Knit Picking

Parking meters wearing leg warmers…that’s all I could think of when I saw this “urban art project” Saturday on Montague St. in Brooklyn Heights.

The project was conceived by the executive director of the Montague Street BID (Business Improvement District), Chelsea Mauldin (great name!), who then commissioned the project through an international “knitter” named Magda Sayeg. They sent out specifications (the sleeves are really just long rectangles wrapped around the meter poles) to, well, I’m not sure to whom…but they got responses from volunteers from as far away as San Francisco, Paris and Santiago, Chile.

The installation, called simply “69 Meters,” lines both sides of the street for its short length (three or four blocks) and, strangely, they are easy to miss. I had read about them in The New York Times (who called them, not very seriously I suspect, “parking meter tea cozies”) so I was paying attention but I noticed that the majority of passersby did just that; that is, passing by without really registering their presence. I’m not surprised by this because there really isn’t much to look at (and they kind of blend in with parked cars) and I’m not exactly thrilled by the “artistry.” They are simply knitted sleeves of yarn, some brightly colored; some not so much, and I suppose they are supposed to be “charming” in sort-of a homemade way. Well, perhaps they are to some people. Me, I’d rather see waterfalls in the East River and gigantic erector sets at Rockefeller Center.

Bowling At the Moon

Another bowling season has come and gone. It was a good year for me in my Wednesday night league (at the venerable Melody Lanes in Brooklyn) and we took 2nd place (out of 14), only six measly pins out of 1st. Oh, well, the payoff was still good since we voted to forego trophies and a banquet and all that fol-de-rol and 2nd place came within an inch of giving us all the pin money we had paid out over the 30 weeks of our season. Who the hell wants another dust-gathering trophy anyway? Those $100 bills are mighty sweet.

My Monday night league was a different story. It's held at the "glam" bowling alley at the Port Authority building in Manhattan but the lane conditions themselves are so poor that bowling decently is impossible. Perhaps the bitter fruit of coming in 14th (out of 20) colors my disquiet but still...

This league is a "fun" league with all that implies. The gilded lilies of bowling trophies; a catered affair at a posh banquet room at Chelsea Piers with "special" awards given to special people who distinguished themselves in weird ways. Sort of a Miss Congeniality Contest for guttersnipes and very little pin money for doing well at the sport it ostensibly honors. And, damn it all, coming in 14th pretty much guaranteed I lost my shirt.

Multiple Sensations

One of the seminal theater-going experiences of my life took place in the mid-70’s when I heard the “buzz” about a new show that was in rehearsal at Joe Papp’s Public Theater and I was able to obtain tickets to its initial sold-out run, fifth row, center. It was directed by an unknown dancer/choreographer named Michael Bennett and the show was A Chorus Line. I was an emotional wreck for a week afterwards and tears would well up in my baby blues at the weirdest times. It was earth shattering to me and little did I know, although I knew it was a great show, that it would prove to be a ground-breaking smash hit; moving to Broadway and running to sold-out houses for 15 years, winning every award in sight, including the Pulitzer.

I must have seen it at least ten times because it was the show everybody who came to town wanted to see and I was always willing to go again. The show itself varied in quality through many cast changes over the years but the basic plot and premise and directorial genius stabbed me in the heart every time.

In 2006 A Chorus Line was revived and I guess it had a fairly successful run, although I didn’t see it. I’m not sure why; was it too soon for a revival? Was I jealous of my memories? What I did see last week was a film documentary called Every Little Step, which focuses on the casting of this new version. It is brilliant. At least to me it is because it brought those tears to my eyes again; bringing back the memory of that long-ago miracle in row 5, center. But it’s more than that too. It’s the story of a whole new crop of actor/dancer/singers giving their all over an eight-month period while auditioning for the revival. It brought a new level of hurt and disappointment and euphoria as the actors worked their butts off for this job. In other words they were just like the characters they would, or would not, be playing on stage. Like most documentaries there were some talking heads but mostly the camera does the work and does not interfere with the glory and the pratfalls of the audition process.

This film brought home to me yet again; although I was always aware of it, that the theater is a cruel and dreadful business. It’s demanding, all consuming; totally unfair and arbitrary and sometimes it doesn’t matter how brilliant you may be…you won’t get the part. And you really need that job.

One thing I realized after seeing the film is that this revival of A Chorus Line, which was the background and the reason for the films existence, is that all these people who struggled so hard to get the jobs and indeed triumphed; are now again, at this point in time, out of work. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? But show biz has never been fair; on any level, from high school productions all the way to Broadway. But how can I complain? I can only marvel because it’s what they do for love; and I guess those of us standing over here, who have made compromises with our dreams and ambitions, have a hard time getting it. And it’s just a show, isn’t it? I think A Chorus Line symbolizes a lot of broken hearts, both inside and out of the “biz.” But they also provide the magic of the stage; something that cannot be surpassed in any other art form. And I will always treasure that memory of that special night off-Broadway when I lost control of my tear ducts. I’ve been vulnerable to that multiple sensation ever since.

Retail Botanicals

I visit the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens two or three times a year when whim and mood and/or guests moves me in that direction. I can even walk there from home even though it is a fair piece and I always have to think about having to make the return schlep after depositing my oohs and aahs on the many attractions therein. I generally like wandering these kinds of public spaces in different parts of our little world and the flora never fails to please several of my basic senses.

Almost as good is visiting the many nurseries that are bursting at their seams this time of year. My absolute favorite is Hicks Nurseries, which over the years became my gardening source when I commuted to work on Long Island. Hicks kind of fell off my radar when my job did but I still try to make it out there at least once a year to buy the goods needed to keep my little backyard up to speed. Hicks is almost as good as any arboretum you might want to visit with the added bonus of wheeling around a cool, multiple-decked shopping cart and going wild with Johnny-Appleseed-zeal and filling the cart with a myriad of items; fulfilling the need to overspend once in a while.

Hicks is the type of place that sells practically everything outdoorsy. Not only the trees and plants and hedging but pots and pottery, top soil, potting soil, mulch and pretty rocks; patio and lawn furniture; statuary and fountains and garden gnomes; flags and flagpoles. Hicks also has fish for sale but for some reason this year they are coy about anything but the gold kind. Of course they have indoor areas with houseplants and another for rakes and hoses and bird seed and another with faux flowers and candles and pot pourri and greeting cards and jars of jam and a nice comfortable snackery with coffee and, well, good eats. It’s a one-stop shopping experience and worth a couple of hours of wandering whether you buy anything or not.

I’m kind of jealous of the nurseries I’ve visited in Florida, including the Living Color Garden Center in Ft. Lauderdale and the Flamingo Road Nursery in Davie. Planting stuff in Florida has no season so going to these places is always a cool thing to do even in the hottest weather. As one might suspect they are geared more toward the tropical flora of the region and I just wish I could get one of those gorgeous bougainvilleas to flourish here in Zone 6. But living here also has its advantages; namely you can (and must) shut down your garden for the winter months while the bulbs do their secret work underground. In Florida you have give your yard constant attention or it, otherwise, overwhelms the time allocated to care for it.

Anyway, nurseries-as-museums are a good thing and just as rewarding as the real thing sometimes. Also, when you shop a lot at Hicks you get flooded with coupons (on-line) and a true bargain can be had. Not a banana tree, certainly, but a birdbath of pleasing design or wrought-iron crane to place cunningly amid the backyard perennials. By the way, my planting is done now (maybe two weeks earlier than usual) and, hopefully, everything will grow and prosper. Conventional wisdom has always been to wait until after Mother’s Day for local planting but, hey, sometimes global warming has its advantages.