The land where nothing fazes

While reading the NY Times on-line over lunch, I was attracted to the headline "A Cab Burns: Midtown Takes It In Stride." Much to my dismay, I discovered in reading the article that taxis spontaneously bursting in to flame was anything but this one time occurrence! I already have been buckling my seat-belt religiously after hearing some horror stories about people going through the plastic partition in cabs during accidents.

The main problem is that when attempting to evaluate a cab driver's skills, like some abstract art, it is hard to differentiate between bad form and genius; they can frequently take the same shape. Driving the wrong way down a one way alley is either a brilliant maneuver to evade traffic or the guy doesn't know what 'Wrong Way - Do Not Enter' means.

Either way, I feel more nervous than ever.

de/composition

I saw another of those subway poster reappropriation art pieces yesterday that made me laugh out loud and John was all 'I'm glad there are some things you like about New York.' Of course there are such things and they are kind of all around. They have nothing to do with things in general or in any one thing but about small things. Like the subway graffiti - mustaches on poster supermodels; different commentary on the same advertisement in different places; an abandonded bicycle locked on my route to the subway that I have watched slowly be destroyed over the past few weeks, like watching a time-lapse of a dead animal decomposing. I'm sure that in a few months all that will remain is a broken U lock. I guess that's the thing that is most surprising - that it isn't the New York of the movies and the lifestyles of the rich and famous that make me like it. It's the urban erosion and simultaneous growth that I find so fascinating and enjoyable. And I don't think I'm the only one for whom this is true. It's kind of been the very nature of this place, just as real as the glamor it also touts. We went to the Philadelphia Museum this weekend and they had a bunch of early to mid 20th C American paintings on view and quite a few were New York City scapes either in fact or in abstraction and I felt happy that not only are the details still pretty much the same, but that I am not alone in history in finding them remark-able.

Way better than a pie in the face*

or How to ring in 32:

Start time: approximately 6:30pm 7/2/09 (Food = F | Drink = D)
D: Shaken: Carpano Antica (an Italian Sweet Vermouth), bourbon, fresh lemon, lime and blood orange juices (cocktail; glass)
F: Bread baked on-site served with choice of butter or house-made rosemary lardon
D: Zidarich Prulke 2001 (wine; white; bottle)
F: Lettuce and herb salad (antipasta)
F: Broccoli Rabe with mozzerella (antipasta)
F: Broken spaghetti with lobster (prima)
D: Calabretta (Etna Rosso) 2000 (wine; red; bottle)
F: Orcchiette with lamb gravy (prima)
F: Fresh Halibut (seconda)
F: Italian-style Steak (seconda)
F: Cheese tasting plate
D: Bracchetto - Forteto Della Luja (dessert wine; glass)
F: Olive-oil roasted dates with yogurt, almonds and sea salt (dolce)
D: Dindarello - Maculan (dessert wine; glass)
F: Chocolate cake (dolce)
D: Jacopo Poli (Grappa; tiny glass)
D: San Leonardo (Grappa; tiny glass)
D: Espresso
End time: This much imbibing and you really think I noticed when we finished? (I'll guess 11:30pm)

I love that this list is 18 items long. John took me to Del Posto for my birthday and we ate and drank so much. It was amazing. Being 32 rocks.

*Yes, better than a pie in the face, though certainly not as funny.

When cultural references go awry

The music at my friend's party last night ranged from jazz to kind of trip hop, from James Brown to the Beach Boys. Each LP played brought to my mind good times and memories of yesteryear as well as nostalgia for times not even lived. As "Surfin' USA" came flowing through the speakers and Sarah and I talked about the harmonies and sound which are so indicative of the Beach Boys, my thoughts began to wander. "California in the 60s..," I thought. "How things must have been so different...idyllic." My brain flitted from thought to thought: idyllic, Beach Boys, Surfing, sun shine, beaches, relaxing, pot, hippies, San Francisco, free love...when suddenly out of nowhere a semi-drunk Taiwanese guy slapped me out of my reverie with this insight: "I know this song! It's off the Teen Wolf soundtrack!"

It makes me wonder: if I could strip all of the occurrences in my life down to simple facts, how different would my life seem viewed through a completely alternate set of cultural references? Imagine a world where melodious harmonies make me reflect not on the nostalgia of the past but of a hairy Michael J. Fox, congealed blood doesn't look like Starburst, and Chinese Hip-Hop grandmas aren't funny or weird, but a simple fact of life.

