Monthly Archives: October 2009

By the sea, by the beautiful sea: A photo essay

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Sister #2 came to town for a five-day visit. I like when my family visits. There’s no stress! I get along with all my siblings extraordinarily well, but I suspect the fact I’ve lived 500 miles away from them for the better part of the past 25 years might have something to do with it. I’m certain they’d be less tolerant of my foibles if I lived just down the street.

If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Wife and I are most excellent hosts. And that’s no idol brag. Ask around. Tomorrow, I’ll hit her over the head with the Kandinsky exhibit at the Guggenheim, but over the weekend it was all-Jersey, all the time.

Moments after her arrival we whisked her away to the Bruce Springsteen concert at Giants Stadium. This was the last concert at Giants Stadium before the wrecking ball transforms it into a parking lot, so the show had some historical heft to it. As I mentioned in previous posts, Mrs. Wife is related to the Springsteen clan, so we were gifted some great seats and briefly chatted with family members before the show in an access-restricted area.

I’m not the biggest Bruce fan in the world but you’ve got to admire the guy’s work ethic. He just turned 60 and still pumps out a highly-entertaining three-hour show. He played, appropriate enough, a cover of The Rolling Stones’ Last Time. Also, bizarrely, a cover of You Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate. Hearing Bruce sing My Hometown and Jersey Girl (a Tom Waits song!) in New Jersey almost makes moving here seem like less of an ordeal.

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Photo: Todd Heisler/The New York Times

We took Sister the Second to Seaside Heights. It’s a bucolic Jersey Shore beach town that has all the necessary accouterments, namely, a boardwalk, an amusement park and pork roll and cheese sandwiches. The Daughters have been going to places like this for so long that I don’t think they realize how special they are.

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This carousel is from 1918 and still has its original Wurlitzer organ. 3-Year Old Daughter doesn’t care a whit about any of that historical significance stuff.

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I, once again, was forced to teach 7-Year Old a valuable bumper car road rage lesson.

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Both Daughters are deadly accurate with a skee-ball. It’s talent they inherited from their mother, who I seriously don’t remember ever beating. It’s her game. Well…one of them.

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For family lurkers, here is daughter and Mrs. Wife, strolling on a sun-drenched, sea breeze swept boardwalk.

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I vish to be alone

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New York is a fine place in which to be alone. To walk into a little café with an armload of newspapers and sit at the counter and read them over a bowl of chili and grilled cheese and a white mug of coffee and a waitress who says, “What else would you like, love?”—this is heaven.

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As previously stated, I didn’t marry until much later in life than most. People began to wonder why I seemed to be, by all external appearances, normal, but still unmarried. As though that were a societal barometer for normalcy! Rumors were rampant. People wondered if I was gay, (Nope. Would say so if I was. In my world, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.) or hated women (Hardly! I love women! Having daughters was my secret preference.) or afraid to commit (Hummm. Maybe a bit of that.).

When I first arrived in New York all those years ago, I was inflicted with a crippling loneliness that lasted for several months. I, quite literally, didn’t know a single person here and going from the suburbs of Cleveland to Manhattan was a rough transition. At that time, New York City was a broken, dark, scary place. It wasn’t the buffed city on the hill it is today.

But then, quite suddenly, I snapped out of it. I embraced the city and its (apologies to Warren Zevon) splendid isolation. From that day forward, I was never lonely again, even during those long stretches when I wasn’t seeing someone or had few friends to call. Like Mr. Keillor, I could always belly-up to a café and eavesdrop on conversations or walk my city streets until I felt better. I found that to be a tremendous solace during my dark hours.

I believe there are people who get married as a cure for their loneliness. I’ve hung on my cross for lots of things, but loneliness was never one of them. I’ve been lucky that way. How can you be lonely or homesick when you’re heart is in the right place and you’re surrounded by 8.3 million people?

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Photo by Alfred Stieglitz

Cover your eyes! Oh, the humanity!

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I’m just a traditional guy with traditional tastes. I don’t mind a bit of experimentation now and then but when you do THIS to Shakespeare, I have to take exception. I saw the now mercifully closed Peter Sellers production of Othello with Philip Seymour Hoffman.

