My new work has a Lavazza machine.
 |
| Watch out, its amNewYork's Lit Posse |
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| The Fountain |
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| The Unexpected Rewards of Inquisitiveness |
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| FDR Branch on 3rd Ave |
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| This utterly revolting poem appeared on the B yesterday during my morning ride |
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
February Four
Sorry about the silence. I started a new job, a serious job, with real movers-and-shakers, and I keep an active social calendar, and I write, and I maintain a certain physique. It can consume.
My new work has a Lavazza machine.
My new work has a Lavazza machine.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Winter Walks
I do my best to mix the big walls of text with posts full of photos. I took a stroll around the old neighborhood (Chelsea), and hit a few galleries, before walking crosstown on one of my favorite backstreets, 25th.
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| Winter Line |
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| Brillo Box |
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| Diana Thater, Science, Fiction |
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| Toward the Hudson |
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| High Line |
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| Jiri Georg Dokoupilupil |
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| Pynchon? |
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| 25th |
 |
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| Ave. A |
New York: the city that entertains at every corner.
I feel old skool today. Here is some nineties shit:
Biggie on Fulton, 1989 (if you haven't seen it yet)--take that Taylor!
Big and Kim--fuck Faith, Kim has always been the sh*t and when she comes to Brooklyn people trip, parades, everyone out to see the Queen B.
Big and Method Man, which has my one of my all-time favorite quotable: "I spit on your grave and I grab my Charles Dickens, bitch."
Kurupt (from Philadelphia) could really flow, and this is one of his best, especially that second verse!
I'm not a big fan of Tupac, at all, but I do love this video, and I'm headed to LA sometime in the near future. so, nostalgia.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Heroin and the Lower East Side
The Lower East Side has transformed beyond recognition. I'm not old enough to remember New York in the seventies or eighties, but I remember New York in the nineties. You may have heard it, you may have read it, and it's true: this city has changed.
I don't remember Soho or the Village, but I remember rundown Chelsea, the redlight "West Village" where you really didn't want to end up anywhere near the SROs on the Hudson after dark, and an empty and lifeless Lower West Side (Tribeca). Well, in the case of Tribeca, not much has changed. On the Lower East Side and especially Alphabet City, I remember the shooting galleries near Tompkins Square Park and the junkies and the ancient Eastern European and Italian women who would step over them, shaking their heads, as they walked to temple or church. Chinatown hadn't moved as far west as it eventually would, and there were many more Puerto Ricans in the area. I have a nostalgia for the look of it, for the diversity of it, for the bizarre, surreal condition of those years, but I do not miss the filth and the fear and the terrible poverty of life. People who reminisce and wish we lived in the seventies again, they're very selfish--it is an expression of privilege. The Lower East Side is filthy now! Can you imagine what was like when they were really filthy? You don't want to. You hardly see syringes on the streets these days, because heroin moved to the suburbs about ten years ago when big pharm reformulated oxycontin, but back then there were "rigs" everywhere in the nineties, sometimes floating in buckets full of opaque, pinkish water, one of the more disgusting things I've ever seen.
Why am I writing about the Lower East Side? I came across this piece, which is an articulate and accurate expression of suburban malaise and its discontents, and I have to confess I felt a touch glad when I read you could still buy heroin around Union Square. That triggered a number of memories, of being told I could go as far as Washington Square but that if I went east of Broadway and was caught I would be in big trouble, of venturing east of Broadway, of later trekking with my cousin to real Lower East Side apartments of friends of hers and thinking it was the coolest thing. An unusual and interesting project would have been/would be an ethnography on the heroin culture of the inner cities, before it all vanishes, in places like the Lower East Side, or Seattle, or Downtown Los Angeles/all Los Angeles.
The Blizzard was a total hoax, and it was incredibly frustrating to have the subway shut down for twelve hours. My mother called to remind me that "it wouldn't be a good idea to walk out on the Manhattan Bridge, and, take pictures, or whatever it is you do." Believe it or not, I went out for a few hot toddies at a bar down the block Monday night. It was the rare opportunity one has as an adult to misbehave and to harmlessly flout the rule of law, something I can rarely resist. I discovered a good number of fellow flouters upon arrival, and as usual the bar stayed open until 4. I met a guero--a catch-all term in Mexico for people of pale/light complexion, with "European" features--from Mexico City, who works at an ordinary restaurant in Park Slope. This in itself is odd enough, as people who look "white"--for lack of a better term--are not expected to "work" in Mexico. It is a caste system in many ways similar to what exists in India, and is broadly the case in much of Latin America. If you think we have a class/caste system in the United States, you're right, and we do, but it is essentially a have/have-not system, and upward mobility is highly feasible/expected for the haves. In Latin America, there is a hierarchy and a racial structure--not to say there isn't a racial structure in the US--that is very, very difficult to escape or transcend.
