing. [Note: Yes, that's what I called it. "Strange." I was going to edit that bit out because it sounds awful but thought it best to present these entries warts and all.]<br />
<br />
Everyone sitting there, including the barbers, had thick, black, curly hair. Do these guys know how to cut straight hair? I could rework David Crosby's <i>Almost Cut My Hair</i> into <i>Arabs Cut My Hair</i>. Ha ha. My barber had B.O. I told him to not cut it too short and no blood, please. He laughed but I wasn't kidding. I'm happy to report that my man did an excellent job. He hands were fast, fast. I was out of there in no time. And cheaper than Anita, too. Only $17. But I missed the tits. It's kind of far but all the barbers in my neighborhood only have black customers and I don't know if they'd have any idea how to cut my hair.<br />
<br />
I spoke to Klinger a few hours ago. He's playing an open mic at the New York Comedy Club. He wanted me to come down but I don't think I can make it. I'm a lot funnier than that guy, but he has bigger balls. Ambition trumps talent. It always has and it always will.<br />
<br />
Sheila called me out of the blue. I told her that the common thread running between her and Joann is that on separate occasions I tried to seduce each one of them and they both, miraculously, found the strength to resist my animal charm. That made her laugh. Leave 'em laughing, right? She's got a boyfriend she hates and occasionally calls me to complain about him. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Good God, I don't care.<br />
<br />
I met Cindy at DeRobertis on 1st Avenue and 11th Street. I finished her biography and we needed to pour over the edits and layout prototypes. She was grateful. No, not <i>that</i> grateful. I had a deliciouoso cream puff and a cappuccino. We walked down to St. Marks Bar. They remodeled it not long ago. People—and by "people" I mean the usual Lower East Side malcontents who are always spoiling for a fight, any fight—are bitching about the new décor but I don't mind it. I asked the bartender what part of England he's from and he said he was from Ireland. I apologized profusely, then I tucked my tail between my vagina and crawled out of there, humiliated.<br />
<br />
At work, I passed two girls who were talking in the hallway. We all exchanged pleasantries. I turned the corner and there was a magazine rack there. I stopped to thumb through the magazines and I heard one of them say, "I passed him on the street the other day and he was <i>talking to himself out loud</i>." She said it like it was scandalous. Do you know what? Not only do I not mind, I like it! If two sorority chippy investment bankers think I'm strange, then I must be doing something right. The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-18786316433550109982013-04-09T07:13:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.301-04:00Hey, Muslims! Is this true?Here's a doozy of a quote from <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/08/books/sex-and-the-citadel-by-shereen-el-feki.html?ref=arts">a review</a> of ‘Sex and the Citadel,’ a careful study on sexual relations in Muslim societies, with particular emphasis on Egypt, Tunisia, Lebanon, Morocco and the United Arab Emirates, by Shereen El Feki:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The rules governing marriage in Islamic countries seem to give great advantages to men. A man can strike up a temporary marriage with a women with whom he wants to have sex, then say, 'I divorce you!' three times and have it be all over.</blockquote>
It also said that Muslim men in the Middle East are obsessed with sodomy because their culture places a premium on virgin brides.<br />
<br />
Do you suppose any of that is <i>true</i>? Can it be verified? If it's so, what a demented society. I can't believe some of those guys are our allies. It's lucky for them we need their oil or we'd wag our index finger and give them the same human rights lecture we give to China and Russia. And don't tell me not to judge their culture. I'll judge whomever I choose and call bullshit when I see fit.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm sure all you folks in nice, warm climates enjoy a healthy belly laugh when we here in the colder climates are getting slammed with a blizzard. That's okay. We can take it. But while it's true you don't suffer biting winds or numb extremities, you are also deprived of spring. You'll never know what that first warm kiss of the sun feels like after suffering a long, frigid season. We've spent the past six months curled up in a tight little ball trying to keep warm. It finally broke this week. Do you know what that <i>feels like</i>? </div>
</div>
<br />
It's back to dining <i>al freaso</i> on 9th Avenue in the theater district. I walked past this last night and it was like seeing an old friend. Doesn't that look inviting? Take a seat and enjoy dinner + a show.<br />
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<br />
Suddenly, alternative modes of transportation appear in Central Park.<br />
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<br /></div>
Springtime brings the <a href="http://www.sanjuancapistrano.net/swallows/">swallows back to San Juan, Capistrano</a>. Here in Manhattan, we have the reappearance of these:<br />
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<br />
Accept no imitation or substitute. I impulse-purchased my first cone yesterday on my way back from a lunchtime read in Central Park. The official end of winter.<br />
<br />
But mostly<span class="st">—</span>and this is what sunny Southern California doesn't get<span class="st">—</span>surviving the winter and walking out into that first balmy breeze feels like this:<br />
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Coco's righteous indignation that a car has the audacity to drive past her window pooch perch.<br />
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<br />The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-69391308281590664252013-04-04T05:39:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.403-04:00What an idiot nightmare**Bukowski. <i>Notes of a Dirty Old Man</i><br />
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I had a horrific nightmare. Nightmares are exceedingly rare for me. I sometimes have trouble falling asleep but it’s nothing that a mug of hot milk + honey won’t fix. Once I’m out, I’m out. But nightmares? Never get them. Ever.<br />
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In New Jersey we have a type of wasp that builds its nests in the ground. They look like this:<br />
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They’re big and scary. Almost as big as your thumb. If you step on a nest, you’re fucked x 100. <br />
