Last Thursday three of us took the A train to the Apollo for The Daptone Soul Revue: Sharon Jones, Antibalas, Charles Bradley, Naomi Shelton, and a few supporting acts/openers. I came up from the Foley Square protests for Eric Garner, Dean and his roommate/girlfriend from Bed Stuy where they live. Dean claims to have slept with three of four female roommates, and is now "dating" the third. Poor policy, I'd say, but quot homines, tot sententiae. Many of the characters in this diary take their name from literature, and, as you may have guessed, Dean comes from Dean Moriarty. He's no Sal Paradise but then neither am I--in fact the name Moriarty has always fuddled me, as I associate him with Sherlock Holmes worthy adversary. No matter--let's move forward.
Dean is in the process of taking a master's in social work at one of the famous New York schools. I think of him as being foppish mess, full of inchoate and incoherent ideas expressed with an energetic convoluted-ness. He's immature and nearly thirty, and when he drinks his tentacles fly around the room dripping pus about haphazardly. I like Dean, but his behavior is difficult to manage and, because he's immature and thoughtless, the behavior is often offensive. We'll come to this.
What a thrill it was to walk into the Apollo. I thought of Adelaide Hall, Ella Fitzgerald, Mahalia, the Soul Stirrers, Aretha, Ray Charles, and of course, James Brown, of all the music and history that has passed through the theatre over the years, and all the regular folks who have come to hear the music. I had never been to the Apollo before, and it was a culmination of many things--I had a feeling of understanding, of oneness with a current of being, a feeling I haven't had since talking Kant in college, something I first experienced in Pizarro's tomb in Lima. There I felt the burden and logic of history; the the Apollo I felt a supreme beauty and coherence. If that makes any sense at all.
Naomi Shelton did Harlem Mavis Staples; she hobbled out onto the stage with assistance, but as soon as she started singing--mmmhmmm. That woman has a serious voice and knows about the good news. A few acts later came Charles Bradley, who has been waiting all his life for this moment (he's in his sixties) and screamed and hollered as he churned and oozed around the stage in a costume even James Brown might've been too demure to don (it featured a phallic, sequin-covered tie that hung between his legs). Antibalas brought down the house--they went over time, and it appeared as if the stage management had to remove them from the stage. Much of the band seemed carried away, in a trance, and so were we in the audience, people dancing, writhing, clutching at their genitals. The thing was only steps away from an orgy. And then Sharon leaps onto the stage after a Hardest Working Man in Show Business-style introduction. I didn't know how anyone could follow Antibalas, but Sharon blew them out the water. That woman has a power in her voice that I've never heard. Sharon covered "Every Beat of My Heart," which Gladys cut in 1961 when she was just eighteen years old. Sharon can sing eighteen years old. The pinnacle of the show--there were two in Sharon's set--came when she preached, frantically, hysterically, as if the music, feeling, and spirit were about to carry her off, about her cancer, how she caught it, how it almost killed her, and how she beat it. I thought the theatre might come crashing down--I don't think the Apollo has seen a show of that caliber since the sixties. Sharon finished up with her version of James Brown's "There Was a Time" in which she teaches us all about the mashed potato, the tighten-up, the chicken, the twist, the camel walk, the boogaloo, and a selection of other interpretations of dances of the 1960s. This is up there with the best shows I've seen, and I've seen most of the best (the notable exception being Prince).
Dean was drunk when we left, drunk and looking for trouble. I had come from the Eric Garner protests; we were in Harlem. Dean insisted on smoking a blunt in front of the police, in front of the Apollo, without a clue as to what that might mean, how that might make people with a different skin color feel--something they could never get away with, right in front of the police like that--and in front of the Apollo, which is a respected landmark. It was semi-disgraceful. I rode the A to 59th with Dean and his roommate and then transferred to the D.
Saturday last Cash, Sadie, Princess, and I saw The Etudes at Bam. What a treat it was to see the old lion himself perform the first two etudes, with the forgivable slovenliness of the composer, tempo uneven as if Philip himself is, in this first performance of all of the etudes, himself becoming reacquainted with his own work. It was beautiful and melancholy, aged lovers holding each other on the train, each more in love with the other than ever, youth an eternal present rather than a distant memory. Ten pianists tackled the etudes, and it was fascinating to see these divergent interpretations. Princess, Cash, and I loved the etudes; Sadie sort of didn't get it, although I think she was happy to have been brought along. Sadie has told me she doesn't like medieval or religious art, and Sadie's a Spaniard through and through: she rejects ritual, yet requires it, requires the evocation of sex, of violence, of redemption. Cash has improved immensely since moving to New York, he loved the etudes and had unexpected and intelligent things to say about it.
