Spartans! Tonight we...uh

In January of 2006 I started Peebstuff, the blog, and this is the 300th entry. I didn’t bother whipping out the calculator so the math is probably a little faulty but this means that I have published in the neighborhood of 80 per year, which works out to about 1.2 a week. Of course entries are not on any sort of schedule but are based solely on any given daily or weekly inspiration and everyone knows that inspiration doesn’t grow on trees. Or, for that matter, fall off of trees this time of year, even though I’ve decided to forego the annual autumnal paean to the beauty of dying leaves, gasping for life as they flutter to earth; doomed to useless mulch on the paved pathways of Prospect Park. Heh heh.

To be sure, 300 is a minor landmark and patting myself on the back I’m not. It’s just a nice, round number with a couple of zeroes and nothing to be smug about. It’s not a great number; but not shameful either…maybe somewhere in between, and it continues to be a nice outlet for my restless brain, ego be damned. We’ll see how I feel when the next double-zero heaves into view.

The Soul and Wit of Sol LeWitt

I got a rather pleasant visual jolt today while transferring subway lines at the 59th Street-Columbus Circle station. On a wall facing a double-wide stairway and landing at 60th Street that leads from the mezzanine to the A, B, C, D and 1 trains, is a brand new, giant, tiled wall of jewel-toned loops and curves. The colors are pretty eye-popping and the sucker is monumental in size so you can be forgiven for falling down the stairs if you’re not careful. The mural is nothing if not bold.

It looked kind of familiar but I didn’t get the connection until I read the accompanying information. It is one of the last commissions by the “Conceptual” artist Sol LeWitt and its title is “Whirls and Twirls (MTA)” which rang a bell with me. It took some plain and fancy research to make the right connection but, with the right kick in the shins from Google, I remembered seeing a show of LeWitt’s on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art four or five years ago. At that time the most intriguing works were sort-of eruptions of material; painted resin in mountainous shapes and in extravagant colors. But along one side was a very large mural, in acrylics, also named Whirls and Twirls.

This “MTA” version looks to me to be almost a replica, with one important difference. The mural at the Met was a painting; the mural in the MTA is an incredible amalgam of porcelain tiles in deeply saturated tones of blue, green, yellow, orange, red and purple and it is 53 feet wide and 11 feet high. It is a most impressive, monumental work of art and the largest art project ever sponsored by the MTA. It’s almost too bad it’s underground because I can imagine how those colors would pop in natural sunlight.

It was another nice, and sudden, surprise from a city full of them. Sometimes it pays to just wander around with no particular goal. Ya never know; ya know?

Where the Wild Things Aren't

Maurice Sendak’s children’s book “Where the Wild Things Are” is a major work of art. However, despite my fond memories of it, I now realize there are very few children who have the background and life experiences to actually appreciate it. My sister told me she asked her grown son what his memories were of the book and he answered (I’m paraphrasing here) “Well, the grown-ups liked it.”

And there you have it in a nutshell. Where the Wild Things Are is an absolutely great children’s book in the eyes of the adults who buy it for them. Real, living, breathing children much prefer purple Barney in all his blobby stupidity and we have to sigh and admit that’s the norm.

Wild Things was published in 1963 and it was a sensation and garnered a fortune for Mr. Sendak and his publishers. During the subsequent decades I understand many overtures were made by a variety of talents to obtain movie rights but all offers were shunned as not worthy. But, somehow, Sendak (and his publishers) decided the time is right (and possibly the profit-sharing) and Where the Wild Things Are, the movie, was released a couple/three weeks ago amid much hoopla and, yes, admiration by most of the critics. The grown-up ones.

Spike Jonze’s movie is no more a children’s movie than the book is and, frankly, I’m on the fence about it. First, I was very disappointed that it’s not the great movie I wanted it to be, so I guess the fault lies within my own expectations. Secondly, it’s a good movie with a lot of the elements of the book remaining (or suggested), but I thought Mr. Jonze pretty much messed it up.

There are undoubtedly some beautiful images (it was filmed in Australia) but that’s not enough for me. I wanted love and only got like. Of course I’m dealing from my own nostalgia but even though the film seems to be making money, it’s not the definitive version it should have been. Mr. Sendak (and his publishers) should have left it alone…they certainly don’t need the bucks but, hey, we live in an age where maximizing profits is the norm.

Oh, well; the book will live on as the classic it is. But the ordinary movie made from it will not.

Another Wreck Collection

This moment of nostalgia is brought to you by the simple act of opening a box I’ve had stored in my basement in Brooklyn since 1993. This would be the box containing my collection of seashells that I think I’ve blogged about before. In the on-going purge of the detritus in the basement I’ve finally worked my way forward to the shelves holding stuff of a more recent nature; that is, only 16 years ago as opposed to the heretofore 40-50 years of stuff hoarded away.