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The house I grew up in wasn’t a nice house. It was a farm house that was much older, smaller and more run-down than the Cleveland suburb that sprung up around it. The house was an anomaly. It didn't look like it belonged there because it was built ages before the neighborhood was born. It stuck out, and not in a good way.<br />
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In my dream, I was sitting in the tiny dining room. The walls and door frames were crawling with ground wasps. Five or six at a time would land on me. They wouldn’t sting, but they’d bite. I'd grab one and try to pull it off but it would cling to my clothing and skin. In my dream, they were bigger. They were so big that as I closed my hand around one, the head would stick out of the top of my fist and the tail with the stinger would stick out of the bottom. I’d yank one off, crush it, throw it to the ground and another would take its place. The biting was relentless.<br />
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I ran into the bathroom. I had a can of insecticide in my hand. I started spraying them. I put the nozzle right up to their face, sprayed, and covered their heads with foam. Still, they kept coming. I grabbed one, went to the bathtub, turned the water on and held it under the tap. Its mouth opened wide and I could hear it fill up with water, like when you fill up a bottle. The water kept pouring in and pouring in.<br />
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I woke up tangled in my sheets. I remembered my sister running into that bathroom and locking the door behind her. I don’t remember exactly how old she was. A young teenager. Maybe 12 or 13. My father pounding the door with his fist, yelling at her to open the door. Her crying. He kept pounding and eventually we heard the wood split. Then he stopped. My sister, crying behind the locked door.The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-30852748507167136702013-03-31T21:05:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.330-04:00A horse is a horse, of course, of course.The past week, artist Nick Cave (<i>Not </i>Nick Cave from the Bad Seeds. This one is African American.) along with Chicago-based choreographer William Gill and students from the Alvin Ailey Dance School presented <i>HEARD•NY </i>in Vanderbilt Hall at Grand Central Station. 30 ornate, life size horses were created to gallivant and frolic around the hall. <br />
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At the beginning of each performance, dancers would line up, two per horse.<br />
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One dancer would don the back half of the horse...<br />
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...then the other dancer would attach the head and they would join.<br />
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The horses promenaded around the hall, welcoming guests, delighting children and, in the case of a few wee ones, scaring the hell out of them.<br />
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A harpist played. Notes gently filled Vanderbilt Hall and the horses pranced and glided in a choreographed routine. <br />
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Then a drum kicked in. The front and back halves of the horses separated and a wild rumpus began.<br />
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Until, finally, the rhythm died and the two halves found each other a joined once again.</div>
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The piece ended about :20 minutes later as it started, with the gentle wandering of the horses.<br />
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The music stopped and the exhausted dancers shed their equine skin.</div>
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The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-13350819568282335742013-03-27T07:34:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.240-04:00Gay friends and other ruminationsI've decided to poach from my recently excavated journals for another post. This one is from September 28, 1992. Long time gone. I have a cripplingly poor memory. Consequently, these journals have been a revelation to me. <br />
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P said there's a woman in his office who wants me to take her daughter out on a date but first she needs to see a photo of me. He said it's because she doesn't believe I'm white. [Note: At that time, I was virtually the only white person living in a black neighborhood<span class="st">—</span>Fort Greene, Brooklyn<span class="st">—which has since been gentrified and is now overrun with white people</span>.] That's insulting! Who is she that I can't meet her on my own merits? Has her vagina been dipped in platinum? Still...I gave her the photo of me on the balcony in Cozumel and felt stupid doing it. On Saturday, I'm taking M to a matinee. I jokingly asked her if she was going to "require a feeding" and she said, "What am I, a cow?" No, my sweet, you are definitely not a cow.<br />
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On Sunday P and I got on the G train and paid a visit to D for dinner. [Note: D owned the top two floors of a beautiful, old, Brooklyn brownstone, which included a roof garden.] The train skipped Bergen Street so we had to get off at Carroll Street and catch the Manhattan bound F one stop. Fucking subway. When we got there it started to downpour. We sat in the kitchen while D cooked and you could hear the hard rain fall against the greenhouse on the roof. It sounded like bacon frying. We smoked some pot and had a few beers. I faded into the background and listened to the two of them talk. Let me tell you something; everyone should have a few gay friends. They are endlessly entertaining. Especially after smoking some weed. They were arguing about the proper way to cook a pot roast, calling each other bitch and slut and all sorts of other horrible things. Yelling about adobo seasoning, whatever the hell that is. God, I was laughing my ass off. Some of the funniest, kindest people I've ever met are gay. It's too bad I have no proclivities towards experimenting.<br />
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I didn't have to work today so I made a good breakfast with three cups of strong coffee because it's getting chilly out. The sky was crisp and blue so I went for a walk on the Lower East Side. As I passed Delancy Street, I was propositioned by a hooker, of all crazy things. I approached this cute Latino and she gave me <i>that look</i> and I thought to myself, well, this is kind of nice. Then as I passed by she said, "Do you want a date?" Oh. That. I got really embarrassed and checked to see if my shoelaces were untied. They weren't.<br />
