Now Appearing...

I don't know why this should be but since I retired everybody has been suggesting I get a part time job. I'm probably just getting on their nerves; I can't imagine any other reason that I should do so.

So here we are then and, although the auditions were exhausting and my ankles are a wreck, the pay is excellent! You can catch my act at the Tuscany Suites and Casino September 2nd through the 7th. Floral arrangements welcome and gender credentials presented upon request. (For futher proof feel free to embiggen the photo.)

A Good Walk...

Having participated in structured competitive sports throughout my life, both individual (skiing, swimming, tennis) and team (basketball, softball, volleyball), I continue to claim a place in jockdom even though, in my dotage, I limit myself to league bowling (I pride myself on having recognized personal physical limitations as athletic strength waned and I knew when to hang up each individual jock strap when the time came).

The one major sport that passed me by was golf. I never developed an interest and even when (for business reasons) it became expected of me, I still remained reluctant to participate. Mark Twain said “golf is a good walk ruined” and I bought into that and pretty much continue to do so. If it wasn’t for Tiger Woods it wouldn’t even be an issue.

But Tiger is an athletic miracle and it pleases me to watch him ply his trade on the tube (I wouldn’t dream of actually going to a tournament). When he went on hiatus for almost a year and disappeared from the links, so did I. Now he’s back and I continue to check him out, not as a priority in my sports watching, but still maintaining interest as he mounts assaults on all major records in his sport. Starting today he’s participating in a PGA tournament at a new course in Jersey City, right across the lower Hudson estuary from downtown Manhattan. The local sports blatts are indulging themselves in an ecstasy of adjectives describing the views supplied by this tournament, totally based on some iconic urban geography including bridges and statuary. But I must admit the photos do look pretty hot; so this time I’ll tune in not for just Tiger, but for the view(s).

If I write anything more about it, which is doubtful, my review will not be a paean of any kind since I’m really not much moved by the sport as a whole. But I have noticed one fairly obvious thing; which I haven’t seen mentioned anywhere. The Statue of Liberty is prominent in the background of a high percentage of the 18 holes of this course which is pretty cool. She is, however, facing the other way. So if I write anything it will be limited to a paean to her ass. (I will not apologize; I will not apologize.)

How big is your subway system?

I have always thought New York subway maps were interesting, very precise and intricate and sometimes even artful enough to be worth framing. But who new? The New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority must be so proud of its staff of cartographers.

Disco Mike

This is my friend Mike Parente from Studio City, CA. I met Mike in 1999 and ten years later I’m proud to be witnessing his 15 minutes of fame. Yeah, he’s a cutie pie but that doesn’t get you anywhere these days, UNLESS you put in a trillion hours, or so, gluing thousands and thousands of tiny mirrors to your 1971 Ford Pinto. Yeah, for real.

A photograph can’t do it justice but you can imagine how blinding it must be on a nice, sunny California day. You can probably see it from the moon. His 15 minutes has come via an article in today's New York Times about Mike, well, about Mike’s Pinto really, and the car show in which it was included, (quoting The Times) “the Concours d’LeMons, a wrong-side-of-the-tracks counterpoint to the upper-crust concours d’élégance” which took place at the Pebble Beach golf course last week.

I’m sure this work-of-auto-art raises a lot of questions like, “how much time did this take?” “how much did the mirrors cost?” and, I suppose, shamefully the ultimate question, “why?” But what the hell, who cares really; it is what it is and it got him into The New York Times! How much more recognition does one cute California bear need?

Graffiti Gratification

Although a lot of people disagree with this I have always thought that “graffiti art” was an oxymoron. “Vandalism” was my own personal definition regarding this urban phenomenon (blight?) and I’ve pretty much stuck to this opinion right up through the popularity of Keith Haring. But it seems to be the nature of humankind to “tag” the dwellings and otherwise empty spaces clear back to when we were frying up saber toothed tiger shank for breakfast and Napoleon’s soldiers scratched their initials on the flanks of the Sphinx.