The guero in the bar was immediately of interest to me as it was very clear that this was no run-of-the-mill individual: he had attended a well-known prep school in Mexico City (the equivalent of Trinity or Dalton) and gone on to an equally well-known (and costly) private university. What on earth was this person doing in Park Slope waiting tables?
Well, as Mexicans are prone to do, with the drink, he began to confess, and it's an interesting story: he moved to New York with a girlfriend, as you suspected. The parents did not approve, they're estranged, and there is a substantial amount of money and a position at stake. He has no papers. The couple lived together happily for some time, until they ran out of money and wound up in a flophouse in Sheepshead Bay, where both began to work in the kitchen of an Uzbek restaurant (she's American). If neither worked, neither ate, and over the summer they lived on dollar slices of pizza at Coney Island. They were miserable, but happy together, for a year or two. Then they were miserable and miserable with one another, for another year before they split up, she having found someone new, he devastated. He had grown to love New York, though, and had no interest in returning to Mexico, and so found the job at the restaurant in Park Slope. I can't imagine what the society parents would think had they any idea their educated son had moved into an SRO in furthest Brooklyn with the American girl (of all things!) he ruined himself for, to work in the kitchen of an obscure Central Asian restaurant without papers like a commoner! He said he changes his phone number regularly because his parents have hired private investigators to track him down. He's lived in New York for two or three years.
We talked literature, and he convinced me to pick up a copy of Octavio Paz's long, likely morose essay Labyrinth of Solitude, which I was told "explains Mexico" (I also found a beautiful edition of The Years with Ross, for balance). I'm also reading Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, and may soon reacquaint myself with George Eliot.
Charlus visits New York this weekend, and I can't decide what to do about it. Kim thinks I should avoid him altogether: for her, there is too much to lose with the new job, the stress, who knows what sort of a tantrum he may throw, etc., but I worry more what he might do if I push away the olive branch. It is a tough thing, having relations who are difficult and unstable, and mean. One experiences a mix of guilt, frustration, and anger. General consternation. If there is a nice dinner in it for me, I'll accept. I have mercenary tendencies.
I have to move again, but I do not want to leave my current neighborhood. I love it and I am happy to live in Brooklyn. My current roommates weirdly watched Obama's state of the union, giggling and clucking and chuckling and gasping along with the address like the utter simpletons they are. It was so disconcerting, and they're so foul and filthy--the sink is constantly full of dirty dishes, one is always having diarrhea or vomiting, they cook constantly and the kitchen is always a mess, filth and clutter has spread to the living room like untreated gangrene--and also judgmental and condescending. Sometimes we're talking politics and one or both of them will explain to me some political item or correct me when it is in fact they who are ill-informed, this being as you know an unpardonable offense. I will not endure it for another month, and I'm sure they can find some filthy person who can abide correction better than I.
Grieg--we endure, like Dilsey.
Yesterday I went to the Ivorian restaurant the New Yorker reviewed a few weeks ago. The food was of middle quality--neither succulent nor delicious, but perfectly passable.
The real pleasure: to be surrounded by West African French, and to hear, when a red card was produced in the Atletico Madrid/Barcelona match on the television, shouts of "rouge! rouge!" from the gathered crowd. It's La Savane on grotty 116th.
I don't remember Soho or the Village, but I remember rundown Chelsea, the redlight "West Village" where you really didn't want to end up anywhere near the SROs on the Hudson after dark, and an empty and lifeless Lower West Side (Tribeca). Well, in the case of Tribeca, not much has changed. On the Lower East Side and especially Alphabet City, I remember the shooting galleries near Tompkins Square Park and the junkies and the ancient Eastern European and Italian women who would step over them, shaking their heads, as they walked to temple or church. Chinatown hadn't moved as far west as it eventually would, and there were many more Puerto Ricans in the area. I have a nostalgia for the look of it, for the diversity of it, for the bizarre, surreal condition of those years, but I do not miss the filth and the fear and the terrible poverty of life. People who reminisce and wish we lived in the seventies again, they're very selfish--it is an expression of privilege. The Lower East Side is filthy now! Can you imagine what was like when they were really filthy? You don't want to. You hardly see syringes on the streets these days, because heroin moved to the suburbs about ten years ago when big pharm reformulated oxycontin, but back then there were "rigs" everywhere in the nineties, sometimes floating in buckets full of opaque, pinkish water, one of the more disgusting things I've ever seen.
