October | 2017 | Exile on Pain Street

bins

May 14, 1993

I took Laura to see Angels in America. It opened last week and it’s the toast of Broadway. A new play about AIDS. It’s kind of upsetting to sit through. A young actor named Jeffrey Wright was particularly good. I was waiting outside the theater beforehand feeling sorry for myself because things didn’t go so well in the bedroom the other night. The play’s depiction of the afflicted’s suffering, and the suffering of those who loved him, was so vivid and so true-to-life that it made me ashamed for wallowing in self-pity over my little problem. My problem is temporary. AIDS is a death sentence, and a particularly gruesome one at that.

The pair of tickets cost $129, which I have no business spending. I’m between gigs and just marginally employed, but when she turned the corner and walked towards me, the money seemed unimportant. As she got closer, she slowed her walk and looked me in the eye. Step. Step… Step…. She put her arms around my neck and kissed me. She’s so beautiful. She couldn’t come home with me because she had to be at Baby Gap at 8:00 the next morning. Dropped her off at her apartment. The taxi driver had such horrific B.O. that we settled for a kiss on the cheek.

I didn’t want to sit around the apartment all day because I thought I might put my head in the oven so I rode my bike to Battery Park. I was in the sun for over three hours without sunscreen and got a terrible burn. I think the tourists discovered my little nook. It’s preposterous to think I can go anywhere in New York and avoid a crowd. I read the paper and thought about her, then went home and did laundry. Spent time on the phone with Bonnie. She’s got relationship problems, too.

I am so vexed about what happened the other night, and so convinced it’ll happen again, that I went to a hypnotist. Desperate measures. It cost $80. That leaves $73 in my checking account. He put me “under” but all I felt was ridiculous. He thought I fell asleep but, honestly, it was all I could do to keep from laughing. He said to envision peace and calm and then took my money. I don’t know if it’ll help. It would help if Laura dumped Dave back in Nebraska. I should visit Ann and her coconut oil. I’ll bet that’d restore my confidence in a jiffy.

Laura and I like to have “questions sessions” in bed. We create a safe space and are allowed to ask each other anything, no matter how personal or erotic. And many fantasies were learned. On that day. It’s a lot of fun. I found out about Dave during one of these sessions. Unsafe space.

CBGBs this Friday. Fang Records showcase featuring BOX and Very Pleasant Neighbor. Two of my favs. Cindy said she’s going, which is a bonus.

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Artist and rabble rouser Ai Weiwei’s new public installations are a commentary on the worldwide refugee crisis. As with most conceptual art, its meaning in relation to the actual piece is beyond my ken. I only ever enjoy this stuff for its visual splendor (or lack thereof). Good Fences Make Good Neighbors is a citywide installation that consists of hundreds of pieces. The most fetching are these two cages.

I took these at 6:30 in morning. I wanted stark, empty streets and early light.

Arch is in Washington Square Park.

The center cutout is polished mirror and in the shape of two figures.

Gilded Cage sits at the southeast entrance to Central Park.

That’s The Plaza in the background. Once an elegant hotel, it’s now a Trump property and, hence, polluted.

You can walk inside. It’s the closest I ever hope to get to jail.

Bruce Springsteen is playing a one-man show on Broadway and people are fuming over the price of a ticket. The initial face value was $75-$850. The $75 tickets are two rows in a converted balcony. It used to be where the lighting rigs were mounted. The seats are so high up that there could be an imposter on stage and you’d never know the difference. The entire run, through February, sold out instantaneously. Only secondary market tix are available at inflated prices.

Last week’s Broadway earnings report contained a wild aberration. Bruce earned $2.3 million for FIVE SHOWS. Hamilton earned $2.9 million for the week, but that was for EIGHT performances and that show has a huge cast and an orchestra. Bruce’s overhead is nonexistent. It’s him, a microphone, a guitar and a piano. He doesn’t have to share his lucre with anyone.

His base isn’t happy. Fans are incredulous. “Man of the people, my ass!,” they wail. Each night, the theater, an elegant, intimate, 900-seat Broadway house built in 1921, is stuffed to the rafters with wealthy, Caucasian, geezers.

As far as I’m concerned, Bruce gets a pass. That man spent his entire career in the service of his fans. You get your money’s worth and then some when you see him perform. He gives back. Many of his charitable deeds go unreported. He’s in the sunset of his career. If he wants to take a victory lap on Broadway and charge a lot of money, that’s his due.

My wife and I saw the show last Friday. I can’t afford a ticket and wouldn’t pay $850 even if could. I got tickets via the only option available to the hoi polloi; I won the daily ticket lottery. And when I say ‘won,’ I don’t me we got free tickets. Winning the daily lottery entitles you to buy a pair of tickets for $75 each. They were nice seats! Mezzanine! The gentleman sitting next to us paid $400 for his tickets from StubHub, so $75 is a bargain.

It’s billed as ‘written and directed’ by Bruce, but I’m pretty sure he had help from someone who knows a thing or two about theater. The pacing was good, the blocking was smart and the transitions were well-placed. He’d move from guitar to piano when he needed to change a scene or move the story forward. There were equal parts story-telling and singing. The songs were stripped bare. If Born in the U.S.A. had been originally sung the way it is in this show–mournful and slow with a slide and a 12-string guitar–it never would’ve been mistaken for a jingoistic anthem.

End up like a dog that’s been beat too much
Till you spend half your life just covering up

The crowd initially mistook it for a concert. They were whooping and making a ruckus. It’s not that kind of show. It’s a quiet show. There’s a lot of dialogue. Bruce can deliver a line and has surprisingly adroit comedic timing. As soon as the show settled into a groove, people quieted down.

His wife came out and sang two songs with him. That section felt superfluous and wedged-in. It interrupted the flow. He could easily cut her out, streamline the show and keep more of the till for himself. But then, he couldn’t go home at night.

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I took my daughters to the local botanical garden. These were taken with my iPhone. It has a duel lens that allows for close-ups. I took about 80 shots to get these eight that I like. You couldn’t do that before the digital age. Remember when you had 16 shots and you had to make each one count?

Does anyone know what kind of beetle this is?

Deep Cut Gardens was once the home of New York mob boss Vito Genovese. He bought the house and surrounding property as a quiet respite from his busy business affairs in the city. He ran afoul of the law and the property was taken by the government. The house is now a welcoming center and the grounds are meticulously maintained. One wonders how they arrived at the name ‘deep cut.’ Vito’s favorite negotiating tool?