Princess had been shopping for a stylist all day, and was fraught when she arrived--she'd been to Macy's, Bloomingdale's, Barney's, Bergdorf, and the first three were just crawling with the hordes. Poor thing. She was dressed like a Geisha and I realized she has a fluid/natural/organic grasp of style, it's impressive. She talked about a few years ago, when I had incorporated "Crunk" into my name, and how she thought that was iconic of a certain time, age, era, etc., which of course I loved to hear. She works at the boom boom room and has lately begun to enjoy heavy drinking. Cash looked at me with delighted surprise when she told a story about returning to her $Skid Row$ apartment so drunk, and, being unable to find the key, falling asleep in the hallway. When she woke up in the morning, she threw up, and still couldn't figure out how to get into her apartment. "We should hang out with Princess more often," Cash said.
I'm reading Wilkie Collins' mystery The Moonstone, which is the most wonderful winter novel. On the horizon is a beautiful biography of George Sand I found at City Opera, a first edition, Infamous Woman, Conrad's Lord Jim, Valley of the Dolls, The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born. Many things. Saturday I leave New York for DC and my hometown soon after that. I'm nervous, I feel unsafe when I leave New York for these provincial pieces of my past.
DC promises to be amusing, as I'll lodge with Brooklyn and we have much to catch to gossip about. Brooklyn plans to visit New York for New Years, but New Years is such a pain in the city I have no idea what we'll do. Brooklyn's best lady friend Eliot will be there, who I once nearly slept with I think, although of course I could be wrong. That night she wore an orange jumpsuit, and Brooklyn was drunk and I sort of felt Eliot ran out on me, and Brooklyn kept semi-aggressively commenting "I know why your mad." It was so bizarre and unusual, like one of those strange and fragile surrealist attempts at cinema.
I made a trek out to Soul Food Kitchen on far out Fulton in Bed Stuy last night: might be the best soul food in New York. I had catfish, mac n' cheese, okra, and greens, and I'm bringing carry out to Kate for her birthday party Friday.
Why would anyone ever leave New York?
Showing posts with label Sharon Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sharon Jones. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Kafka
I mentioned the Brooklyn Heights girls--the two I almost lived with? Well, one of them told me all about her intense curiosity in Kafka's letters, diaries, journals, etc., of course it goes without saying he was a fascinating, unusual, a neurotic. Según Freud, the illness of the neurotic is the illness of modern civilization.
Last night I went to flight attendant friend's holiday party in deep Queens. Deepest Queens, an area the look and feel of which makes it feel like it could be anywhere or anything. It's so abstract. Flight attendant friend and I met a few years ago on a flight from New York to my state of birth; I had a little shoulder-bag with me that I had stowed in one of the overhead bins. During those quiet moments before take-off, the flight attendants closing and inspecting the aforementioned bins, passengers settling in with a book, their anxieties, thoughts of wherever it is they have left and wherever it is they are to go, and the head flight attendant pulls out my shoulder-bag, a Colombian mochila, and, in a tone audible to the nearby fifteen or twenty passengers, says, with my bag held up, "Whose purse is this?" For once, my seatmate is a very attractive woman. What humiliation. Immediately with some awkwardness I stood up and claimed my bag, and told the flight attendant that "it's a shoulder-bag not a purse." Chuckling from the surrounding rows. "Looks like a purse to me!" she responded. Carly, my seatmate, doubled over in laughter. We struck up a conversation and discovered we were on our way to the same town, so I gave her a ride home from the airport. We've been friends ever since. She's a flight attendant with a major carrier, and the more of her friends I meet, the more I respect the carrier. The flight attendants are well-treated, a diverse and intelligent mix, multilingual, fun, and best of all, genuine. Be kind to your flight attendants, readers!
So last night I went to the fur-themed holiday party Carly threw at her apartment in Queens. Immense apartment, the only abode I've been that can hold a candle to Brooklyn's place in DC, so far, full of women and gay men dressed in fake fur of all kinds. Eventually I met a charming redhead who reminded me of another friend, also a redhead, a dancer, with similar facial features and a matching attitude. Incredible as it is, I was to discover the similarities between these two women run deeper: the two share the same first name. But the redhead of Carly's party came with a highly unusual maiden name: Kafka. It's a family legend Franz is a cousin once-or-twice-removed. Kafka comes from Phoenix, though she married a Brit, has a lovely baby daughter, and had been living in London until city life became too complicated. Before she married, first and last names were alliterative Ks. She shouldn't have ever changed it, I told her.
Kafka has appeared twice in my life in the last few weeks: what could it possibly mean?