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I sat at a sidewalk cafe on 2nd Avenue and 6th Street to read the <i>Times</i> and watch the big parade. There was a really old guy sitting in front of me and everyone seemed to know him. They all stopped to chat. Cops. Old folks. Club kids. Blacks. Whites. Latinos. Everybody! I wonder who he is? I walked to the Orpheum and bought a ticket to the new Mamet play that's in previews. $27.50. I'm surprised it's opening down here and not on Broadway. [Note: That was <i>Oleanna</i> with William H. Macy and Rebecca Pidgon.]<br />
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I ended up shooting pool at Julian's. That stairway has the most God-awful stench in all of NYC. And that's saying something. Urine, body odor, vomit and Olde English 800 malt liquor all in one noxious whiff. Blame it on 8-0-0, indeed. [Note: That was the ad campaign slogan at that time.] I'm going to start using the rear entrance that lets out onto 14th Street, even though it kind of dangerous. The guy forgot to turn the timer on so he only charged me $3.50. I always feel stupid because I'm such a bad shot and I assume everyone is watching me but the truth is nobody cares. The guy behind the counter came out and taught me how to rack the balls for 9-ball. He also tried to explain strategy but I didn't understand him. It's not that his explanations were vague. It's just that I'm as dumb as a brick when it comes to geometry. So I still don't know how to play the game properly.<br />
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Ate dinner at an Italian deli/cheese shop that has a few tables in the back. Ate off a styrofoam plate and used plastic utensils. Low key but so damn delicious that I almost passed out from bliss. Took the 6 train to the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge and walked home over the bridge. Stopped midway to watch the sunset over the Hudson River. All alone, but not lonely.<br />
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The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-16972595916628136622013-03-22T06:45:00.003-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.242-04:005. Wu. Five. V. 5th. *****. Go. 5ive.This weekend marks the fifth anniversary of my idiot blog. If I'm being painfully candid (and what else can I be with a group of complete strangers?) I have to admit that I don't have the healthiest relationship with my blog. <a href="http://parlezvousmoo.com/">Nuttycow</a>, one of my original readers who has hung in with me all these years (I hope you don't mind my quoting, dear) recently said in her comment section:<br />
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I tend not to worry about people’s thoughts on my blog. I write for me, when I need to, about things that I need to get off my chest. If people enjoy reading it, all the better. Don’t worry about what other people think—write what you want!</blockquote>
Are you <i>kidding me</i>?! I wish I was HALF as evolved as she is. The fact is, I burn too many brain synapsis obsessing over stats, page hits, comments and the like. I perform comparative analyses until I'm nauseous. <a href="http://daisyfae.wordpress.com/">Daisyfae</a>, another original from Day One, has taken me to task offline on more than one occasion for this pointless and unhealthy exercise. But since my pathology is here to stay, I've decided to consider it part of my boyish charm.<br />
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My blog hasn't always been such a great friend to me. It's gotten me into trouble a few times. Anytime I'm in crisis mode, I shut down with the intention of never posting again. But three or four weeks will pass by and I'll start formulating paragraphs in my head while on the subway. I'll take a photo and ask myself, "What are you going to do with <i>that</i>? You're not going to post it to your <i>blog</i>, are you?" And then I do.<br />
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Despite all that angst, do you know what? I love doing this. It's important to me. Once in a great while I'll cough-up a paragraph that's so well-constructed and so beautifully articulates my point, that I'll stare at my fingertips in amazement. How does it happen? I have no formal eduction beyond a diploma from a below-average high school. It's a magic trick. And if you'll pardon my saying so, I think some of my photos have genuine artistic merit. I live for those fleeting sparks. And if someone takes the time to post a comment? Or actually writes to me offline? That's as good as my day will get. Where does this yearning for attention come from? Is it simply a part of the human condition or is it more complex than that? It's a conundrum.<br />
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This blog has afforded me a few meet-ups. They're great. If you get the chance, do it. Having New York City at my disposal helps. I love showing off this big, dirty, stupid, old town. It still feels like home to me, even after a decade of being unbearably banished. <br />
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So thank you for your attention. It means more to me than you can imagine. [He takes a bow and doffs his derby.]<br />
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<i>Your 'umble author + sprog</i></div>
The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-5127553147150810492013-03-17T10:22:00.001-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.373-04:00An unprovoked attackI was taking pictures of our neighbor's beautiful white cat, Smudge, when, for absolutely NO REASON WHATSOEVER, Skippy walked into the frame and BIT HER IN THE EYE. It was an hilarious unprovoked attack. I could not stop laughing. Cats are the best.<br />
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On Friday nights, 11-Year Old Daughter and I watch that old 1960's chestnut <i>I Dream of Jeannie</i>. It's great! In Friday night's episode, Tony went on a date. Jeannie got jealous and turned his date into a chimp. Oh, my God, we laughed! On Saturday nights we watch <i>Batman. </i>Last night, they did that bit where they're climbing up the side of a building and a celebrity pops out of a window. This time, it was Jerry Lewis. I had to explain who he was. Man, I'm going to miss these evenings. I've got maybe another two years, max, and she's not going to want to sit around with her old man on a Friday or Saturday night watching reruns of sitcoms from 45 years ago. <br />