Why am I writing about the Lower East Side? I came across this piece, which is an articulate and accurate expression of suburban malaise and its discontents, and I have to confess I felt a touch glad when I read you could still buy heroin around Union Square. That triggered a number of memories, of being told I could go as far as Washington Square but that if I went east of Broadway and was caught I would be in big trouble, of venturing east of Broadway, of later trekking with my cousin to real Lower East Side apartments of friends of hers and thinking it was the coolest thing. An unusual and interesting project would have been/would be an ethnography on the heroin culture of the inner cities, before it all vanishes, in places like the Lower East Side, or Seattle, or Downtown Los Angeles/all Los Angeles.
The Blizzard was a total hoax, and it was incredibly frustrating to have the subway shut down for twelve hours. My mother called to remind me that "it wouldn't be a good idea to walk out on the Manhattan Bridge, and, take pictures, or whatever it is you do." Believe it or not, I went out for a few hot toddies at a bar down the block Monday night. It was the rare opportunity one has as an adult to misbehave and to harmlessly flout the rule of law, something I can rarely resist. I discovered a good number of fellow flouters upon arrival, and as usual the bar stayed open until 4. I met a guero--a catch-all term in Mexico for people of pale/light complexion, with "European" features--from Mexico City, who works at an ordinary restaurant in Park Slope. This in itself is odd enough, as people who look "white"--for lack of a better term--are not expected to "work" in Mexico. It is a caste system in many ways similar to what exists in India, and is broadly the case in much of Latin America. If you think we have a class/caste system in the United States, you're right, and we do, but it is essentially a have/have-not system, and upward mobility is highly feasible/expected for the haves. In Latin America, there is a hierarchy and a racial structure--not to say there isn't a racial structure in the US--that is very, very difficult to escape or transcend.
The guero in the bar was immediately of interest to me as it was very clear that this was no run-of-the-mill individual: he had attended a well-known prep school in Mexico City (the equivalent of Trinity or Dalton) and gone on to an equally well-known (and costly) private university. What on earth was this person doing in Park Slope waiting tables?
Well, as Mexicans are prone to do, with the drink, he began to confess, and it's an interesting story: he moved to New York with a girlfriend, as you suspected. The parents did not approve, they're estranged, and there is a substantial amount of money and a position at stake. He has no papers. The couple lived together happily for some time, until they ran out of money and wound up in a flophouse in Sheepshead Bay, where both began to work in the kitchen of an Uzbek restaurant (she's American). If neither worked, neither ate, and over the summer they lived on dollar slices of pizza at Coney Island. They were miserable, but happy together, for a year or two. Then they were miserable and miserable with one another, for another year before they split up, she having found someone new, he devastated. He had grown to love New York, though, and had no interest in returning to Mexico, and so found the job at the restaurant in Park Slope. I can't imagine what the society parents would think had they any idea their educated son had moved into an SRO in furthest Brooklyn with the American girl (of all things!) he ruined himself for, to work in the kitchen of an obscure Central Asian restaurant without papers like a commoner! He said he changes his phone number regularly because his parents have hired private investigators to track him down. He's lived in New York for two or three years.
We talked literature, and he convinced me to pick up a copy of Octavio Paz's long, likely morose essay Labyrinth of Solitude, which I was told "explains Mexico" (I also found a beautiful edition of The Years with Ross, for balance). I'm also reading Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, and may soon reacquaint myself with George Eliot.
Charlus visits New York this weekend, and I can't decide what to do about it. Kim thinks I should avoid him altogether: for her, there is too much to lose with the new job, the stress, who knows what sort of a tantrum he may throw, etc., but I worry more what he might do if I push away the olive branch. It is a tough thing, having relations who are difficult and unstable, and mean. One experiences a mix of guilt, frustration, and anger. General consternation. If there is a nice dinner in it for me, I'll accept. I have mercenary tendencies.
I have to move again, but I do not want to leave my current neighborhood. I love it and I am happy to live in Brooklyn. My current roommates weirdly watched Obama's state of the union, giggling and clucking and chuckling and gasping along with the address like the utter simpletons they are. It was so disconcerting, and they're so foul and filthy--the sink is constantly full of dirty dishes, one is always having diarrhea or vomiting, they cook constantly and the kitchen is always a mess, filth and clutter has spread to the living room like untreated gangrene--and also judgmental and condescending. Sometimes we're talking politics and one or both of them will explain to me some political item or correct me when it is in fact they who are ill-informed, this being as you know an unpardonable offense. I will not endure it for another month, and I'm sure they can find some filthy person who can abide correction better than I.
Grieg--we endure, like Dilsey.
Yesterday I went to the Ivorian restaurant the New Yorker reviewed a few weeks ago. The food was of middle quality--neither succulent nor delicious, but perfectly passable.
The real pleasure: to be surrounded by West African French, and to hear, when a red card was produced in the Atletico Madrid/Barcelona match on the television, shouts of "rouge! rouge!" from the gathered crowd. It's La Savane on grotty 116th.