I've been listening to Fela as I write, which reminds me: I finished Chimamanda Adichie's Americanah a few days ago. Ultimately I found the novel disappointing--thematically there are three distinct experiences Adichie explores, and the first and second are far and away the most interesting. As Adichie's protagonist reaches maturity, she loses depth--she becomes dull. The quality of the writing remains high, but the agony of it, the effort that went into it, all this changes--the texture, once beautifully and carefully sculpted, becomes smooth and indistinct. It seems as if Adichie ran out of steam at a certain point, and simply needed to finish the book, to put it behind her--this is understandable. I look forward to reading her next book, as I believe as a writer she does have the capacity to produce a masterpiece.
I've begun Wilkie Collins' Moonstone, which is a wonderful book and wonderful winter reading in particular, and has reminded me of the out-of-the-past idea of the "morally fallen," the disgraced woman (and occasionally man) of epochs long past. I was discussing Red Hook with my cousin, and I mentioned that I always think of Red Hook as the place where one should move after a disgraceful affair, a place to hide, to be alone, to reflect on the foreclosed life that might have been. She agreed, and knew someone who had done just so, only to become involved in another lurid affair, can you imagine? The Moonstone proves to be delightful, as I knew it would. The edition I have is cumbersome and unwieldy, and this summer I found a pint-sized copy of Conrad's Lord Jim, so I may carry that around in my coat pocket when I'm unable to lug around a large tome.
My friend Grace is in Los Angeles this week photographing and drawing bulbous nudes with tattoos, her favorite subject. Grace is a favorite, and may be the reason I obtain the position with Sony Pictures. She shrieks, she screams, she exposes as much tattooed flesh as possible whenever possible. I can't wait for her to move back to New York. I don't understand why anyone moves to Los Angeles--sure the weather's great, but it can be cold, you have to drive everywhere which really means sitting in traffic for hours and hours and hours, and the air is awful.
Tonight I'll see The Daptone Soul Review (Sharon Jones and Charles Bradley) at the Apollo, and Philip Glass Saturday at BAM. I'm extremely excited: Sharon Jones is the Queen.
I hope to participate briefly in the Eric Garner protests outside City Hall later on today. It's been suggested police wear cameras, to prevent incidents like the death of Michael Brown, or at least provide irrefutable video evidence--well, with Eric Garner there was video evidence. If, as is the case with Eric Garner, a video can't convince a grand jury there is probable cause to charge a police officer, what's the point of cameras? I've said it before: a racist, trigger happy country produces a racist, trigger-happy police force. It doesn't matter if the officer in question has apologized, claims he never meant to harm Eric Garner, says he's sorry and prays for Eric and his family. Eric Garner was a father of six. Six children will grow up without a father, will have this injustice hanging over their heads the rest of their lives. What a shame.
We can talk about racism, but what we really need to do is talk about racists, because they're out there, and they're the reason we don't see indictments when it comes to the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner. It's a tragedy and a disgrace. I hope this is a watershed moment, when the sensible people step away from those with the words of inequity on their lips, the racists with hate seeping out of their pores.
RIP Eric Garner. I, like the court jester of our time, am lost for words.
Last night I went to flight attendant friend's holiday party in deep Queens. Deepest Queens, an area the look and feel of which makes it feel like it could be anywhere or anything. It's so abstract. Flight attendant friend and I met a few years ago on a flight from New York to my state of birth; I had a little shoulder-bag with me that I had stowed in one of the overhead bins. During those quiet moments before take-off, the flight attendants closing and inspecting the aforementioned bins, passengers settling in with a book, their anxieties, thoughts of wherever it is they have left and wherever it is they are to go, and the head flight attendant pulls out my shoulder-bag, a Colombian mochila, and, in a tone audible to the nearby fifteen or twenty passengers, says, with my bag held up, "Whose purse is this?" For once, my seatmate is a very attractive woman. What humiliation. Immediately with some awkwardness I stood up and claimed my bag, and told the flight attendant that "it's a shoulder-bag not a purse." Chuckling from the surrounding rows. "Looks like a purse to me!" she responded. Carly, my seatmate, doubled over in laughter. We struck up a conversation and discovered we were on our way to the same town, so I gave her a ride home from the airport. We've been friends ever since. She's a flight attendant with a major carrier, and the more of her friends I meet, the more I respect the carrier. The flight attendants are well-treated, a diverse and intelligent mix, multilingual, fun, and best of all, genuine. Be kind to your flight attendants, readers!
So last night I went to the fur-themed holiday party Carly threw at her apartment in Queens. Immense apartment, the only abode I've been that can hold a candle to Brooklyn's place in DC, so far, full of women and gay men dressed in fake fur of all kinds. Eventually I met a charming redhead who reminded me of another friend, also a redhead, a dancer, with similar facial features and a matching attitude. Incredible as it is, I was to discover the similarities between these two women run deeper: the two share the same first name. But the redhead of Carly's party came with a highly unusual maiden name: Kafka. It's a family legend Franz is a cousin once-or-twice-removed. Kafka comes from Phoenix, though she married a Brit, has a lovely baby daughter, and had been living in London until city life became too complicated. Before she married, first and last names were alliterative Ks. She shouldn't have ever changed it, I told her.
