September | 2017 | Exile on Pain Street

bins

May 30, 1993

When I hear Laura’s voice on the phone I feel it physically. In my gut. In my bones. We saw a horrible production of Romeo and Juliet in the basement of a church in Midtown. Juliet looked to be about 30 years old. We checked the playbill and she was the producer. It was a vanity production. It was particularly painful for Laura, a classically-trained actor who can’t find a gig. It made her sad so we left at intermission and drank in a Russian restaurant. She got kind of loud.

The next night I went to the brownstone she shares on the Upper East Side for a party. It was a big deal for me to be invited. I want to be accepted in her world. I hate walking into a party all alone where I don’t know anyone. I feel vulnerable. But Laura buzzed me in, met me in the stairwell and kissed me. I felt a lot better after that.

I was the first one there. In New York, nobody shows up to a party until 11:30. It’s obnoxious. I brought 12 bottles of Dos Equis to endear myself. Her friends were gracious and welcoming. Her roommate, Eleanor, is gorgeous. She’s dating an attorney who is also the landlord. He seems psychotic. I think he uses drugs for more than just recreational purposes. He gives off a bad vibe. How he landed a tomato like Eleanor is a mystery.

At 3:30 we grabbed a couple beers and went up to the roof. It was beautiful out. The city was quiet. I sat on a kitchen chair someone left up there and she straddled me. We kissed for a while. She was wearing a flowered dress with shoulder straps. She reached behind her, unzipped her dress and pulled the straps down. I asked her to come home with me and she said alright. “But,” she said, “I need to tell you something. There’s someone back home I care very much about. David. He may come here for a visit. If he does, I won’t be able to see you. I’m going to tell him about you, too, because I don’t like sneaking around.” She said she couldn’t promise me exclusivity. I was noble and said I understood and appreciated her honesty but I’m wrecked.

We came down off the roof. It was a little after 4:00 a.m. Eleanor and some of her friends were at the kitchen table. We chatted for a bit and left. The fact that Laura left with me in front of all her friends was tremendously gratifying. We got a cab to the Lower East Side.

She brought an atomizer in case she had a cat allergy attack. The previous day, I’d spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning the apartment and kept the cats out of my bedroom, which they did not like one bit. There was much complaining on the other side of the door.

It was both glorious and horrible. We fell into bed and intertwined but I was unable to deliver the goods. We’d been drinking for quite some time and she attributed it to alcohol but I can assure you it had nothing to do with Dos Equis and everything to do with David. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’m not in this recreationally, like she is.

We laid in bed for hours alternately kissing and talking. At one point I was sitting in the director’s chair opposite the bed and the morning’s first light started to seep through the blinds. I could barely see her outline. The light was magic. It spilled across her body, a slow reveal as the sun rose. Her hair flowed across my pillow. It’s exactly the kind of thing that fills the Met with great art.

We fell asleep at 7:30. I woke up first around 11:00 and watched her sleep. She is as pretty in the morning as I am ugly. She woke up and I thought she’d leave straight away but we stayed in bed for a while. She pressed her body against mine. I made some coffee. We sat for a couple hours and talked. She commented how nice it was; just sitting and talking.

She left her atomizer and leather jacket here, so I think she’ll be back. But I’m worried. You can’t un-ring a bell.

She got a job at Baby Gap.

Margaret called. She wants to know why I haven’t called Samantha, the blind date she set me up with a couple weeks ago. Is she kidding?

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put me together again.

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I came into work last week and saw this shadow on the blinds.

It’s a boy! Or a girl. Either way, it’ll peck your eyes out.

* * *

43rd Street Parking Garage

* * *

Chrysler Building; midday/evening

A few weeks ago I reposted pics from last year of the falcon that visits our office every summer. Well, guess who just showed up? She was nice enough to alight on the west side of the building this time, which made for more dramatic images.

We’re 50 floors up. Too high for sparrows and pigeons. Okay for falcons and helicopters. Look at her pose. What a diva. She knows she’s being photographed.

We know when she’s outside because we hear her screeching. She calls her chick and teaches her how to dive off the building and attack some poor, unsuspecting bird or rodent. Here, she’s scoping the area for lunch.

The following morning, a rare treat. The baby makes an appearance. This isn’t a great shot but she was only there for a few fleeting moments. Mom will perch outside our window for 15 or 20 minutes at a time. People line up to take her picture.

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This is an interesting piece. It’s a collaboration between Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat. Pretty obvious who did what. It’s from Tommy Hilfiger’s collection and was sold in London in June. Call me tacky but I would totally hang this up.

Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat
New Flame
Est: £1,700,000—2,000,000
Sold for £2,408,750

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This is Ladder by Crazy Marina Abramovic. I saw it in a group gallery exhibit.

Last year she published her memoirs. It’s a hysterical example of tortured artisté navel-gazing and pretentiousness. As as child, instead of playing with toys, she “…prefered to play with the shadows of passing cars on the wall.” She made that up to sound cool, right? She didn’t actually do that, did she?

She was born into a wealthy Yugoslavian family and enjoyed maids, theater tickets, paintings, a grand piano. A world of privilege. All while the rest of the country scraped by in post-war poverty. Yet, she writes of the “…tyranny of support.” She complains about “…changing planes so often, museum and gallery openings, endless receptions…” What a loon. She should try the Port Authority bus depot at 6:20 a.m. My finest art.

She’s quite the gas bag but I *do* like her work. I saw her retrospective at MoMA in 2010 and loved it. Perhaps her odious comments are part of an elaborate performance piece. I hope so.

I ran my finger along the knife edge. They were dulled. Of course they were! What were you thinking?

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Morning meta moment. Walking down 42nd St. on my way to work I looked up and saw a billboard for an HBO series about 42nd St. Different era. Same pavement.