Friday, January 23, 2015
Wandering around the Met
Friday evenings I am at the Met. I rarely miss a Friday; I find there is very little as soothing as being utterly lost in art.
I spoke with a volunteer who moved to America after the Second War, landed in Bensonhurst, and, because apartments were so scarce (there had been no construction during the War), told me that it was only because a realtor was also a cousin that she found an apartment in Flatbush. She now lives at 90th and York, and has lived there for more than thirty years. I hope to one day become like her, with thirty years in New York to my name.
She also visits the Met every Friday.
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| 2nd Street |
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| 2nd Street |
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| Never seen this before |
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| You Know You've Made It When You Can Commission Original Art! |
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| Zabar's |
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| Max Klinger, Entfuhrung (Abduction), from Ein Handschuh (1881) |
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| Preferred Picasso |
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| The Dream of the Shepherd, Ferdinand Holder (1896) |
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| Boatmen of Barcelona, Dionisio Baixeras y Verdaguer, (1886) |
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| Gandolfi, 1770 |
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| This beautiful instrument may have been made in Staten Island (of all places!) |
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| The Instrument Room |
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| II |
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| Morris Gurrie, Climax in Steel, Chicago 1920-30. At center is the Jewelers Building, from 1925-27 the tallest building west of New York. In the cupola Al Capone ran a speakeasy. |
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| Favorite Thomas Hart Benton faces |
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| Another favorite |
How I Feel Tonight: Mendelssohn / Nathan Milstein, 1954: Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64
On the block + assorted thoughts
Someone was shot on my block this week; some shit seems to be on right now. I was on Brooklyn's most adorable train the other day, the S, and a Brooklyn "Blood" was loudly arranging to assault a rival via telephone. He sat beside a female companion, and we on the train--postal workers, nurses, grandmothers, handymen, clerks, me--watched with disgust, disdain, and disbelief: what an sourpuss! New Jersey exists for people like that. A Brooklyn "Blood"? For once Tupac said it best: I can't stand fake ass bitches/ Lyin' ass ni#@z/ and you punk ass snitches.
Cash and I went to a neighborhood joint for open mic standup the other night, and it was terrible. This skinny, pretty-haired homosexual went on and on about auto-erotic stimulation, ie., sucking one's own dick, and it was suck suck dick dick suck suck mouth mouth my my and etc for the duration of the time Cash and I stood there. Cash immediately said to me, 'This is a Louis CK joke," so not only did the individual on stage lack timing, panache, and character, he had stolen the bit. Cash knows his shit. The room was well-lit, which was weird--you could see everyone--and all chairs were occupied, though there were inaccessible extra chairs strewn about. I didn't want to break up the scene and loudly grab chairs, and none offered to help us find seats. It was very in-group, and everyone in the room clearly knew each other, were chortling back and forth. At one point the comic onstage asked the room, "for the dudes in here, how many of you would suck your dick? Daniel? Come on, Daniel--you would definitely put your own dick in your own mouth. What, is your dick so nasty even you would't suck it?" "Yeah, Daniel!" "No, I didn't raise my hand!" For the female comics out there, for the women out there who might read this, for the women in the audience who have endured routines that focus entirely on the phallus, I apologize. We aren't, all of us, obsessed with our dicks. It's fun thing to have, sure, but when all a standup can talk about is masturbation, his penis, places he might or might not put his penis, or things he might or might not do with his penis, its pathetic.
At this point, Cash says "let's get the fuck out of here" and we leave. There was some basketball on we wanted to watch, and thankfully I don't live in $kid Row (my name for Williamsburg, if you didn't already know), where at the bars they'll only project The Heathers or The Matrix, or Ten Things I Hate About You (ironically) on the wall. And of course you'll never find a (working) television set.
Cash showed me his final head shots, they're good. Look for Cash on television in the next year.
I've been seeing the ads for Fifty Shades of Grey everywhere, and on the Fifth Ave bus downtown I took when I left the Met, I began to think: is this cultural sensation an expression of how we, all of us, the everyday people, are being sadistically and brutally fucked by the super-rich, and further, that this is something sexy, something we desire? I don't mind the book, at all, nor the film--pop culture is fun and fascinating--but I think the thought outlined above could be (if it already isn't) an excellent beginning to an academic critique of or well-written essay on our fascination with the wealthiest of the wealthy, our celebration of these people, and now, fetishization of. Someone can have this. Mention Marcel.