Kafka has appeared twice in my life in the last few weeks: what could it possibly mean?
I've been listening to Fela as I write, which reminds me: I finished Chimamanda Adichie's Americanah a few days ago. Ultimately I found the novel disappointing--thematically there are three distinct experiences Adichie explores, and the first and second are far and away the most interesting. As Adichie's protagonist reaches maturity, she loses depth--she becomes dull. The quality of the writing remains high, but the agony of it, the effort that went into it, all this changes--the texture, once beautifully and carefully sculpted, becomes smooth and indistinct. It seems as if Adichie ran out of steam at a certain point, and simply needed to finish the book, to put it behind her--this is understandable. I look forward to reading her next book, as I believe as a writer she does have the capacity to produce a masterpiece.
I've begun Wilkie Collins' Moonstone, which is a wonderful book and wonderful winter reading in particular, and has reminded me of the out-of-the-past idea of the "morally fallen," the disgraced woman (and occasionally man) of epochs long past. I was discussing Red Hook with my cousin, and I mentioned that I always think of Red Hook as the place where one should move after a disgraceful affair, a place to hide, to be alone, to reflect on the foreclosed life that might have been. She agreed, and knew someone who had done just so, only to become involved in another lurid affair, can you imagine? The Moonstone proves to be delightful, as I knew it would. The edition I have is cumbersome and unwieldy, and this summer I found a pint-sized copy of Conrad's Lord Jim, so I may carry that around in my coat pocket when I'm unable to lug around a large tome.
My friend Grace is in Los Angeles this week photographing and drawing bulbous nudes with tattoos, her favorite subject. Grace is a favorite, and may be the reason I obtain the position with Sony Pictures. She shrieks, she screams, she exposes as much tattooed flesh as possible whenever possible. I can't wait for her to move back to New York. I don't understand why anyone moves to Los Angeles--sure the weather's great, but it can be cold, you have to drive everywhere which really means sitting in traffic for hours and hours and hours, and the air is awful.
Tonight I'll see The Daptone Soul Review (Sharon Jones and Charles Bradley) at the Apollo, and Philip Glass Saturday at BAM. I'm extremely excited: Sharon Jones is the Queen.
I hope to participate briefly in the Eric Garner protests outside City Hall later on today. It's been suggested police wear cameras, to prevent incidents like the death of Michael Brown, or at least provide irrefutable video evidence--well, with Eric Garner there was video evidence. If, as is the case with Eric Garner, a video can't convince a grand jury there is probable cause to charge a police officer, what's the point of cameras? I've said it before: a racist, trigger happy country produces a racist, trigger-happy police force. It doesn't matter if the officer in question has apologized, claims he never meant to harm Eric Garner, says he's sorry and prays for Eric and his family. Eric Garner was a father of six. Six children will grow up without a father, will have this injustice hanging over their heads the rest of their lives. What a shame.
We can talk about racism, but what we really need to do is talk about racists, because they're out there, and they're the reason we don't see indictments when it comes to the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner. It's a tragedy and a disgrace. I hope this is a watershed moment, when the sensible people step away from those with the words of inequity on their lips, the racists with hate seeping out of their pores.
RIP Eric Garner. I, like the court jester of our time, am lost for words.
Monday, December 1, 2014
My demographic ages
My parents left Sunday. Seeing them in the city reminded me of those penultimate days of summer, when one has come to terms with the calendar and the fact that September is only just around the corner, when the sun has begun to dim and the sharp opacity of winter strikes the leaves, brick, and concrete, and when the days aren't quite as long as they were in July. I've been maudlin lately as well, and speaking almost entirely in analogy and metaphor. New York in these months is eternal dark and grey. I can understand why Georgia O'Keeffe left Stieglitz to repeatedly paint the vagina in New Mexico. Incidentally, is this not a novel euphemism?
Parents and I went to visit the magnificent old Boar at the end of 57th next to my grandmother's building and there he was, presiding over the East River as if it wasn't 30 degrees outside. I'll revisit him in the spring, and if my childhood memories hold true that park will have filled up with a bacchanal of flower and bloom come April. I miss her, Margaret. I would've loved to have visited the Frick with her, to have painted with her, to have talked politics with her, to have heard her turn of phrase, to have felt her kindness, to have watched the boats on the East River from her kitchen window, to have glimpsed the joy spread across the creases of her face when she, the first to know, would hear her favorite granddaughter was pregnant. She is, my cousin and her husband surprised parents and I before dinner. I couldn't believe it! I had no idea and would never have guessed. I'm thrilled, happy for them, and I have to in some way help them find a two bedroom because I would be devastated if they left the city, especially with the little fluffle, or "the business" as she's calling her (they're to have a little girl).