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6-Year Old Daughter is utterly and irreversibly addicted to books.<br />
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She's as bad as her sister. Those two get so lost in reading that you can't talk to them while their faces are buried in a book. They, literally, don't hear your voice. I've done so many stupid things but this is one thing I'm kind of proud of. Reading is the the key to a lot of different locks. I often wonder how far I'd have gotten if I had been introduced to reading at six instead of 20. Better late than never, I suppose. <br />
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Recently she asked, "Dad, how come all the guys who play basketball on TV have brown skin?" I was stunned. I didn't have an answer. I guess she's right, but I wasn't going to step on that third rail.<br />
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I recently posted some photos of Central Park after a snowstorm. I always limit the number of pics I post because I don't want to turn my posts into a giant file dump. I wanted to post one more because I love the composition of this one so much. It's hard to believe it's the center of NYC!<br />
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In the interest of fairness and full disclosure I give you the following. I call it "Deck of Playing Cards in a Pile of Vomit Under an Ad for the Time Square New Years Eve Ball on 8th Avenue."<br />
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I'm just trying to keep it real. Look...this is still New York City. Sometimes I think I wax a little too pastoral about this place.The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-53819462399757725792013-03-13T07:28:00.000-04:002013-06-11T21:54:26.379-04:00The road to hell is paved with blasphemous limericksBritish ex-Pat Emma [Who inexplicably left London for Baltimore. <i>Baltimore</i>. ?!?] invited me to enter her Spectacular <a href="http://mommyhasaheadache.blogspot.com/2013/03/competition-pen-limerick-win-amazing.html">Easter Limerick Competition</a>. It's no joke. The prize is a smooth, creamy, deluxe chocolate egg from <i>Hotel Chocolat</i>. I'm posting my entries here. If I don't win the damn egg, at least I'll have gotten a blog post out of it.<br />
<br />
There once was a prophet named Christ.<br />
On a cross he was soon sacrificed.<br />
Will he come back<br />
From being whacked<br />
As a man or a poltergeist?<br />
<br />
And in case that wasn't offensive enough:<br />
<br />
Hung on a cross by decree,<br />
Romans pounded the nails in with glee.<br />
Well, that really sucks.<br />
I loaned him five bucks!<br />
First resurrect, then repay me.<br />
<br />
Happy Easter, Christian soldiers.<br />
<br />
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* * *</div>
<br />
"That's all you got. You got love and you got death. Death will find you...it's up to you to find love. That's where most people fall down at. Death got room for everybody. Love pick and choose. Now, most people won't admit that. That's cause love <i>cost</i>. Love got a <i>price </i>to it. Everybody don't want to pay. They put it on credit. Time it come due, they got it on credit somewhere else. That's what I learned all these years."<br />
<br />
August Wilson<br />
<i>Two Trains Running</i><br />
<br />
Perhaps it's because I heard those lines spoken by an accomplished actor who embraced the role. Simply reading them might not have the same impact. August Wilson was a fucking genius. He wrote a 10-play cycle, one for each decade of the 20th century, all centered on the black experience and all taking place in the same Pittsburgh neighborhood. And every one of them is great literature. Man, I'll never write that well. It's depressing. And I don't mean metaphorically.The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-38300426343234650942013-03-08T20:27:00.000-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.345-04:00Adieu! Adieu! Adieu!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Dear Central Park:</div>
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Here's one final blast of frost up your bum before I leave town. See you in nine months.</div>
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All my best,</div>
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Old Man Winter</div>
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And, finally...</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rD9Wo7CBNyA/UTpX9kWhADI/AAAAAAAAFNs/c_YwNhwxuNQ/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rD9Wo7CBNyA/UTpX9kWhADI/AAAAAAAAFNs/c_YwNhwxuNQ/s320/photo.JPG" width="268" /></a></div>
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...because it's all you need, they say.</div>
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* * * </div>
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"You know those days when you've got the mean reds?"</div>
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"Same as the blues?"</div>
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"No," she said slowly. "No, the blues are because you're getting fat or maybe it's been raining too long. You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of. Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is. You've had that feeling?"</div>
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Truman Capote</div>
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<i>Breakfast at Tiffany's</i></div>
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Yes, Holly, my sweet. I know what that is.</div>
The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-46159217693511829102013-02-21T21:03:00.000-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.355-04:00Who you callin' plastic?I'm a big Anglophile. Having been born in Cleveland instead of London is the greatest injustice inflicted against my person. And while my feelings towards the Royal Family can best be described as <i>indifferent</i>, I was put off by author Hiliary Mantel's bizarre attack on the Duchess of Cambridge. Mantel is a brilliant writer, there's no doubt. Her two books on Henry VIII are masterpieces that deserved all those awards. I can't wait for the concluding volume of the trilogy. But calling Kate Middleton a "...shop-window mannequin with a plastic smile whose only role in life is to breed" is low class. I wonder what's at the heart of Mantel's loathing? Let's explore a theory I have.<br />
<br />
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Here's the Duchess. Humm. Girl-next-door is my thing.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KfdIrSPHW1o/USaBuKcJuOI/AAAAAAAAFLU/JrrKRY1spjE/s1600/kate1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KfdIrSPHW1o/USaBuKcJuOI/AAAAAAAAFLU/JrrKRY1spjE/s320/kate1.jpg" /></a></div>