This is where I live 2

direct objects DO serve a purpose

I saw a man handing out pamphlets of a religious nature in the subway yesterday. Obviously a believer of his message, he wore a sweatshirt that was airbrushed with his message about allowing Jesus to save your soul from eternal damnation. Of course, "Jesus: Believe in Him and he will save your soul from the fiery depths of Hell" was too long a message for a sweatshirt front, and besides, you have maybe 3 seconds with which to get your general message across to busy commuters who won't even take your leaflet and probably don't want to be saved by you or your savior's message anyway. So, editing occurred, direct objects were omitted and the meaning was obsured. I wish I had taken a picture but there was just no way to do it, plus: what if I missed my train? Yes, commuting has taken precedence over photographing weird things. This is a major difference I've noted between my life here and my life in Tokyo. ANYWAY, the shirt read:

Jesus Saves
from
HELL

Of course the words were engulfed in flames. FLAMES!! It was the most hilarious thing, and I kept thinking how metal it would have been if there had been a vengeful looking Jesus with hand curled into a claw emerging from the flames as well. Oh, hell. Photoshop is my friend. I'll just take a few moments to show you what is in my imagination. Happy Wednesday to you.

Things from the street

Here's another installment of brilliance I encountered over the weekend.
First at PS270:

Then in defaced ads in the subway (some of which I thought were great re-appropriation of materials):


Of course it all degraded into mustache drawing eventually, as everything does:
Though the last mustache barely made an impression on me simply because it was just so right.

Beautiful decay; This is where I live.

Spring and a boner in the Upper East Side

I've recently begun some form of employment in the Upper East Side and have to say I really appreciate the blooming pear trees as well as the tulips which are finally showing some color all up and down Park Avenue. When you are contending with mostly concrete- or stone-gray, a little color and brightness really goes a long way.So on this glorious spring afternoon on my walk back to work, having shot this white-haired-tree-and-blue-sky-combo, I was looking up more than at my feet. In this city, this could prove a fatal move what with the uneven sidewalks, oblivious speed-walkers, ladies with carts or small dogs in jackets on leashes, cabs, cyclists, etc., etc., but had I not risked my life, I would have never noticed this dangling above eye-level. I must say that whenever I see something this out of the ordinary, my gut reaction is always to jump to the conclusion that it is an art piece. Once someone had left a box full of candy in the hall in front of the the gallery I worked at in SF; it sat there all day tempting me every time I passed it to steal a free Crunch bar or Snickers, but I never did because I was convinced it was under surveillance for some dumb art project and I refused to be a sap.

But really, what alternative to 'art project' is there when you see a bone security-locked to a parking sign hanging like some weird morbid phallus on East 78th and Madison? It certainly didn't get up there by accident.

Common Ground?

“What I liked about Wall Street,” Mr. Brod said, “was that it’s full of manic-depressives. There are a lot of artists who are manic-depressive. And there’s a lot of creative people in Wall Street.”

Read the story if you like. It ends with a poem.

Whoever on the road.
Whoever still traveling.
Whoever says whatever.
Whoever is dead.
Long live whoever.

An unusual view

SOFA TENTS AT THE ARMORY NY

4/14/09 (the anniversary of Lincoln's assassination); 11:30 am

don't use this art handler

Doesn't he know that white canvas will scuff?I'll file this memory away labeled "uncommon scenes in the NY subway." A story I heard second hand that would fit in this category: A man was eating a tuna sandwich on the train, messy (I imagine similar to the guy with the everything bagel in Eric's rant), dropped a little bit of tuna on the ground, picked it up and ate it. Now, I am a strong believer in the 5 second rule, but there needs to be some statute of limitations. For example: A potato chip that fell while you were watching sports at home: Fine - even if you have cats; A lollypop that dropped out of your mouth into the sand at the playground: Okay - if you rinse it first; tuna salad that you picked up off of a train floor that literally sees the bottom of millions of shoes that walk miles through dirt, dog poo and city grime everyday: Totally unacceptable - no matter what the scenario. That's my two cents.

Can I get a witness?

I found a page on NYTimes.com where people write under a 'dear diary' header some New York related experience. I read this one today and was amused then relieved to know that I'm not the only native Californian whose perception of reality is being distorted by the city's steep learning curve.

Dear Diary:

My husband, Daniel, works on the 41st floor of an office building in Times Square, overlooking the Hudson River.

When US Airways Flight 1549 made an emergency landing in the water in January, Daniel and some of his colleagues gathered by his window. A co-worker walked by and asked, “What’s everyone looking at?”

“A plane just landed in the river,” Daniel answered.

“Oh, I saw that a few minutes ago,” said the co-worker, who had just moved to New York from California. “I thought it looked a bit weird, but then I told myself, ‘This is New York,’ and I just went back to work.”

- Rebecca Wolf

Amen, my Californian brother (or sister). Together we shall walk through this city of strangeness.

It's not littering, it's a contribution to culture

I suppose this might be true for any city, but I recently was marveling at the sheer number of gum stains on any given parcel of pavement in New York. As I walked from my Vteer gig at the senior center, I scanned the sidewalk passing under my feet and found myself wondering what the average time span in gum age was on any given square of concrete (oldest piece vs newest, though maybe color and tackiness can identify the latter) and wondering whether that data could possibly be of use to anyone. "Where are my scientific contacts who can carbon-date the samples I scrape up from each gum stain so we can find out the precise historical moment to which it is linked?" I thought. "More importantly," I wondered, "What could one do armed with such information?" I guess my plan then would be to make a different kind of tourist map (not unlike the Maps of the Stars in LA...Maps of the Stains?) with which to tour New York. What a pain in the ass, both to make and to do. Forget it.