Kim and I went to my favorite place in Soho last night, Ciccio, which I write with some trepidation as I feel the hordes have yet to discover how pleasant it is, the quality of the homemade pasta, the feel of the place as one in which one can simply share a "second kitchen" with friends, as remark the French. It reminds me of the little bakery on Ninth where Taylor and I used both to collect breakfast before this whole "ambassador" campaign was formally announced.
Kim I've referred to many times, but have never described. How to talk about Kim? I had to convince Kim I would make a good friend, when we became close, years ago, in the months following her return from South Africa. Kim is a professional gossip, and used to, within a half hour of meeting someone, if she determined this him or her worthy of her attention, would ask how many people he or she had slept with? Kim at her worst is aggressive, contradictory, unpredictable, generally volatile, and will delve into obsession monologues relating to her high school social life. Typically, however, she's entertaining, a wonderful and reliable thread of get-togethers, and a devoted friend. Many a charming afternoon I've spent on the couch with Kim, discussing this or that or nothing at all, and I cherish these occasions, as we're both busy these days. Kim went corporate, she's doing very well, and she lives in the West Village.
Kim isn't happy in New York, and she keeps on talking about Seattle, San Francisco, even San Diego. I'm not sure she'll be happy anywhere if she can't be happy in New York. She did break up with her boyfriend, which was too bad because I liked him, but I could see that he wasn't right for her, for so many reasons. Since Lindsay is the root cause of the split I feel it is up to her to find a replacement. We were both sort of down because one of our most attractive friends got engaged to her boyfriend in the Jardin du Luxembourg this weekend, which is elegant and whatnot, good for them. I don't dislike Angelica, I don't dislike her now-fiancee, Jay, but the fact of their engagement distresses in that it illuminates to both Kim and I how poorly off we are when it comes to romance. Angelica and Jay are both beautiful, they're a beautiful couple, though of course Jay isn't good enough for Angelica, but who is? I'm happy for them, though, and she's moving to New York so I actually am glad they're engaged and that's out of the way so he can't coerce her into remaining in LA like last time. Angelica is sharp and prone to flail about, she's stunning. She's in publishing and arrives in February. Jay wants to act; I haven't seen him act, but, thinking only of his appearance and his personality, he has a much better chance in New York than he ever had in LA. I don't believe in his prospects here, he possesses a elfin beauty that's distracting in a supporting character, and I can't imagine him playing anything else. These people who want to act, like Tina, on her third nose job, what are they thinking? They're suited to a plethora of trades, and yet they wish to act. Not everyone can be Pacino, not everyone can be Streep.
Cash went back to our hometown and his girlfriend mentioned marriage again. He's into her, but can't envision spending the rest of his life with her. To this I replied, "well, there is always divorce." I don't understand why people don't just accept divorce as a fact of life--so many of my friends and acquaintances, weighing the decision of whether to marry or not so carefully. Divorce exists! I feel to an extent divorce has taken on the moral ugliness of the fifties, with so many of my peers resenting their parents for daring to divorce, to have the gall to separate. These demanding children! Would they rather the parents hate each other for the duration of their time on this earth? Anyway, the conversation with Cash threw me--it was different to hear him talk about deep, serious realities of love in a somewhat quotidian manner--ie, these are things he is thinking about, these are everyday matters.
At dinner, Kim complained that she doesn't like Cash, but mentioned that he was looking very attractive the last time she saw him (Saturday). This is a problem with Kim: she'll often choose to dislike friends of mine, and voice her displeasure to me. It's one thing to dislike certain qualities in a mutual friend, and even to complain about these qualities to the friend-in-the-middle, but to actively dislike, exclude, or make decisions based on this dislike, that is a character flaw. That's unclear--let me try it another way: I might dislike a dear friend of a friend, dislike certain personality traits or dislike them generally, but I'll rarely, rarely give this feeling words, especially to my friend about their friend. It's bad breeding.
The dinner was opulent and delicious. Ciccio is an excellent restaurant. I took parents on their first night in town, and they loved it.
I mentioned the Lauder Cubism Collection at the Met in the last mini post--has anyone else had enough of this parade of Picasso? I saw Jacqueline and Picasso at Pace: overly intimate and bizarre, Jacqueline glowering at you from every corner of the room, and Picasso and the Camera at Gagosian, which contained two or three arresting works but not much else. It is clear both galleries are trolling out whatever might sell while everyone is in New York for the winter. Aunt Kate knew Jacqueline when she worked with the Hermitage, and found her absolutely detestable, haughty and affected but nondescript, bland. Cubism (at the Met) was the same, with too much early Braque and Picasso in angular constellations of brown and carrot, though it did reward with an exquisite and enormous Léger and the admirable Juan Gris' striking portrait of his mother.