When I was a kid, writing on the wall was just something other kids did above the urinals at YMCA camp: “Players with short bats should stand close to the plate,” etc. The major “writing” in NYC (and elsewhere) in the 70’s and 80’s just made no sense to me and I was affronted by the usurpation of my own personal space by chronically untalented vandals. At the time I totally supported the ban on selling spray paint to anyone under 21 and I was pretty appalled when the art cognoscenti became victims of some very clever entrepreneurs; paying big bucks for what was essentially unlawful activity. However, the graffiti “movement” did do something positive. That is, it occasionally drew out some real talent, if only in the use of spray paint.

I’m not sure when I began to realize that “street art” started to achieve credibility in my own backward mind. I do know it was a slow process as I got stuck in my reverence for impressionism and, yes, some facets of very clever modern art. I loosened up somehow and was able to be thrilled by something other than Monet haystacks. It was a long time coming and I was reminded of this by a mural I encountered last weekend on a wall at Houston St. and the Bowery. Full disclosure: I should tell you I was on my way to see this epic mural and ducked into a large Crate & Barrel store to cool off; but the fact is my goal was actually C&B and the mural was truly a result of peripheral vision in my excellent left eye. I should tell you I got whiplash from its immediate attraction but, hey, when a relatively mundane gift for a mundane special occasion is the reason for existence at that particular point in time, and it’s a hot day, who’s going to give up some excellent air conditioning for what looked like, from a distance, some major graffiti?

You know where I’m going with this. Two Brazilian brothers named Otavio and Gustavo Pandolfo have taken another step up the ladder of spray painted coolness. The brothers call themselves “Os Gemeos” and some Portuguese linguist could translate that for me, but I don’t really care. This mural is fairly audacious if only judged for its size: about 17 feet high and 50 feet long. It’s full of storybook imagery and magical realism and it’s like reading a fanciful (and sometimes melancholic) comic book in that one needs to start on the left and follow its flow to the end on the right. There are many details and you have to take your time not to miss any. I know it’s basically a work of complicated whimsy but I’m as susceptible to that as any other adult with inner child problems. The mural is funny and weird and sometimes thematically dark but it sure does the job it’s supposed to. That is, make you completely forget the gravy boat and the cunning variety of kitchen spices in your shopping bag. I cringe at my acquired urbanism and sort of feel like I am a part of the joke of the mural, in that I need an occasional slap in the face to let go of some of that big city veneer I’ve acquired.

I am still very pleased to have stumbled across this splash of color on the Bowery and I’ll make a point of it to go back; Crate & Barrel will be secondary. I’m so damned plebian in my tastes and manner and so out-of-it in what I perceive as great art. But, then, there really is something to be said for great air conditioning too.

Ghost Bike

I saw my first “ghost bike” today. It brought me to a screeching halt and I wasn’t even in a car. Tethered to a street sign on the traffic circle by the movie theater near my home, it was a somber (and a bit eerie in the twilight) reminder that someone had been killed on, or near, this very spot while riding a bicycle.

I had heard about these ghost bikes four or five years ago when a friend-of-a-friend in St. Louis was mowed down and killed by a drunk driver. I thought it was a cool idea at the time but then pretty much forgot about it until today. Until recently, the establishment of these “ghosts” was left up to friends and families of the deceased but now I understand this grassroots memorial idea has caught on worldwide and there is even a coordinating website* that can be consulted to give you the how-to’s and wherefores. A bike is painted a solid white, including the tires, and left chained to a convenient pole or stanchion as near to the site of the individual tragedy as possible. Sometimes a plaque is included giving details, but not always. Sometimes it is simply a reminder to vehicular traffic as to what happened at that particular spot and hopefully might induce them to be a little more alert regarding bicycle traffic.

There have been no studies made about the effectiveness of these ghost bikes, or even if they are left where they are by the authorities for any extended period of time. Whatever the eventual fate of the individual memorials I still like the idea. Anything that moves me out of my urban complacency is a good thing.
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Update August 25, 2009: Today I happened by the location of this bike and it's gone. I don't have any information about it's disappearance but, after all, a ghost is a ghost. One should not ask when and whence they waft.