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And here's Mantel.</div>
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OH, HOLY SHIT! I think I might be onto something.</div>
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"...a jointed doll on which certain rags are hung...with no personality of her own, entirely defined by what she wore."<br />
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You wanna play <i>rough </i>cupcake? Who's dressing <i>you</i>? A rep from the Longshoreman's Union?<br />
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Methinks Ms. Mantel is consumed with envy. Spend year after year writing about the Royals and eventually you'd probably want to be one. I'd sell my rotting soul for the kind of success she enjoys. She should be happy instead of tense.<br />
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* * *</div>
<br />
Why the Academy didn't ask me to vote: The rest of the lot.<br />
<br />
<b>Beasts of the Southern Wild</b>. Didn’t see it. I have no idea what it’s about. Scary poster.<br />
<br />
<b>Les Misérables</b>. I am reluctant to say anything negative. Their efforts were so sincere. Poor Anne Hathaway cut all of her beautiful hair off for the cause. She should get an anti-vanity award for that alone. But, I’m sorry. I never saw the musical and was unaware of how relentlessly dreary the plot is. And I couldn’t UNDERSTAND a word they were singing. It's unintelligible. That's been a reoccurring problem for me. I've always found lyrics difficult to decipher. It’s why for many years I thought Jimmy Hendrix was singing “Scuse' me while I kiss this guy.”<br />
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<b>Life of Pi</b>. Loved it. I’ve heard some people grumbling about the ending but I completely bought into it. Unfortunately, about midway through, the 3D glasses started to feel like a giant hand clamped onto my face and the discomfort took me out of the story. I have to wear glasses in a theater, which means I had to put the 3D glasses over my regular glasses. What a pain! No more 3D movies for me.<br />
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<b>Silver Lining Playbook</b>. I don’t understand the supporting actor nominations for De Niro and Jackie Weaver. They were fine performances but nothing special. It was a little upsetting watching De Niro <i>cry</i> because he wasn’t a good <i>daddy</i>. Travis Bickle crying? Jake LaMotta crying? Bullshit. But Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper are accomplished, great actors with chemistry to spare. They're the new Tracey/Hepburn. The new Bogie/Bacall. They should be forced at gunpoint to make more movies together. Loved it. Best Picture. Cooper is going to do a revival of <i>The Elephant Man</i> on Broadway. I can't wait. Do you suppose they can get Lawrence to play Mrs. Kendal?<br />
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* * * </div>
<br />
10,000 thank-yous to the lovely and eminently readable Madam Weebles for the generous invitation to be <a href="http://fearnoweebles.wordpress.com/2013/02/20/the-first-weebles-guest-blogger/">her first guest blogger</a>. A much greater honor than she could possibly imagine. And, no, that's <i>not</i> one of my witty sarcasms.The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-38465032054189417342013-02-18T15:03:00.000-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.348-04:00Dreaming is freeHere's another one I found in my recently excavated journals. There was no date on it but I estimate it to be around 1991.<br />
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* * *</div>
<br />
lotto dreams<br />
<br />
The New York Lottery was $33 million dollars.<br />
The night shift word processors all chipped in<br />
because<br />
we hate our lives.<br />
<br />
I volunteered to call for the winning numbers<br />
to confirm for all<br />
what we already knew in our hearts:<br />
The continuation of our sorrow.<br />
<br />
Prior to dialing<br />
I clandestinely copied the numbers<br />
off of Nancy’s ticket.<br />
<br />
After hanging up, I misrepresented to all<br />
the numbers I copied down<br />
as the winning numbers.<br />
<br />
Nancy’s face was crimson with joy.<br />
It looked as though she might hemorrhage<br />
so I stopped the masquerade<br />
and revealed<br />
my deception.<br />
<br />
Everyone was quite cross with me.<br />
But later that night<br />
Nancy came up and thanked me.<br />
As she explained:<br />
“Now I know how it feels to win millions of dollars.”<br />
<br />
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* * * </div>
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Here's the current installation in the atrium of the Museum of Modern Art. <br />
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Some artists work in oils. Some in clay. Some prefer gouache. There's a multitude of mediums to choose from. Can you guess what Wolfgang Laib uses?<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RzN1jF67lS0/USKDUnz8yjI/AAAAAAAAFI8/00vwva3jkiM/s1600/photo+1(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RzN1jF67lS0/USKDUnz8yjI/AAAAAAAAFI8/00vwva3jkiM/s400/photo+1(1).JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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This is <a href="http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1340"><i>Pollen from Hazelnut</i></a>, a site-specific work that's constructed from pollen Laib collected near his home in Germany. It's sifted onto a slab into a fuzzy cube. Mrs. Wife asked how anyone with severe allergies can step into the building without being overwhelmed and I didn't have an answer for her. All I can say is that pollen does not permeate the air. <br />
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I love this big, open space. There aren't many like it in Manhattan. I always look forward to seeing what an artist will do when handed the keys to the car, but I was underwhelmed by this. If <i>meh</i> wasn't such a tired, worn out cliché I'd use that, but since I'm above clichés, I won't. It's best to view this from up on high. I had to tamp down an urge to walk through it and leave footprints. Kick up a big yellow cloud. Turn it into a participatory installation.<br />