Princess, Cash, and I are going to see Philip Glass do the Piano Etudes at BAM this weekend, and I may also see Sharon Jones at the Apollo. Princess is a friend enmeshed in the fashion world. I can't wait to see her--she's sociable, brilliant, unusual, amusing, but most of all, we'll be able to gossip! Not that I know very many people in fashion, but Princess and I know many of the same people from our days as earnest, beautiful club kids, eyes full of the conviction that what could be might really come to be. Princess and I almost lived together in Chinatown, but now she lives in Bushwhack--it's just too awful. She had a cramped flat in Alphabet City but it was just so much for so little. This is a problem with New York, the so much for so little issue when it comes to housing.
I haven't been to Harlem in some time and I also need to visit the Cloisters, so maybe I'll make a day and night of it. My friend Jean lives up there and, like Princess, I haven't seen her in awhile. It's never too late to reconnect with friends with whom you've fallen out of touch. Friendships aren't like leftovers: while whatever you've brought home with you might spoil, you'll always have the memory of the original meal. Well, I have some wonderful meal memories, and it's time to find these people. This is why I'm going to flight attendant friend's furry soiree all the way out in Kew Gardens, Queens, and why I continue to make the effort. Especially because the new people I meet tend to be so fucking crazy. For example:
Remember the women I nearly roomed with in Brooklyn Heights? I went to the apartment of said women the other night for hot toddies. One, the sometime WA assistant, proceeds to explain she's due to leave for Colombia in the morning and can socialize for a moment but must return to arranging her things. The other begins to monopolize the conversation, the one with the intense interest in Kafka, and proceeds to go on and on about how she identifies with Anne Frank. She once mentioned this to George Saunders at a book signing, and with what wide-eyes he stared I can't imagine. This is unkind of me, but her monologues reminded me of Bad Charlus, and I felt uneasy and a little tipsy and generally queasy. I might've enjoyed it if I hadn't been trapped with her, if there had been one or two other people around, but there was no escape, no Brooklyn in whose eyes I might find confirmation, eyes to share feelings of incredulous delight and discomfort. No, I just had to listen to her go on and on, it was dreadful. I didn't end up leaving until after one in the morning, and because of this I missed the birthday party for Princess and a general mess of a party at a Dean's in Bed Stuy that I would have really enjoyed. So this is why I want to reconnect with people I like, people who aren't crazy. Proust has a wonderful moment on the experience of discovering madness in passers-by, I'll find it and quote it in the future if I remember to do so. We then discussed the difficulties of finding like-minded people in New York to befriend, how New York can be rough, socially. I couldn't think, I don't believe I said anything of note, I was capable only of a weak mumble. It is hard to find interested, interesting, genuine people who aren't fucking crazy in New York, I suppose, but aren't we all a little bit crazy? I'll contact Brooklyn Heights girls again in the near future, lolz. At least they aren't women who over-utilize inflection, a behavior I cannot endure. You hear it on the street, often: "I JUst DoN't knOw WhAT I Am GoIng To Do?" I could write that phonetically but that would require an incredible effort and I think what I am describing is obvious enough: either you yourself are guilty of this, or you know people who do it and don't really consider it an issue, or we're soulmates and you know exactly what I mean and you also despise the sound of these creatures who belong in Chicago or Houston or whatever pit of degradation out of which they crawled. These people will be important in the upcoming requisite entry on New York and gentrification.
I want to say one or two little things about Ferguson: fuck the police! Racist fucking country! Makes me want to move to Europe or back to Latin America, but I won't really do that because I love New York so very much. The tragedy may be, for people of a certain age, similar to the Dreyfus Affair, in terms of how I have observed it opening faults and chasms between friends, leaving some on one side and some on the other. I'm just glad to be in New York. Parents and I followed the protest after dinner with Katy on the Upper West Side, on the way back to Chelsea, where they were staying, we were all upset, shaken up, etc. We didn't get mixed up in it because it exhausted us, it was too raw, we were too sad, too tired by the expectedness of the decision not to indict.
I'm in a really good place with New York, very happy to be here.
Two treats tonight: Diana and Dreams.