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In it:

  • The actors spoke Shakespearean dialog into cell phones. Sometimes, while standing right next to one another. You know how I feel about cell phones.
  • Iago wore street clothes. He had a green shirt because he was, you know, jealous.
  • It was FOUR HOURS LONG with only one :15 minute intermission, which is completely unnecessary for that play.
  • A lot of action took place on a bed made of TVs. And some folding chairs.

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  • Montano, a soldier of Cyprus, was played by a woman. In the barroom brawl scene, Othello’s Lieutenant, Cassio, doesn’t beat her up. That would be adhering to the original text. Instead, he graphically rapes Montano on the TV bed.
Philip Seymour Hoffman had a few scenes of utter brilliance but the rest of the cast was just burned out and didn’t connect with the characters at all. Maybe I’m just superficially swayed by celebrity. Probably.A friend described Othello as an oaf who allows himself to be easily fooled by a henchman. It’s his least favorite Shakespeare play. It’s a pretty accurate assessment so that kind of ruined it as well.I have tickets to see Jude Law in Hamlet. He’d better not fuck it up or I’m through with The Bard. I can’t take another evening like that. It’ll kill me.

Loch Central Park

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I took one of the last warm days of the season off from work and dragged 7-Year Old Daughter into the city. Again. She’s been there quite a few times now and walks around like she owns the place. It’s pretty funny. She has developed a comfort level with the city, which is by design.

Renting a row boat on Central Park Lake is probably The Most Touristy thing you can do, but it’s a fantastic experience. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done it. It’s still a thrill. And it only costs about $10 bucks! So worth it. The Central Park row boats and the landmark Carousel are absolute musts on a warm day. You’re never too old for that stuff.

I like watching clueless city people try to row a boat. They often row incorrectly; with the stern of the boat going forward. The bow of the boat cuts through the water quite nicely but for some reason, dopey New Yorkers prefer the struggle of trying to push the stern through water. Perhaps it’s in their nature to make things more difficult than they need to be.

Here we are at beautiful Bethesda Fountain. Did you see Tony Kurshner’s Angels in America? This fountain plays an important role. There’s a charming song-and-dance number in The Daughter’s favorite movie, Enchanted, that features the fountain.

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If you row out to the middle of the lake you can get a spectacular view of the luxury hotels along Central Park South. For being in the middle of New York City, the lake is actually quite big.

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Many years ago, my brother was visiting and I took a photo of him rowing. When I got the pictures developed, I discovered that I accidentally got a shot of his testicle hanging out of his shorts! Do you guys want to see it?

If you visit Central Park mid-week you’ll witness a phenomenon called “The Leisure Class.” These are people who hang out in the city all day and have no visible means of support. They don’t have proper jobs. And these are not tourists! They’re locals! Look how crowded Sheep Meadow is on a Thursday afternoon. Where do they get the money to live like this? Arrrgghh.

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Random architectural flourish. Click on that and take a look at the latticework. Nice!

I heart New York. Always have. Probably always will.

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Of COURSE the dog is French

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I was in the throws of really enjoying my self-pity when I stumbled across this gem from the BBC:

Former French President Jacques Chirac has announced that he has given away his beloved dog after it attacked him for a third time. (It bit him on his belly!)

Mr. Chirac’s wife, Bernadette, said the dog had been treated for depression after finding it difficult to come to terms with leaving the Elysee Palace.

Hey, do you know what, Mrs. Chirac? Fuck your depressed dog! This is a bad time for me to read about a dog who’s receiving treatment for depression because he can no longer live in a French palace. I am, for the time being, tapped-out of empathy. Bring him here and I’ll give him something to be depressed about. I’ll stomp on his little Maltese paws.

C’mon Universe! Give me a break, would ya? Don’t throw stuff like this in my path right now, okay?

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I didn’t go to the gym this morning. I heard a chocolate chip muffin and a cup of coffee calling out to me. You understand, don’t you? Instead, I took a brisk Autumnal walk from 41st Street and 9th Avenue, down 42nd Street and then up Lexington Avenue to 48th Street (a distance of approximately 1.3 miles) carrying my commuting bag (+/- 15 pounds) and the weight of expectations (incalculable). Does that count as a workout?