an old catholic church in the heart of greenwich village

Posted on April 9, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

If I find myself with a spare :20 minutes to kill and a church is nearby, I always duck in for a quick meditation session. I’ll say one thing about people in churches: they know how to keep their mouths shut. The silence is conducive to a peaceful meditation.

Our Lady of Pompeii is just off 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. It’s an old school Italian church that contains many of the types of icons that drove me out of Catholicism many years ago and into the loving arms of Buddhism. I don’t have the right to call myself Buddhist yet but I may get there someday.

How is Buddha typically depicted?

An overweight, happy man. He wishes well on everyone, regardless of their theological beliefs. There are no sad Buddhas and no condemnation if you don’t follow him!

Christian icons? Lots and lots of pain and suffering. Here we have St. Lucy with this afternoon’s blue plate special: eyeballs of martyr. Does that come with toast?

Here is St. Rocco showing off his fancy open, festering sore on his leg. Yuck!

I’m not sure who this chap is, but someone better tell him that the top of his head is on fire!

He reminds me of Mayor Ralph Perk of Cleveland, whose hair caught on fire during a 1972 ribbon cutting ceremony when he got too close to a welder’s arc.

And here is Christ, dead in his mother’s arms. Just imagine holding your dead child in your arms! Horrible imagery. And remember, he died because you are a sinner. I’ll bet you’re sorry now.

The Christ in this statue has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. This pic doesn’t do them justice. They’re sky blue. What are the odds that someone who was living in the Middle East in the year 35 A.D. had Tiffany box blue eyes? Well, you have to play to your audience, I suppose.

And here is Christ carrying the cross in Louis XIV splendor.

Look, I don’t mean to poke fun (well, perhaps just a little) but the relentless negativity—the scenes of torture and mayhem—finally did me in. And they teach this stuff to children! Should a church look like a Halloween haunted house with scenes of gore and violence? Have you seen the Stations of the Cross? It’s not right. Count me out.

there’s no pleasing some people

Posted on April 8, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

7-Year Old Daughter took my job loss pretty hard at first but since then she has gotten quite use to having my unemployed ass around the house. Both Daughters seem delighted. I love them but, honestly, I could use a change of scenery.

I walked downstairs in my best suit and tie and 7-Year Old Daughter asked if I was going into the city for another interview. I told her I was and that, hopefully, I would be back to work very soon.

She burst into tears. “I don’t want you to go back to work! I want you to stay here! Can’t you work in my school?!” Later, she said that she hopes I find a job, but not for the rest of the year.

God forbid.

feeding my addiction

Posted on April 6, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I honestly don’t know what happened to me. I use to drive drunk, have unprotected sex and smoke a ton of weed. Today, I get my kicks by chasing rare books. I’m sure I’m a big disappointment to my friends back home.

I attended the annual rare book fair at the Park Avenue armory. Holy Mother of God what a show. When it comes to rare books I have a rather weak disposition and it was probably not wise for me to walk into a large room filled with temptations. But I am happy to report that although I had a few moments where I was woozy and weak, I successfully fought off all attempts to rationalize a purchase.

The one item I would have loved to own was a set of early (1966) broadsides by Charles Bukowski in PERFECT condition in a custom made clamshell box. But at $37,000, it was easy to say no. Here are a few fun items. You can click on these pics to for a better look.

A first edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night. Not one of his masterworks but just look at the design on that jacket. Beautiful.

It seems to me that authors don’t take pride in their signatures like they use to. Here’s a signed copy of The Beautiful and the Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald signed in 1922, the year of publication, in his hometown of St. Paul Minnesota. Look at that handwriting and signature!

Hemingway was another author whose inscriptions have an art-like quality. Here’s an inscribed copy of The Green Hills of Africa by Hemingway signed in Key West in 1936.

Here’s another example of Hemingway’s signature. This is a signed first edition of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Isn’t that grand?

This is a first edition of Ian Fleming’s Casino Royal—the first (and most violent) Bond book. The jacket was designed by Fleming and the phrases in the wreath reads: A Whisper of Love. A Whisper of Hate. I love that. The price is a measly £18,750.

The fair is mainly about books, but there are also autographs, some artwork and other sundry items. Here’s a manuscript leaf in Mozart’s hand from the Serenade in D Major. Take it home and hang it on your wall for only $195,000!

my taxes

Posted on April 5, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I just had our taxes done. Last year, we had to write the I.R.S. a check for $4,000. This year, I am getting a $1,000 refund.

“Why the difference?” I asked Tim the Accountant.

“You suffered monumental losses in your equity accounts.”

That was 2008 for a lot of people, I suppose. But I’m happy about the refund. It’ll come in handy.

nothing to be done: a night with Beckett

Posted on April 4, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

CB and I saw the Roundabout Theater Company production of Waiting for Godot with Nathan Lane, Bill Irwin and John Goodman. Goodman shaved his head! He’s gotten so massive that he looks like a Bond villain. And nobody can navigate a stage like Nathan Lane. His movements are fluid and graceful.

We loved it, although some audience members didn’t return after the intermission. I understand why they would bail out. Samuel Beckett is about as esoteric as Broadway gets and he’s definitely an acquired taste, so if you’ve wandered in off the street and didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, you might be more inclined to walk out.

The first time I saw a production of Godot was many years ago in a dingy Bowery theater. I was prepared for an evening of pretentious babble and nonsense but it’s actually a surprisingly funny play. The absurdity of two idiots waiting for someone who is never coming has more comic potential than you would think. It’s worth the effort to hang on to the stream of dialog as it’s flying by (and, yes, it can be an effort at times).

You have to let go of the notion that there’s a traditional linear plot with a beginning, middle and end. As we were leaving the theater, I overheard someone say, “Well, I have no idea what that was about.” It’s not about anything. (Well, to me, anyway. The show is probably fraught with metaphor but that stuff always gets by me. You can’t be subtle with me. It won’t work.) If it’s about anything at all, it seems to me it’s about the language and the acting. A story? Not so much.

The last 30 seconds might have been the best part of the show. There was a gloriously staged fade-out. Estragon (Lane) and Vladimir (Irwin) wait under the tree looking slightly upward. The lights begin to slowly, slowly dim. The shadows thicken, nothing is said, and the silence is heavy. It was a masterwork of stage design and lighting. Beautiful.

Someone did us a solid favor. We were sitting way the hell in the back of the balcony and during the intermission a man walked up to us, asked if we wanted to sit in the orchestra section and handed us his two ticket stubs. He didn’t like the show and instead of just leaving the theater, he walked back to the worst seats in the house and upgraded us. They were $116 seats. What a pal!