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<br />The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-61684651533393027192013-02-13T09:16:00.000-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.387-04:00Baby had a bad fallWe had a big-ass snowstorm over the weekend so I took the girlies sledding. It's just a baby hill. No potential for injury or need for a helmet. <i>Or so I thought</i>. Then I ran across this poor little victim of an obviously horrific crash. Awful! Her face and skull looked like they were dragged under the sled for a few hundred feet. And that dislocated shoulder? My God!<br />
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<br />
Later that evening I had this niggling feeling that I'd seen that kind of injury once before. And it suddenly dawned on me. That's the same injury that poor Ronnie Cox suffered in the movie <i>Deliverance</i>!<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AgVvjkAwFiE/URucRlUY0KI/AAAAAAAAFHE/Uqvf0AkhOAU/s1600/deliverance-shoulder.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AgVvjkAwFiE/URucRlUY0KI/AAAAAAAAFHE/Uqvf0AkhOAU/s320/deliverance-shoulder.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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* * *</div>
<br />
Speaking of movies, here's why the Academy didn't ask for my vote.<br />
<br />
<b>Amour</b>. What is that? It’s about an elderly couple, right? I didn’t see it. And I probably won’t<br />
<br />
<b>Argo</b>. Really good except for the contrived ending. Do you really think the Iranian militia chased a plane down the runway as it was taking off? I believe in giving a director full dramatic license but give me a break. Do you remember when Ben Affleck used to be a joke? Right after the <i>Gigli</i> fiasco and his marriage to Jennifer Lopez imploded, his name became a punch line. During that period, a play called <i>Matt & Ben </i>was a big hit at the Downtown Fringe Festival. The premise was that there’s NO POSSIBLE WAY Affleck and Damon could have written the Oscar-winning script for <i>Good Will Hunting</i>. The play fronted the theory that the script actually fell from the heavens and landed at their feet, which was depicted. A script was dropped from the theater rafters and landed at the feet of the two actors playing Affleck and Damon (who were women, by the way). Now look at Ben! Directing one great film after another!<br />
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<b>Django Unchained</b>. Didn’t see it. He’s a great director but I bailed out on Tarantino a long time ago because of his trademark unrelenting blood and violence. Did you see <i>Reservoir Dogs</i>? That scene where the cop's ear was cut off? That sickened me. It’s a shame I’m such a big baby because I'd really like to see <i>Inglorious Bastards</i>.<br />
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<b>Zero Dark Thirty</b>. Didn’t see it. Won’t see it. I heard there’s a fairly graphic torture sequence. That stuff gets under my skin and stays with me for a very long time. During my long nights when I’m starring at the ceiling and being tormented by all the black muck inside my head, I start to imagine the people I love in the torture scenes. It’s just awful. I wish I was normal but I’m badly damaged.<br />
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<b>Lincoln</b>. Really Fucking Important. Really Fucking Boring. A dream sequence that included Spider-Man would have helped.<br />
<br />
More later. Perhaps.The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-4969246275423220062013-02-08T19:39:00.000-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.363-04:00Star Struck c. 1993More "fascinating" tidbits from my recently-excavated journals. This one from 1993.<br />
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star struck<br />
<br />
I rode the elevator up with Hedy<br />
and<br />
the Old Lady from the 6th floor<br />
who has never spoken a word<br />
to me<br />
or anyone else<br />
in the 3+ years I've lived here.<br />
<br />
She's a typical NYC octogenarian:<br />
sloppily applied bright, red lipstick <br />
bowed back<br />
quiet<br />
resigned.<br />
The city beat the stuffing out of her.<br />
It'll get me, too.<br />
<br />
I was showing Hedy my mail: <br />
an appeal for a contribution<br />
from an association that saves trees.<br />
Robert Redford loaned his name to the cause.<br />
It appeared in the return address.<br />
I said to Hedy, "Look at this!<br />
I got mail from Robert Redford!"<br />
<br />
The small, frail mother<br />
suddenly straightened her back.<br />
Her eyes lighted.<br />
She said in a loud voice:<br />
"I MET Robert Redford when I WORKED at the HOTEL."<br />
I asked, "Was he nice to you?"<br />
"Oh my, YES! VERY nice. And very HANDSOME, too."<br />
She was screaming.<br />
"I MET THEM ALL.<br />
OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN took me to his apartment<br />
and showed me his GUN COLLECTION."<br />
<br />
The elevator stopped on the 5th floor.<br />
Hedy and I got off.<br />
<br />
Nobody reading this has ever had<br />
a personal tour of Oscar Hammerstein's arsenal.<br />
And you never will. <br />
<br />
It's encouraging to see that<br />
even at our nadir<br />
we remember our apex.<br />
Our moment of glory.The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-17419968082810100212013-02-05T14:58:00.000-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.244-04:00...perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub.My disembodied spirit glided high above the burning Arabian desert sand. The Palm Jumeira passed below me and faded into a mist as I floated out over the cool blue Persian Gulf. The air was perfumed with saffron and deep lavender, the warm desert sun prickled my back.<br />
<br />
My wife flopped her arm over and punched my chest. "You're late. Oh...wait. It's Saturday. Sorry."<br />
<br />
She fell back to sleep within seconds because that's her superpower. I watched the shadows on the ceiling change shape as dawn broke.<br />
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<br />
I recently saw a piece of avant-garde theater that was directed by and starred Ethan Hawke. I can't say it was the Worst Play Ever, but the parts that I didn't nap through were pretty bad. Vincent D'Onofrio, another veteran who should have known better, was also in it. There wasn't an intermission, which I believe was by design so that the audience couldn't escape. Me no get. <br />
<br />
I can appreciate that actors want to takes risks and shake things up once in a while. I respect that. But my tastes are mostly pedestrian. You can take the boy out of Ohio but, etc. For me, experimental theater always looks like self-indulgent, ak-ting 101, scarf and beret-wearing nonsense. Other actors might understand it, but I zone <i>out</i>. I have the same complicated relationship with jazz. Some of it is very beautiful. I feel it in my heart. But some of it is just a blob of formless noise.