Three Little Words

My late mother once told me to never admit that you don’t know the meaning of a word during any given conversation, especially work-related, but also just in general. Her advice was to nod sagely, hope that works, and look it up later. A few days ago, just in casual conversation mind you, a friend of mine used the word mieskite, referring to the group I like to call “the posse,” which consists of a variety of types and genders that make up a circle of ever-changing brunch, beach, potluck and movie/theater companions who live within a 25 mile radius, or so, of NYC. Failing to heed my mother’s advice, my response was “huh?” and I asked for a spelling. Not to usurp Wikipedea’s power of description but what it comes down to as applied in this particular usage is “butt-ugly.” Well, harrumph! Oddly enough, within 24 hours of hearing this word for the first time I saw it again in a book I’m reading called Mental by Eddie Sarfaty who applied it to a shelter-cat he was adopting and he didn’t even use italics which, to me, meant it was a common word and I wondered how it had heretofore escaped my attention. If you care, Mr. Sarfaty’s adoption was a failure but, hey, that’s his story; not mine.

A couple of years ago I stumbled across a wonderful new word (to me), schadenfreude which, although German in origin, was creeping into fairly common usage in the U.S. and was infinitely appropriate to some of the emotional reactions I was feeling about some fairly rotten stuff that was going on. Right now it’s even more appropriate as Republicans get their comeuppance and druggish athletes make headlines but I must admit that I get a sneaky, and dare I say righteous, pleasure from their discomfort. From Wikipedea: “a pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.” It’s like booing the villain at the end of a melodrama as he gets ridden out of town on a rail. Serves you right, you uppity evil person!

Your third word for the day, my children, is callipygian. At least I had heard or seen this word in some context or other before and now I remember why, having just looked it up. Despite what you might conjecture about the context of its usage (in my particular case) it’s not something one would normally say at the gym or any particular sporting event. I actually read it in an abbreviated review of the newly renovated Greek/Roman sculpture rotunda at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Here’s the definition, read it and weep: “pertaining to or having finely developed buttocks.” Although I’m a big time word maven, sometimes I must come down on the side of common sense. If someone has a nice ass, for goodness sakes, just say so!

Working Hand in Glove with S&H

In a blog not so long ago I mentioned “retail museums,” that is, high-end stores whose prices might be out-of-range of the “normal” consumer but still worth a visit, if only to gawk and marvel. A business I’ve always admired is Smith & Hawken and, although not on a level of, say, Tiffanys or Cartier, S&H was admirable for its adherence to a zealous pursuit of organic gardening which, as we all know, seems to also mean “expensive.” But they stuck to their guns and made it work for a couple of decades. Most of their garden tools and equipment were from Britain and that added an attractive snob appeal for us poor urban wretches who labor in the 20’ x 20’ confines of our urban gardens. The stores were wonderfully designed and the displays were attractive and pleasing to the eye, thus tempting the old Visa out of the crumbling wallet.

Unfortunately, through the years and after the retirement of Paul Hawken in the early 90’s, the store went through a series of changes brought on by one profit-mongering conglomerate after another, ending up with, of all entities, Scott’s Miracle-Gro, the dudes with the pesticides and other “grow and kill” products. Although they continued to sell some pretty good-looking gardening equipment, they also went artsy frou frou and, thus, became just another expensive garden-tchotchkes outlet.

Anyhow, Smith & Hawken has, appropriately enough, bought the farm; yet another victim of the tanking of our esteemed economy. With snob appeal no longer a viable marketing tool it was inevitable S&H would follow similarly positioned businesses and rethink their reason for existing.

This bit of economic research has come to you because my very favorite gardening gloves, shown here, have coincidentally bitten the dirt; almost literally, and the torn social-finger is irreparable. I can only hope that someone like Marshall’s or some other outlet store of that ilk will pick up the contents of Smith & Hawken’s warehouse facility; slashing the prices to fall into line with my current gardening budget. Farewell S&H; let’s do brunch!