I hung out with Aunt K today on the Upper West Side. She's a quintessential New Yorker, people stare at us when we walk about, and on occasion take photographs. Kate loves the attention. She very nearly became a dancer of some fame, but broke her back skiing (and said to my father, "Johnny, this should've happened to you"), but went on to become the protege of a number of Yale intellectuals, circulated in St. Petersburg in the nineties, ran a publishing house in London sixties and seventies, taught in Lagos, met with Fidel in Cuba, and, according to K, at a recent soiree Bloomberg refused to believe K is old enough to be retired. K has porcelain white skin, red hair, and wears sunglasses at night. K's apartment is full of books; today she brought out a first edition of Moby Dick that she soon tossed aside, as she much prefers the illustrated Rockwell Kent, which dates from 1930. On occasion K brings out hashish a publishing magnate obtains in Morocco.
I'm to start working for two billionaires in two weeks. It's definitely the eyebrows-raised, "You live in Brooklyn?" kind of office, which I prefer. I need the money, I desperately want to visit Lisbon, and I miss eating at Babbo and La Grenouille. I am not sure I have yet written about my love of Lusophone Africa, and especially its music. "But," you say "Lisbon isn't Lusophone Africa--it's Europe..." Right DUH Bitch, but the colonial centers of Europe are cities where you have the full spectrum, as this is where people immigrate. It's a simple way to experience much in one place.
Mozambique
Capo Verde (if you know anything about anything, you know Sodade)
Sao Tome: One and Two
Angola
Guinea-Bissau
We'll do more down the road, but for now, know this: Lusophone Africa is Dope.
This Is The New Sound. M.I.A. endorsed it. Burke Som Sistema is the craziest maddest illest music I have heard in some time. I first heard them in three or maybe even four years ago, and I was floored. They're all over Lisbon and before they get too big I want to ingest all sorts of different substances and geek out. Because I'm unable to contain my enthusiasm:
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
This is getting out of hand--I'll write a little more and close up for the night. A friend of mine (whom I like) lives in rural Pennsylvania and works at a Home Depot distribution center, and this is by choice. He sent me a letter (writing letters is back, and is an excellent way to improve how you communicate, how you express yourself, etc) and a book, The Good Earth, yeah, you've heard of it. I had never read it, but would never send a friend a junior high novel at our advanced age. Well, Francis did it, and Francis did it (I am sure) because he believes I need to explore my connectedness to the earth. Francis hiked the Appalachian Trail on his own at eighteen. We're very different people. Never send a friend a book to "help" them. It will only result in fury and rage and misunderstanding.
I picked up Invisible Cities (Italo Calvino) and The Age of Discontinuity (Peter S. Drucker; I read nonfiction). The Drucker is prescient and the Calvino delightful.
I registered for the Brooklyn Half Marathon. What!
And the billionaires, you ask? That's confidential!
Night.
Cash and I went to a neighborhood joint for open mic standup the other night, and it was terrible. This skinny, pretty-haired homosexual went on and on about auto-erotic stimulation, ie., sucking one's own dick, and it was suck suck dick dick suck suck mouth mouth my my and etc for the duration of the time Cash and I stood there. Cash immediately said to me, 'This is a Louis CK joke," so not only did the individual on stage lack timing, panache, and character, he had stolen the bit. Cash knows his shit. The room was well-lit, which was weird--you could see everyone--and all chairs were occupied, though there were inaccessible extra chairs strewn about. I didn't want to break up the scene and loudly grab chairs, and none offered to help us find seats. It was very in-group, and everyone in the room clearly knew each other, were chortling back and forth. At one point the comic onstage asked the room, "for the dudes in here, how many of you would suck your dick? Daniel? Come on, Daniel--you would definitely put your own dick in your own mouth. What, is your dick so nasty even you would't suck it?" "Yeah, Daniel!" "No, I didn't raise my hand!" For the female comics out there, for the women out there who might read this, for the women in the audience who have endured routines that focus entirely on the phallus, I apologize. We aren't, all of us, obsessed with our dicks. It's fun thing to have, sure, but when all a standup can talk about is masturbation, his penis, places he might or might not put his penis, or things he might or might not do with his penis, its pathetic.
At this point, Cash says "let's get the fuck out of here" and we leave. There was some basketball on we wanted to watch, and thankfully I don't live in $kid Row (my name for Williamsburg, if you didn't already know), where at the bars they'll only project The Heathers or The Matrix, or Ten Things I Hate About You (ironically) on the wall. And of course you'll never find a (working) television set.
Cash showed me his final head shots, they're good. Look for Cash on television in the next year.
I've been seeing the ads for Fifty Shades of Grey everywhere, and on the Fifth Ave bus downtown I took when I left the Met, I began to think: is this cultural sensation an expression of how we, all of us, the everyday people, are being sadistically and brutally fucked by the super-rich, and further, that this is something sexy, something we desire? I don't mind the book, at all, nor the film--pop culture is fun and fascinating--but I think the thought outlined above could be (if it already isn't) an excellent beginning to an academic critique of or well-written essay on our fascination with the wealthiest of the wealthy, our celebration of these people, and now, fetishization of. Someone can have this. Mention Marcel.