Musicians showing off for other musicians. I try to keep an open mind. I love <i>Waiting for Godot</i> and that's a pretty out-there piece of writing. [This fall Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen are doing <i>Godot</i>. Professor Xavier is Vladimir. Magneto is Estragon. Or, Captain Picard/Gandalf. Take your pick.]<br />
<br />
It didn't help that before the play I ate a pastrami sandwich that tasted like a rubber garden hose AND it was two below zero outside with a biting wind howling off the Hudson River and down 42nd Street. There are so many elements that factor into an actor's performance.<br />
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And you thought <i>you</i> were having a bad day.<br />
<br />
This is a dance piece. "Dance" is <i>their</i> term for it, not mine. I think it's closer to performance art or theater. <i>The Caravan Project</i> was performed by kooky Japanese artists Eiko and Koma in a trailer parked in the lobby of the Museum of Modern Art. Stuffed with what looked like animal hair, debris and guts, the pair moved in super-slow motion climbing in and out of their lair. They wore what looked like mummified fabric and chalky, white make-up.<br />
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As usual, I have no clue what it all meant but it made me laugh. The best part was watching the horrified looks of patrons who unknowingly stumbled across it. This would have terrified my 6-year old.<br />
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The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-71810265230110026392013-02-02T09:37:00.001-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.407-04:00Racist cabbieThumbing through my journals has unleashed a torrent of lost and, in some cases, intentionally forgotten memories. But it's been almost 20 years to the day and I didn't need any prompting to remember this cab ride.<br />
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<br />
March 10, 1993<br />
<br />
I had an interesting cab ride home tonight. The driver was French, which
was unusual in and of itself. We started chatting and he asked me how I
liked living in a slum. This isn't a slum! Is it?<br />
<br />
[Note: At that time, the neighborhood was crawling with junkies and their
suppliers. There were a few abandoned, boarded-up buildings but it wasn't a
slum. The irony is that thanks to gentrification, I couldn't afford to
move back into my old apartment even if I wanted to.]<br />
<br />
He said he grew up outside of Paris, lived in Morocco for several years and has been in New York for the past 15. He said everywhere he's been it's the same; the slums are filled with blacks and Puerto Ricans. They've always been there and they'll always be there. He said they don't have the wherewithal to pull themselves out.<br />
<br />
He said, "People like you and me have The Panic in us. It's The Panic that makes us get out of bed and go to work in the morning. But those people don't have The Panic in them and because of that, they'll always live in ghettos. It's in their blood." I couldn't believe it.<br />
<br />
He said the difference between us and them (he actually said "us and them") is that if
someone gave him $50,000 and gave me $50,000 and gave someone in "the slum" $50,000, he and I would start a business and invest in our future but the slum person would just blow it. He doesn't know me very well, does he?<br />
<br />
I wonder if he was serious about this stuff? He sure sounded sincere. I have a suspicion that he was one of those nutty out-of-work actors doing a Stanislavsky exercise. You know, inhabiting a character for a day. But he was kind of old to be an
out-of-work actor. Old, white, French racist. I stiffed him on the tip just in case he was serious and for being a dickhead if he wasn't.<br />
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<br />
As long as I'm being dreary today, here's a more contemporary example of how humanity is a disappointment.<br />
<br />
I had to run a mid-day errand. I always like to walk through Rockefeller Center and stop to watch the tourists on the ice skating rink. They're all on vacation and in a good mood. I like to see people enjoying New York City. It makes me feel strangely vindicated for my choices in life. I know how that sounds. Don't judge me.<br />
<br />
I stumbled across a living Currier and Ives print. A mother and her sweet little daughter gracefully gliding around the rink, hand in hand. What a beautiful moment, and one I'm sure the little girl will cherish for years to come.<br />
<br />
That lasted for about a half a lap. Mom's cell phone rang and she spent the remainder of their time together on the ice yammering into her phone. It must have been a pretty important call.<br />
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The little girl would occasionally slip on the ice and mom would just yank her up onto her feet again. She wouldn't even interrupt her conversation to help her. I wanted to climb down onto the ice and cross check her into the boards. But that would have been crazy, right? Yes dear, mother loves spending time with you, but what's coming out of that phone is far more interesting than what you have to offer.<br />
<br />