Maybe it's enough that there is mid-century modernist art literally at our feet everywhere we go. Some of the materials (gum, grime on concrete) might even date to that era. Who knows. It's like some crazy collaboration between litterers and time that resulted in an infinite number of abstract picture planes which we'd believe to be relevant to art history if they were framed right and hanging in the MOMA. Imagine:

"Untitled," 1955
Oil on canvas 60 x 88 inches

Brilliant.

Spreading the yang to the yin of love

As you all well know, I am doing my best to keep with the positive in these times of trials and tribulations, but...well, I can't help but love the haters. This here is part of a rant from the blog 'Monkeys for Helping' that was started by a guy I knew at Con College. (I've started dropping the second N after watching Trailer Park Boys. I can now proclaim my alma mater with something perhaps not unrelated to pride.) Thank you Eric for your rant. And, I hear you, man.

Monday, March 16th; excerpt from Sipping on Haterade: a brief but profanity-laden essay detailing why I hate the Subway.

I make an executive decision to keep my sunglasses on. Yes. I look like a douche bag. I don't care. I need them. They allow me to spend my 35 minutes of misery doing what I enjoy most in the morning: Rolling my eyes and sending invisible hate beams in the direction of those I hate. Specifically..

1: Anyone engaging in any form or variation of what can be considered Ipod dancing.

2: Those clever little Cosby sweater type dude he guy who thinks he's a Sommelier for microbrews, plays bass or DJ's in 4 bands, and definitely would have sex with Brooklyn if Brooklyn somehow transformed itself into a artsy Japanese girl.

3: Blissed-out passengers that whisper-sing Dave Matthews violin solos. Fuck the fuck off. Go buy another scarf and choke yourself with it, you horrible, horrible, person.

4: Air drummers. WTF? What's the functionality and purpose of air drumming a Rush solo at 9 in the morning? God help you.

5: Yawners, moaners, T-Mobile walkie-talkie people, and any and all that engage in repetitive motions, excessive paper folding, sneezing, chewing, coffee slurping, etc. you know what I'm talking about. To the dude grossing me out in the seat across from me: Eat your Everything Bagel like a ninja, not a Golden Reteriver, barbarian. Shut the fuck up already.

Wow, I'm kind of a dick, huh? Oh well. (PS: Don't call me a dick.)

I heart NY and NY hearts me

Living in a city that is constantly being characterized to me by others as having hard edges, I am doing my best to find the love it has to offer wherever I can find it:

in a piece of tofu

in paint chipping from a door frame
in spackle
in a skid markin eroded concrete and a paint blob

and in community center sponge paint graffiti

Will the real NY artists please stand up?

On Saturdays I volunteer for this photo exploration class with kids at a public school over in Bed/Sty. Their photos are pretty good, but I have to say I enjoy their photo albums way more. Check a few:

(the kids were each lifted to the rim by a volunteer who was 6' 6")

(if you zoom in you will see he is holding his lunch money - a stack of ones)

(this kid is the mustache drawing master. Every page has multiple mustaches on it.

Duchamp ain't got nothin on him)

First New York

I visited New York for the first time when I was in elementary school. I came with my dad on a work related trip I'm sure. My grandfather was here, too, and he took me on a day-long outing where we visited the UN building and he bought me my first Dove Bar from a street vendor complete with the little paper tray to catch the chocolate if/when it fell off the ice-cream bar. I remember noticing the way the streets smelled like old basements or sewers sometimes (certain places in Tokyo smell like that, too). We stayed at the Mayflower Hotel because they had kitchens and I remember the first time I turned the light on in the closet kitchen, the sickening sight of a large army of small, brown cockroaches scurrying to their hiding places and disappearing from sight completely, not that I was fooled. I knew they were just waiting for some privacy to come out and claim what they probably (rightfully) viewed as their own.

New York is also the place where I accidentally added lemon to my milk tea one morning at some restaurant(*). It curdled and I felt too embarrassed to ask for a new one and tried to drink it anyway, rationalizing that it would have combined in my stomach in any case. It didn't work; I couldn't do it. I remember feeling amazed, overwhelmed, excited, nervous, and intimidated in this place of huge history and many bustling people. I guess I still feel the same.

I recently saw this guy's blog in the New York Times and it made me wonder about feeling like your life/world is here in New York. I must say I really enjoy people who love this city and wear it like a skin. I remember once I came to visit my college boyfriend when he was studying at NYU and one of his roommates had just returned from a trip to San Francisco and he kept saying how glad he was 'to be back in the real world again.' For me, it's the exact opposite. All this gotham-citiness, busy people with places to be, weather and seasons, honking cars, coffee with milk unless you specify black, $2 subway rides, amazing things available but you have to know who to ask or where to look; it makes me feel a little like Alice down her rabbit-hole.

I wonder what it is like to have a sense of reality about New York like that roommate had in 1998?