I hung out with Aunt K today on the Upper West Side. She's a quintessential New Yorker, people stare at us when we walk about, and on occasion take photographs. Kate loves the attention. She very nearly became a dancer of some fame, but broke her back skiing (and said to my father, "Johnny, this should've happened to you"), but went on to become the protege of a number of Yale intellectuals, circulated in St. Petersburg in the nineties, ran a publishing house in London sixties and seventies, taught in Lagos, met with Fidel in Cuba, and, according to K, at a recent soiree Bloomberg refused to believe K is old enough to be retired. K has porcelain white skin, red hair, and wears sunglasses at night. K's apartment is full of books; today she brought out a first edition of Moby Dick that she soon tossed aside, as she much prefers the illustrated Rockwell Kent, which dates from 1930. On occasion K brings out hashish a publishing magnate obtains in Morocco.
I'm to start working for two billionaires in two weeks. It's definitely the eyebrows-raised, "You live in Brooklyn?" kind of office, which I prefer. I need the money, I desperately want to visit Lisbon, and I miss eating at Babbo and La Grenouille. I am not sure I have yet written about my love of Lusophone Africa, and especially its music. "But," you say "Lisbon isn't Lusophone Africa--it's Europe..." Right DUH Bitch, but the colonial centers of Europe are cities where you have the full spectrum, as this is where people immigrate. It's a simple way to experience much in one place.
Mozambique
Capo Verde (if you know anything about anything, you know Sodade)
Sao Tome: One and Two
Angola
Guinea-Bissau
We'll do more down the road, but for now, know this: Lusophone Africa is Dope.
This Is The New Sound. M.I.A. endorsed it. Burke Som Sistema is the craziest maddest illest music I have heard in some time. I first heard them in three or maybe even four years ago, and I was floored. They're all over Lisbon and before they get too big I want to ingest all sorts of different substances and geek out. Because I'm unable to contain my enthusiasm:
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
This is getting out of hand--I'll write a little more and close up for the night. A friend of mine (whom I like) lives in rural Pennsylvania and works at a Home Depot distribution center, and this is by choice. He sent me a letter (writing letters is back, and is an excellent way to improve how you communicate, how you express yourself, etc) and a book, The Good Earth, yeah, you've heard of it. I had never read it, but would never send a friend a junior high novel at our advanced age. Well, Francis did it, and Francis did it (I am sure) because he believes I need to explore my connectedness to the earth. Francis hiked the Appalachian Trail on his own at eighteen. We're very different people. Never send a friend a book to "help" them. It will only result in fury and rage and misunderstanding.
I picked up Invisible Cities (Italo Calvino) and The Age of Discontinuity (Peter S. Drucker; I read nonfiction). The Drucker is prescient and the Calvino delightful.
I registered for the Brooklyn Half Marathon. What!
And the billionaires, you ask? That's confidential!
Night.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Where have all the junkies gone?
 |
| The Nixons |
 |
| Exquisite; herds to be had at Gakyizompe in Sunnyside |
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| Did you? |
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| "Evian" is Naive backwards. I know, I just realized it too. |
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| Canal Street |
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| Eugene Coles |
Friday, January 16, 2015
Mariinsky in Brooklyn, Shopping
If you're in the city these days, you're probably aware we've had a string of stunning sunny, cold days. I've suppressed my desire to leave the laptop well alone and fuck around the city for the last few days, but today I couldn't. It's too nice, and I won't quarantine myself under ghastly fluorescence for hours and hours in the middle of winter when the fates give us a bit of beauty, so I spent a few hours shopping: Gramercy Park and the excellent thrift stores in the area, Rivington and Streit's Matzo (CLOSED on Friday, I forgot!) and Ludlow, and then took a look at the Chrysler Building and the Reservoir...it was the perfect day to play hooky in Manhattan. Even Brooklyn looked passable.
I've been in despair, as I didn't obtain seats for the Mariinsky performances of Swan Lake at BAM in time--like Azealia Banks, I'm Broke With Expensive Taste. So on the way back to the apartment, I decided to drop by BAM and see if anyone might have an extra ticket. There were unpleasant protestors out front, but no extra tickets. I went inside, asked around, and was polite--never underestimate the power of politeness--I managed to score a single press seat in center orchestra: right-o! Chance and luck, my favorite golden calves to venerate. I sat behind Alastair Macaulay, in fact (as it should be really).
