Tied Down With Thick Ropes

Not me! The park. What are you thinking?

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It’s another cripplingly cold morning so in an irrational fit of optimism, I’ve decided to post something that’s been sitting in my draft folder since last AUGUST. Maybe it’ll rekindle my long-abandoned dream of warm weather. Because at this point, I’ve pretty much lost hope.

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One of the things I love most about summer are the big-space art exhibits that pop up all over the city. Some ideas and schemes  are so ambitious that they can’t be constrained by four museum walls. Some of the best ones can be found in Madison Square Park off of 23rd Street and 5th Avenue.

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Last summer, they hosted contemporary American sculptor Orly Genger’s installation Red, Yellow and Blue.

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Walls of undulating, layered nautical rope were constructed and then painted. It looks like it was tedious, hard work to mount but I liked the end result. When you turned a corner, it was a pleasant shock to see these bright colors pop out where you weren’t expecting to see them.

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It’s a nice, warm environmental piece. The rope worked well with the surrounding flora, fauna and lawns.

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I didn’t intend for it to look this way–I’m not that clever–but the rope looks like it’s floating!

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A little painting, a little sculpture, a little arts-n-crafts. I wonder what they did with all that rope at the end of the exhibit?

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Did that whet your appetite for big art? Would you like to see another one? Here’s a really cool exhibit that ran at the Guggenheim last summer the same time this was up at Madison Square Park. What a great town!

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Guess how much maple syrup is in this bottle of Aunt Jemima’s Original pancake syrup?

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Ready?

None. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nil. Not a drop. Nada.

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It’s all corn syrup + crap. My Bride brought home some authentic Vermont maple syrup and I’ve been so brainwashed over the years by consuming this rotten corn by-product that the real thing tasted kind of odd to me. And I thought it was thin, too. Thank you, Quaker Oats, for ruining maple syrup for me!

I am never putting this swill in my mouth again. You shouldn’t, either.

A New York Story

My new best friend, Twindaddy, ran a contest to write a tagline for his blog. The grand prize winner (that would be me) won a guest post on his blog, which I have hurriedly taken advantage of before he had a chance to change his mind.

I decided to run a post from 2010, long before I migrated to WordPress, so it’ll be new to most of you. With all apologies to Dickens, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Potpourri

pot·pour·ri [poh-poo-ree, poh-poo-ree] Noun.
3. a collection of miscellaneous literary extracts.

I haven’t had much time to read or comment this week. That’s soooo unoriginal. It’s the same complaint that everyone has. I’m guest posting next week elsewhere in the ether. Here’s a smattering of tidbits to fill in the gap between now and then.

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Do you guys know what these are? They’re new to me.

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They’re called claw caps. They keep kitty from tearing the settee to shreds.

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My sister claims the cat doesn’t mind one bit and there’s never a fight to put them on. They swap them out when they’re worn. My understanding is that the cat is currently sporting hot pink claw caps. They’re genius. If I had invented them, I’d be posting this from Fiji right now.

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I saw this in The New York Times yesterday.

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Yeah, that’s a GREAT idea. Let’s send some “advisers” to Africa. In 1955, British author Graham Greene published his novel The Quiet American. It predicted America’s slide into the Vietnam conflict with alarming accuracy. He wrote it after meeting an American “adviser” there. When the book was published, it was roundly condemned as being anti-American. It’s a hell of a read.

Will we EVER LEARN?

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Take a look at this spectacular sculpture by Lorenzo Quinn. It was briefly on display in the lobby of an office tower off of 6th Avenue over the Christmas holiday. I love it.

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This is Force of Nature II. I’m not a huge fan of sculpture but I was really moved by this. Enough to come in off the street and take it in. The earth’s continents are etched into the globe.

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I love the violent, wind-swept movement. It’s nice an big, too! It has a lot of interesting different angles.

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Fun fact: Quinn is the son of actor Anthony Quinn. He’s a hell of a sculptor, that’s for sure. Here are some of his selected works.

The Fourth Estate

I’m a paper and ink guy. I’ll always read books and never own an e-reader. I know that e-readers are lightweight and convenient, but they lack tradition. Printed newspapers are dying, too. Luckily, I still have access to a number of different print publications. Most fortuitous of all, we here in New York still have a tabloid. Tabloids are awesome! God bless Rupert Murdoch’s New York Post.

Mr. Murdoch doesn’t seem to be overly concerned with journalistic excellence or accuracy. We have other outlets for that. News Corp has an ax to grind against liberals, and grind it does. Additionally, it provides cheap, visceral thrills. Nothing wakes your ass up quicker than a sensational headline or a ghastly photo first thing in the morning. My understanding is that London still has a few tabloids as well. Aren’t they great?!

I came up out of the subway last week, approached a newsstand and was met with this beauty:

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Oh, no they didn’t.

Oh, yes they did, my lovelies. I can’t speak for its meaning globally, but here in the U.S., “pussy whipped” refers to a man relentlessly berated by his wife who doesn’t stand up for himself. He’s probably a liberal. And who knew there were still Cossack thugs in the world? I didn’t. Thank you, New York Post! Once the print editions cease, these wonderful, gaudy front pages will be no more. It’s sad.