The influence of my grandmother’s seashell collection on me was long lasting, if not infinite. When I was growing up I was crazy about my grandmother. My grandfather passed away when I was a single-digit tot so she became this goddess of small-town pleasures to her grandchildren; all 21 of us. I would like to say that I was her favorite but that might not be exactly true since I think she was terrific to the whole crowd. I had the advantage of living in the same town and an easy bike ride to/from her home and until I went off to college I was over there all the time, mowing her lawn and eating her food and, finally after a couple of years of trying, beating her at Scrabble.

Her house and garage were a treasure trove of old stuff. Antique dealers today would have heart attacks. But like most of us nowadays those treasures were unrecognized at the time and when grandma wore out and “something” had to be done; her children took the necessary steps to have her cared for and she faded from cognizance, forever out of the ken of her “favorite” grandchildren.

In a formal, glass-fronted cabinet with, I think, three shelves (maybe two) in her living room my grandmother had a seashell collection that had been in her family for a long time. The shells were precisely numbered on little white squares of paper glued to their bottoms and she kept a small journal that listed corresponding references as to their precise scientific names, along with the more mundane common usages. This collection was out-of-bounds to all small hands and could only be viewed through the glass and I spent a lot of time just staring in there; sort of like an unmoving television sitcom with alien creatures wielding weapons set on stun. Many years passed before I was deemed responsible enough to actually breach the boundaries of this cabinet-of-curiosities and was allowed to actually pick up individual shells; fondle their rough and smooth shapes and marvel at the colors and variety.

These seashells, individually, were the finest specimens and I’m sure their value was, even at the time, immense. And there’s the rub. Even my own mother was unable to tell me what became of this collection. It vanished into thin air like a ghost bicycle and the culprit who made off with it (it had to be a relative) never ‘fessed up. It was quite a tempest-in-a-teapot scandal in my family and my overactive brain still thinks the collection still exists somewhere. Maybe still in the same cabinet with the same little, numbered, white squares of paper attached.

Queen Anne's Place

There’s a fairly new “arts project” in Lower Manhattan and a story about it in The Times recently caught my eye. It’s a “donated” space of about one city block (37,000-square-feet at the northwest corner of Canal and Sullivan) and is being used as an outdoor exhibition space for various art and sculpture installations. It is being called “LentSpace” but this is what caught my eye, and interest:

The land is owned, and was recently cleared of a bunch of old buildings, by Trinity Church (on Wall Street) and its development company, Trinity Real Estate. Since the real estate market is so depressed right now, they decided not to rebuild (yet) and have “donated” the land to the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council. As the Times put it rather snarkily, “in addition to the public spiritedness of the gesture – and to the tax write-off it earned the company” it has been given to LentSpace for a “generous length of time.”

All well and good and nothing too surprising here. But what did bludgeon me over the head was the fact that this site is one of several totaling about 300 acres of “farmland” along the west side of Manhattan that was given to Trinity Church by Queen Anne in 1705! Say what? Queen Anne ruled England for a fairly short time at the beginning of the 18th century and, somehow, despite what we call the American Revolutionary War a bit later, Trinity somehow hung on to the property. Well, hey, I guess it paid off to be Protestant at that stage of the game and I suppose I could research this transaction but, well, I’d just kind of rather take it for granted that some royal butt-kissing worked out for all concerned.

Certainly LentSpace has benefited and, presumably, the cultural life in our city too, even though some of the art has already been defaced with spray-painted protests. Ah, the joy of outdoor art. What I want to know is just who is growing tomatoes on the rest of this farmland. And are they paying taxes on it?

...some like it haute

Once in a while I can participate in the rituals of “fine dining” and even, on special occasions, seek it out. In Las Vegas there is a new branch of Lawry’s that drew me in and both the food and the service were excellent, but their attempt at holding on to the niceties of another era, and the rituals thereof, is a tad annoying while, at the same time, interesting and bemusing. It’s a type of gustatory show-biz in which certain restaurants are still desperately trying to appeal to the snob in all of us, and Lawry’s mostly succeeds.

Here are the rituals upheld: although it was a Monday night and only 6:00, and the restaurant was glaringly about one-eighth occupied, we were nonetheless asked to wait approximately 20-minutes, which was just fine since having a drink was part of our intended dining experience anyway and the bar was sufficiently dark, murky and opulent. When the required 18-minutes passed congenially, and we were called to the dining room, I didn’t entirely do my part because I carried my own drink to the table but I got even by elegantly lifting my feet when our table for six (we were two) was glided back into place after allowing us total freedom to sit down comfortably in our heavily upholstered banquette. When any wait-staff asks to carry my drink I never know if it’s a genuine offer of service or if it’s just because they think a dodderer like me might inadvertently heave it into the lap of a fellow diner.