What a terrible, lost opportunity. Teach your children well, indeed. The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-47912169554636827172013-01-29T11:11:00.001-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.360-04:00Gentrified memoriesMy bride and I abandoned our children for the weekend to attend a wedding in downtown Brooklyn. It was a beautiful affair. The ceremony was at St. Agnes, a church built in 1904 in the Boerum Hill section, just two blocks from where I lived when I first set foot in New York. The reception was in the neighborhood <span class="st">down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass, affectionately referred to by real estate agents and trust fund kids as DUMBO. Seriously. I hadn't been there in about 15 years and was genuinely aghast at what I saw. Gentrification is the oldest story in the oldest city, but when you see its results before your very eyes, it has the power to shock. The last time I walked those streets, it was all artist studios with great light and dirty windows and abandoned warehouses. The neighborhood didn't have a cute name. Now it's residential with a Chase Manhattan Bank branch. It blew my mind.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">We stayed in a fancy, new, boutique hotel that didn't have heat because of a steam pipe explosion. They gave us a space heater instead. We didn't mind. We're not babies. On Sunday morning, I walked up Smith Street to buy <i>The New York Times</i>. When I lived there, Smith Street wasn't so nice but now it's become a destination. We had a scrumptious lunch at a Portuguese restaurant the day before. En route to get the paper, I saw no fewer than four strollers. Those expensive Quinny models. It would seem that even at that young age, there's a strict hipster dress code that must be adhered to. I wonder what happened to all the Latinos who lived there?</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
<span class="st">I saw Zadie Smith read a couple of months ago and she was discussing the gentrification of Holborn, her old neighborhood in London, as it relates to a plot device in her new book <i>NW</i>. She had this to say, and I quote:</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
(Gentrification) is a global experience. People get priced out of their own neighborhoods. The thing I find funny is that there are all different waves of immigration but there's only one community who moves into an area and feels they're a great boon and that's middle class white people. They always think that everybody should be so happy that they've arrived in droves with their cupcakes and all the rest of it. And that interested me, that state of mind that imagines that when you arrive en masse that you're only bringing good. That you're a benefit to an area. That was always quite funny to me.</blockquote>
She's right, you know. Sorry, cupcake-bearing middle class white people. The entertainment at the reception that evening was quartet of virtuosos who played American popular standards and a few French chanteuse selections. A stand-up bass, vintage guitar, violin and singer who looked and sounded the part. Here's a brief, crappy video. Try to ignore the background noise.<br />
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The performances were mesmerizing. I'd love to hear them again will seek them out. I heard a rumor they play a wine bar on Friday nights. Look at that great microphone!<br />
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Here are just the boys warming up. Beautiful. Listening to this music and then walking out onto the cobblestone streets below the Manhattan bridge on a cold, clear night was sheer poetry to me.<br />
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I'm too old to be traumatized by a bad haircut, right? Or does vanity know no age limit? I had a little talk afterwards with Candi (she dots the "i" with a star), but the damage is done. I actually had a bad dream about it this morning. What would Dr. Freud say?</div>
The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4341308729189935273.post-8635355694778871532013-01-25T06:42:00.002-05:002013-06-11T21:54:26.422-04:00A powder keg with a lit fuse in my basementA few years ago I wrote a post soliciting opinions on how to solve a little problem I have. I received some excellent tips in my comments section but have done absolutely nothing in the interim to rid myself of the issue at hand. It's all about these:<br />
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This is a plastic bin filled with journals from the late 80s through early 90s. They cover the period when I first moved to New York City as a hopeful, brooding, solitary young boy. There are about a dozen books filled with hand-written pages and the binders are packed with hundreds and <i>hundreds </i>of single space type-written pages. The absolute last thing I want is for these to fall into the hands of my daughters. They're fill with depravation, longing and raunchy exploits. I wasn't as depressed as these writings would make it seem. Not having the money for a proper therapist, stream-of-thought typing became my method for purging all the dark matter clogging my consciousness. It was cathartic, but it's not an accurate representation of my state of mind.<br />
<br />
The problem is that on more than one occasion, I've pulled these out with the intention of driving to the town incinerator but before I make it out the front door I'll open one, start reading and get lost in the misty water-colored memories of the way I was. I laugh my ass off at the startling depth of my naïveté and utter cluelessness about life, women and human nature. Especially women. I get sucked into a wormhole and come out the other side in some girl's bed in 1991.<br />
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Someone recently sent me a link to an essay by Joan Didion about how it's vital to keep and reread your old journals. She feels there's value in them. But I have extenuating circumstances (i.e., children) that make keeping these problematic. I really need to burn these, don't I? What if I meet with an untimely end? I don't want my last thoughts to be, "I should have burned my journals" and "Am I wearing clean underwear?" I don't want them reading this stuff.<br />
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My God, they're fun to read. What a little fool I was. For being free-form and not knowing a damn thing about punctuation, sentence structure or clarity, there are some surprisingly readable passages. How can I throw them away!? I <b>must</b> throw them away! Will one of you hang on to these for me?The Unbearable Banishmenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704208968630911021noreply@blogger.com39