The performance was exquisite; beautifully textured, precise, evocative. Impressive was the resplendent Viktoria Tereshkina as Odile (pas de deux was breathtaking, but Siegfried was unremarkable), the jester, and Von Rothbart, who was like lightening. Tchaikovsky's beautiful, heart-breaking score was wonderfully illustrated in Gergiev's consummate choreography. The Justice was right.
I sat next to an older Jewish couple, ballet experts and aficionados (it seemed the man had danced in his youth), who recommended I next see David Hallberg, now a principal with the Bolshoi, whom they believe is the best. I would like to befriend some members of the ballet world, to talk art, life, performance, dumplings, Austen. If you're reading this and are such a person, feel free to contact me. I'm only anonymous as far as the fifth wall remains intact.
Tonight I believe Kim and I might have a real night out. I'm out of the scene--meaning it's been years since I've actively been a club kid. The bouncers who recall seventeen-year-old Marcel and his troublesome friends, the majority have in all likelihood moved on, and I'm not even near thirty. However, such is life. I wonder if I'll still be able to pull it off? We might go to boom boom room, as I have no idea where we should go, what we should do. I believe speakeasies are still relatively of the moment, but I just don't enjoy them--it's silly. Al Capone ran a speakeasy in the cupola of a Chicago skyscraper in the thirties. That's a speakeasy. I can make an adequate martini, negroni, and enjoy a plain grapefruit and gin. I know much more about mescal than say, someone from Minnesota who aspires to be the next Taylor Swift. Kim is the friend that went corporate, who has sought professional help for her "gossip" problem, whose mother is wont to make remarks such as "these people with 'mental illness'--when will they get over themselves?" Kim is a dear friend, and has begun what I've termed a "blue collar romance" with a Brooklyn construction worker. What would her mother say?
I'll include this for those of you who might be seventeen, beautiful and fresh. Now is your time, and these sorts of skills will come in handy when you develop a taste for Tchaikovsky but forget to buy a ticket--press seats exist:
Some Advice When It Comes to Getting In:
1. Go During The Week
Get to know the doormen, someone at the bar; make friends, meet the regulars. Once you get in with the club kids, all the doors open up, almost immediately. Be polite, be witty, be fun. With politeness and a nice smile, the world is your oyster to slurp. But because you can't always make it out during the week (though you should be able to swing twenty-four hour days at seventeen), here is-
2. Never Ever Wear Work Clothes To The Club
This applies to men more than women. If you look corporate, then be sure you have the money to spend. You'll be asked to pay a cover. You want to exude an air of "I don't give a fuck about anything, but I'm socially adept."
3. Once a Club Has Died, Avoid It
When the promoters, bridge and tunnelers, and eurotrash take over, it's over.
4. Have Attractive, Confident Friends--Choose Wisely
If you've followed rule one, you'll have met regulars--smart and self-aware, these young men and women know what they want and how to get it, and know how not to get it, too. They'll know what rules can be broken, when to push it, and when (and how) to make a graceful exit. Male or female, doesn't matter; what you're looking for is a savvy nonchalance. Watch any 1960s Godard if you don't immediately know what I mean.
5. Walk Right In Like You Own The Place; Know What Is Going On That Night
Some of you are thinking, "what the fuck? Is he serious?" You won't immediately master this skill, but after a few months it's second nature. If you've ever watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, you might remember Michael Caine teaching Steve Martin how to move? It's worth watching for many reasons, the film, a smutty bit of nostalgia, but conning anyone--because that's what you're doing--is all about body language and how you carry yourself.
Never ever blow up at the doorman, throw a scene, or try to pull a "do you know who I am?" bit--first of all, this will never work if you're a man. Don't drink too much before you go. If you don't get in, don't attempt to talk your way in until you observe someone do this (and do it successfully) and have the concept down, especially if you're underage, though this generally works in your favor. It isn't a big deal, getting turned away from a nightclub in New York--it's happened to me, it's happened to most people, and it may very well happen to you. One last thing: if a club ever has a blanket cover, it's over and to be avoided. That means promoters run the place, and you don't want to be seen there. Avoid promoters, especially if you're a young woman who has recently moved to the city.
Have fun!
I'll record what Kim and I get up to tonight. I may see if Dean wants to come along, and we'll hipster it up at some bullshit somewhere. I wish the Stork Club were still around.
All for now,
Marcel
PS. Desintation restaurant: Kao Soy in Red Hook. Just as good as Queens.
PPS. très Velvet. Miss you, Lou.
I've been in despair, as I didn't obtain seats for the Mariinsky performances of Swan Lake at BAM in time--like Azealia Banks, I'm Broke With Expensive Taste. So on the way back to the apartment, I decided to drop by BAM and see if anyone might have an extra ticket. There were unpleasant protestors out front, but no extra tickets. I went inside, asked around, and was polite--never underestimate the power of politeness--I managed to score a single press seat in center orchestra: right-o! Chance and luck, my favorite golden calves to venerate. I sat behind Alastair Macaulay, in fact (as it should be really).