Parents and I went to visit the magnificent old Boar at the end of 57th next to my grandmother's building and there he was, presiding over the East River as if it wasn't 30 degrees outside. I'll revisit him in the spring, and if my childhood memories hold true that park will have filled up with a bacchanal of flower and bloom come April. I miss her, Margaret. I would've loved to have visited the Frick with her, to have painted with her, to have talked politics with her, to have heard her turn of phrase, to have felt her kindness, to have watched the boats on the East River from her kitchen window, to have glimpsed the joy spread across the creases of her face when she, the first to know, would hear her favorite granddaughter was pregnant. She is, my cousin and her husband surprised parents and I before dinner. I couldn't believe it! I had no idea and would never have guessed. I'm thrilled, happy for them, and I have to in some way help them find a two bedroom because I would be devastated if they left the city, especially with the little fluffle, or "the business" as she's calling her (they're to have a little girl).
Kim and I went to my favorite place in Soho last night, Ciccio, which I write with some trepidation as I feel the hordes have yet to discover how pleasant it is, the quality of the homemade pasta, the feel of the place as one in which one can simply share a "second kitchen" with friends, as remark the French. It reminds me of the little bakery on Ninth where Taylor and I used both to collect breakfast before this whole "ambassador" campaign was formally announced.
Kim I've referred to many times, but have never described. How to talk about Kim? I had to convince Kim I would make a good friend, when we became close, years ago, in the months following her return from South Africa. Kim is a professional gossip, and used to, within a half hour of meeting someone, if she determined this him or her worthy of her attention, would ask how many people he or she had slept with? Kim at her worst is aggressive, contradictory, unpredictable, generally volatile, and will delve into obsession monologues relating to her high school social life. Typically, however, she's entertaining, a wonderful and reliable thread of get-togethers, and a devoted friend. Many a charming afternoon I've spent on the couch with Kim, discussing this or that or nothing at all, and I cherish these occasions, as we're both busy these days. Kim went corporate, she's doing very well, and she lives in the West Village.
Kim isn't happy in New York, and she keeps on talking about Seattle, San Francisco, even San Diego. I'm not sure she'll be happy anywhere if she can't be happy in New York. She did break up with her boyfriend, which was too bad because I liked him, but I could see that he wasn't right for her, for so many reasons. Since Lindsay is the root cause of the split I feel it is up to her to find a replacement. We were both sort of down because one of our most attractive friends got engaged to her boyfriend in the Jardin du Luxembourg this weekend, which is elegant and whatnot, good for them. I don't dislike Angelica, I don't dislike her now-fiancee, Jay, but the fact of their engagement distresses in that it illuminates to both Kim and I how poorly off we are when it comes to romance. Angelica and Jay are both beautiful, they're a beautiful couple, though of course Jay isn't good enough for Angelica, but who is? I'm happy for them, though, and she's moving to New York so I actually am glad they're engaged and that's out of the way so he can't coerce her into remaining in LA like last time. Angelica is sharp and prone to flail about, she's stunning. She's in publishing and arrives in February. Jay wants to act; I haven't seen him act, but, thinking only of his appearance and his personality, he has a much better chance in New York than he ever had in LA. I don't believe in his prospects here, he possesses a elfin beauty that's distracting in a supporting character, and I can't imagine him playing anything else. These people who want to act, like Tina, on her third nose job, what are they thinking? They're suited to a plethora of trades, and yet they wish to act. Not everyone can be Pacino, not everyone can be Streep.
Cash went back to our hometown and his girlfriend mentioned marriage again. He's into her, but can't envision spending the rest of his life with her. To this I replied, "well, there is always divorce." I don't understand why people don't just accept divorce as a fact of life--so many of my friends and acquaintances, weighing the decision of whether to marry or not so carefully. Divorce exists! I feel to an extent divorce has taken on the moral ugliness of the fifties, with so many of my peers resenting their parents for daring to divorce, to have the gall to separate. These demanding children! Would they rather the parents hate each other for the duration of their time on this earth? Anyway, the conversation with Cash threw me--it was different to hear him talk about deep, serious realities of love in a somewhat quotidian manner--ie, these are things he is thinking about, these are everyday matters.
At dinner, Kim complained that she doesn't like Cash, but mentioned that he was looking very attractive the last time she saw him (Saturday). This is a problem with Kim: she'll often choose to dislike friends of mine, and voice her displeasure to me. It's one thing to dislike certain qualities in a mutual friend, and even to complain about these qualities to the friend-in-the-middle, but to actively dislike, exclude, or make decisions based on this dislike, that is a character flaw. That's unclear--let me try it another way: I might dislike a dear friend of a friend, dislike certain personality traits or dislike them generally, but I'll rarely, rarely give this feeling words, especially to my friend about their friend. It's bad breeding.
The dinner was opulent and delicious. Ciccio is an excellent restaurant. I took parents on their first night in town, and they loved it.