Anyway, the salad was prepared at the table in a pair of whirling metal bowls, one inside the other (the top bowl rests on a slush of ice). The gentle metallic noise was a background for the sing-song presentation from our salad wench who explained every step. Two things made me chuckle at this point. One, we were grandly and pretentiously presented with pre-chilled salad forks and, two, instead of the usual giant pepper mill fluttering over our leafy concoctions, a little rack of plastic jars containing various Lawry’s spices was placed within our line of vision. Yes, that Lawry’s. The spice people.


Lawry’s, the restaurant, is primarily a prime rib joint (I saw lobster afoot), albeit preciously so. The meat is served from a very large, handsome, rolling serving cart (with a brushed metal lid) which displays standing prime rib roasts in various stages of rarity. I chose the “English cut” which consists of three thinly sliced pieces of very juicy meat, served (with cloying flair) by a chef in an haute toque. He then crowded the beef with a large mound of mashed potatoes (with a generous lake of gravy) and fresh peas. I also had a side of asparagus (nicely steamed) with hollandaise. It was a very nice meal and I think as typically American as you can find anywhere; despite the sideways swipe at the old sod. Substitute a really good meatloaf for that prime rib and it would be a classic. As it was the meal was fine but expensive, but maybe worth it depending on one’s mood. The portions were more than adequate and sated the appetite and, since I’m a typical victim of branding, it did give me a hankering for some good Lawry’s garlic pepper to take home. But darn it, there’s no gift shop or, at least, I didn’t see one. I’ll pick up some of those spices at my local Key Food supermarket this week; they’re probably cheaper there anyway.

Goal!

I had several goals in Las Vegas and was able to achieve most of them. I had some crowning moments, some basic low class (and quite satisfactory, thank you) crudeness, a good deal of hilarity (at the expense of others mostly, but I can take a good joke on me if it’s not so infinitely stupid it requires retaliation) and I still, somehow, stayed within budget; which was pretty much a miracle.

Believe it or not, the event that tested my physical resources to the utmost rewarded me with a dust-catcher to call my very own. I must take this opportunity to thank the people who were my basic athletic supporters: Dan, Duane, and Richard. Without them I was nothin' but a poor excuse. Since this trophy is made of etched and curved glass it’s difficult to get a clear photo of it. The figure at the top is a Carmen Miranda-like show girl and the circle around her says “Las Vegas * Showgirl * Invitational * Bowling * Tournament.” Below is etched: Congratulations; First Place – Team Event; Las Vegas Showgirl Invitational 2009. Yeah, we won! WooHOO!

Civic Duty

I did my civic duty and cast my vote(s) in today’s Primary for three or four useless vagabonds running for various offices in NYC. I always vote. I even try to match the candidates’ avowed policies to my own preferences which is sometimes difficult since a lot of them seem to try to match theirs to mine, without regard to their personal beliefs. I guess it’s a matter of whom do you trust; but, unfortunately, the answer is “nobody.”

Voting in my precinct is easy since the turn-out is always fairly sparse (with the exception of the presidential race last November which was festive). You can fire off a cannon in my polling place there are so few participants. But it’s the American way to bitch and moan about government and then not take the time to vote.

This year there seemed to be excessive vote solicitation without regard to my being already committed to single candidates. You would think when I tell a candidate, or his staff member, that he has my vote that he would have the grace to put a check mark beside my name and not call again. Har-de-har to that! Yesterday the barrage of phone calls (both landline and cell) got to be just this side of sticky and the blizzard of leaflets/flyers/exhortations that fell into my mailbox piled up in an unprecedented, and somewhat alarming, manner. This overload of calls/mail always makes me wonder about any single candidates fiscal responsibility overall. If they send me ten pieces of mail and make seven phone calls asking for my vote is that really a good usage of their time and money? Will this misdirection of funds continue when/if they are elected?

I am also bemused by the fact that our government saw fit to let us opt out of phone solicitations of any kind with the exception of themselves. Ya gotta love it.

But, hey, it makes me feel good and even patriotic to vote. And I await my jury duty summons with aplomb. What a good boy am I.
----------------------------------
Update September 29, 2009: Unfortunately, since no one got a majority of the votes, two of the offices up for grabs needed run-offs. Consequently the barrage of phone calls, mud-slinging television exhortations, ringing doorbells and flyers continued. It really does border on harassment! To top it off, this morning when I went to vote I noticed someone had plastered the windshields of all of the cars on my street with vote-for-me flyers twice; on both the passenger side and drivers side (hiding the registration) and, since they got rained on, they became adhered to the glass and will no doubt require some strategic scraping. What the hell?