The performance was exquisite; beautifully textured, precise, evocative. Impressive was the resplendent Viktoria Tereshkina as Odile (pas de deux was breathtaking, but Siegfried was unremarkable), the jester, and Von Rothbart, who was like lightening. Tchaikovsky's beautiful, heart-breaking score was wonderfully illustrated in Gergiev's consummate choreography. The Justice was right.
I sat next to an older Jewish couple, ballet experts and aficionados (it seemed the man had danced in his youth), who recommended I next see David Hallberg, now a principal with the Bolshoi, whom they believe is the best. I would like to befriend some members of the ballet world, to talk art, life, performance, dumplings, Austen. If you're reading this and are such a person, feel free to contact me. I'm only anonymous as far as the fifth wall remains intact.
Tonight I believe Kim and I might have a real night out. I'm out of the scene--meaning it's been years since I've actively been a club kid. The bouncers who recall seventeen-year-old Marcel and his troublesome friends, the majority have in all likelihood moved on, and I'm not even near thirty. However, such is life. I wonder if I'll still be able to pull it off? We might go to boom boom room, as I have no idea where we should go, what we should do. I believe speakeasies are still relatively of the moment, but I just don't enjoy them--it's silly. Al Capone ran a speakeasy in the cupola of a Chicago skyscraper in the thirties. That's a speakeasy. I can make an adequate martini, negroni, and enjoy a plain grapefruit and gin. I know much more about mescal than say, someone from Minnesota who aspires to be the next Taylor Swift. Kim is the friend that went corporate, who has sought professional help for her "gossip" problem, whose mother is wont to make remarks such as "these people with 'mental illness'--when will they get over themselves?" Kim is a dear friend, and has begun what I've termed a "blue collar romance" with a Brooklyn construction worker. What would her mother say?
I'll include this for those of you who might be seventeen, beautiful and fresh. Now is your time, and these sorts of skills will come in handy when you develop a taste for Tchaikovsky but forget to buy a ticket--press seats exist:
Some Advice When It Comes to Getting In:
1. Go During The Week
Get to know the doormen, someone at the bar; make friends, meet the regulars. Once you get in with the club kids, all the doors open up, almost immediately. Be polite, be witty, be fun. With politeness and a nice smile, the world is your oyster to slurp. But because you can't always make it out during the week (though you should be able to swing twenty-four hour days at seventeen), here is-
2. Never Ever Wear Work Clothes To The Club
This applies to men more than women. If you look corporate, then be sure you have the money to spend. You'll be asked to pay a cover. You want to exude an air of "I don't give a fuck about anything, but I'm socially adept."
3. Once a Club Has Died, Avoid It
When the promoters, bridge and tunnelers, and eurotrash take over, it's over.
4. Have Attractive, Confident Friends--Choose Wisely
If you've followed rule one, you'll have met regulars--smart and self-aware, these young men and women know what they want and how to get it, and know how not to get it, too. They'll know what rules can be broken, when to push it, and when (and how) to make a graceful exit. Male or female, doesn't matter; what you're looking for is a savvy nonchalance. Watch any 1960s Godard if you don't immediately know what I mean.
5. Walk Right In Like You Own The Place; Know What Is Going On That Night
Some of you are thinking, "what the fuck? Is he serious?" You won't immediately master this skill, but after a few months it's second nature. If you've ever watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, you might remember Michael Caine teaching Steve Martin how to move? It's worth watching for many reasons, the film, a smutty bit of nostalgia, but conning anyone--because that's what you're doing--is all about body language and how you carry yourself.
Never ever blow up at the doorman, throw a scene, or try to pull a "do you know who I am?" bit--first of all, this will never work if you're a man. Don't drink too much before you go. If you don't get in, don't attempt to talk your way in until you observe someone do this (and do it successfully) and have the concept down, especially if you're underage, though this generally works in your favor. It isn't a big deal, getting turned away from a nightclub in New York--it's happened to me, it's happened to most people, and it may very well happen to you. One last thing: if a club ever has a blanket cover, it's over and to be avoided. That means promoters run the place, and you don't want to be seen there. Avoid promoters, especially if you're a young woman who has recently moved to the city.
Have fun!
I'll record what Kim and I get up to tonight. I may see if Dean wants to come along, and we'll hipster it up at some bullshit somewhere. I wish the Stork Club were still around.
All for now,
Marcel
PS. Desintation restaurant: Kao Soy in Red Hook. Just as good as Queens.
PPS. très Velvet. Miss you, Lou.
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