I mentioned the Lauder Cubism Collection at the Met in the last mini post--has anyone else had enough of this parade of Picasso? I saw Jacqueline and Picasso at Pace: overly intimate and bizarre, Jacqueline glowering at you from every corner of the room, and Picasso and the Camera at Gagosian, which contained two or three arresting works but not much else. It is clear both galleries are trolling out whatever might sell while everyone is in New York for the winter. Aunt Kate knew Jacqueline when she worked with the Hermitage, and found her absolutely detestable, haughty and affected but nondescript, bland. Cubism (at the Met) was the same, with too much early Braque and Picasso in angular constellations of brown and carrot, though it did reward with an exquisite and enormous Léger and the admirable Juan Gris' striking portrait of his mother.
Princess, Cash, and I are going to see Philip Glass do the Piano Etudes at BAM this weekend, and I may also see Sharon Jones at the Apollo. Princess is a friend enmeshed in the fashion world. I can't wait to see her--she's sociable, brilliant, unusual, amusing, but most of all, we'll be able to gossip! Not that I know very many people in fashion, but Princess and I know many of the same people from our days as earnest, beautiful club kids, eyes full of the conviction that what could be might really come to be. Princess and I almost lived together in Chinatown, but now she lives in Bushwhack--it's just too awful. She had a cramped flat in Alphabet City but it was just so much for so little. This is a problem with New York, the so much for so little issue when it comes to housing.
I haven't been to Harlem in some time and I also need to visit the Cloisters, so maybe I'll make a day and night of it. My friend Jean lives up there and, like Princess, I haven't seen her in awhile. It's never too late to reconnect with friends with whom you've fallen out of touch. Friendships aren't like leftovers: while whatever you've brought home with you might spoil, you'll always have the memory of the original meal. Well, I have some wonderful meal memories, and it's time to find these people. This is why I'm going to flight attendant friend's furry soiree all the way out in Kew Gardens, Queens, and why I continue to make the effort. Especially because the new people I meet tend to be so fucking crazy. For example:
Remember the women I nearly roomed with in Brooklyn Heights? I went to the apartment of said women the other night for hot toddies. One, the sometime WA assistant, proceeds to explain she's due to leave for Colombia in the morning and can socialize for a moment but must return to arranging her things. The other begins to monopolize the conversation, the one with the intense interest in Kafka, and proceeds to go on and on about how she identifies with Anne Frank. She once mentioned this to George Saunders at a book signing, and with what wide-eyes he stared I can't imagine. This is unkind of me, but her monologues reminded me of Bad Charlus, and I felt uneasy and a little tipsy and generally queasy. I might've enjoyed it if I hadn't been trapped with her, if there had been one or two other people around, but there was no escape, no Brooklyn in whose eyes I might find confirmation, eyes to share feelings of incredulous delight and discomfort. No, I just had to listen to her go on and on, it was dreadful. I didn't end up leaving until after one in the morning, and because of this I missed the birthday party for Princess and a general mess of a party at a Dean's in Bed Stuy that I would have really enjoyed. So this is why I want to reconnect with people I like, people who aren't crazy. Proust has a wonderful moment on the experience of discovering madness in passers-by, I'll find it and quote it in the future if I remember to do so. We then discussed the difficulties of finding like-minded people in New York to befriend, how New York can be rough, socially. I couldn't think, I don't believe I said anything of note, I was capable only of a weak mumble. It is hard to find interested, interesting, genuine people who aren't fucking crazy in New York, I suppose, but aren't we all a little bit crazy? I'll contact Brooklyn Heights girls again in the near future, lolz. At least they aren't women who over-utilize inflection, a behavior I cannot endure. You hear it on the street, often: "I JUst DoN't knOw WhAT I Am GoIng To Do?" I could write that phonetically but that would require an incredible effort and I think what I am describing is obvious enough: either you yourself are guilty of this, or you know people who do it and don't really consider it an issue, or we're soulmates and you know exactly what I mean and you also despise the sound of these creatures who belong in Chicago or Houston or whatever pit of degradation out of which they crawled. These people will be important in the upcoming requisite entry on New York and gentrification.
I want to say one or two little things about Ferguson: fuck the police! Racist fucking country! Makes me want to move to Europe or back to Latin America, but I won't really do that because I love New York so very much. The tragedy may be, for people of a certain age, similar to the Dreyfus Affair, in terms of how I have observed it opening faults and chasms between friends, leaving some on one side and some on the other. I'm just glad to be in New York. Parents and I followed the protest after dinner with Katy on the Upper West Side, on the way back to Chelsea, where they were staying, we were all upset, shaken up, etc. We didn't get mixed up in it because it exhausted us, it was too raw, we were too sad, too tired by the expectedness of the decision not to indict.
I'm in a really good place with New York, very happy to be here.
Two treats tonight: Diana and Dreams.
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