You meet interesting people in The New York Post. Like Michelle Esquenazi, CEO of a successful bounty hunting operation on Staten Island. When asked the secret to her company’s phenomenal recovery rate, she said she sets “honey traps.”

“We send a hot piece of pussy to his door. Of course he’s going to open up the door for a nice piece of ass. It’s timeless. The thing about defendants is no matter who they are — they can come in white, black, green or purple polka dots. They’re all dumb,” she noted. “Every single last one of them is stupid.”

You’re not going to read about her in The Wall Street Journal. I want to have drinks with Michelle, don’t you? Can you imagine the fantastic stories? Blog posts for a year.

More often than not I find myself reading The New York Times. It’s the paper of record. The Gray Lady. Sometimes, they’re difficult to take seriously, too. Do you know who they profile in The Times? People like 85-year old Betty Halbreich, “Bergdorf Goodman’s renowned personal shopper and the breakout star of the 2013 documentary ‘Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf’s.’” The profile takes place in Halbreich’s eight-room Park Avenue apartment where…

…every bibelot sparkles and every surface is dust free. “My poor cleaning lady!” she said. “I’ve had her for 20 years, and everything is kept clean under threat of death.”

Is that supposed to be funny? What if that cleaning lady was your mother? What an insane old cow. She’s like a Saturday Night Live sketch about self-absorbed, wealthy dingbats. And The Times likes to represent itself as the voice of the common people. Please.

Bibelot. Give me a break with that stuff.

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St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue—an architectural landmark—is undergoing a major restoration. Here’s a before pic…

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…and here’s after. The ceilings were caked with centuries of smoke from those holy smudge pots the priests swing around on a gold chain. They’re gussying-up the exterior as well.

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A spiritual lesson written in sand

I visited the Asia Society on my lunch hour where four Tibetan Buddhist monks are creating a mandala. It’s a rare treat. I’ve only seen one other before; created in the lobby of the World Trade Center many years ago.

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Do you guys know what a mandala is? That’s all SAND, friends. A mandala is a beautiful, painstaking, time consuming, spiritual work of art.

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It’s being created in conjunction with The Asia Society’s current exhibit, Golden Visions of Densatil: A Tibetan Buddhist Monastery. The monastery was destroyed in the 20th Century and its reliefs and sculptures scattered to the wind. As Holland Cotter of The New York Times wrote in his exhibit review, “You have to hate or fear something a lot to do what China did to Tibetan Buddhism.” The pieces are now being gathered and the Monastery restored. They’re on display until May.

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They started the mandala on Thursday and it was scheduled for completion on Sunday. A pattern is designed and draw in pencil. You can still see some of the outlines along the perimeter.

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Colored sand in copper bowls is poured into copper funnels tapered to fine point. The monks tap or scrape the funnels with copper rods and the sand slowly pours out in small increments.

The mandala will remain on view through May until the exhibit closes. Do you know what they do with a mandala once it’s completed?

Mandala3They destroy it.

A ceremony is performed and the monks who created it take a broom and sweep it away. After all that hard work! It’s a meditative lesson on life’s impermanence. Everything changes, brothers and sisters. Nothing lasts forever. Trying to hold onto something, be it a shiny bauble, your fading youth or someone in your life, is an exercise in futility that will only lead to an unsettled and agitated mind.

The sooner we learn to LET GO of things, the happier we’ll all be. Reet?

You are permitted to stand along the perimeter and observe. The room is dim and a quiet respect fills the air. The monks talk amongst themselves in low tones and will occasionally chuckle over a private joke. They work seven hours a day.

Mandala10Their philosophy is the closest thing I’ve ever come to being moved spiritually. I sat in Catholic churches and parochial schools all throughout my youth. I was never touched and, more often that not, was just bored. These are not negative judgments I’m espousing. Just my own personal experiences. My mother was saved by the Catholic church. She died peacefully because of her deep faith. She was always sad that I didn’t embrace the church’s teachings, but what am I to do? You can’t manufacture enthusiasm. It’s either there or it isn’t.

7-Year Old Daughter had her first Holy Confession last week. It’s one of the seven sacraments you can receive in the Catlick church. In confession, you sit with a priest, one-on-one, and confess your sins. Afterwards, you are given penance, usually a series of prayers to recite. It’s cathartic for a lot of people. 

Before their confessions began, the pastor stood in front of the congregation and said:

“I’m addressing just the children.

We are all sinners. It says so in the Bible! And if you say you’re not a sinner, then you are calling God a liar.”

What a heavy trip to lay on an innocent 7-year old! Always the beat-down. This is the oldest trick in the book. In the military they do it in boot camp. In fraternities it’s called hazing. It’s at the core of most theologies. You’re torn down, made to feel lowly and unworthy, and then rebuilt. You feel grateful towards your tormentors—the very people who damned you!—for making you feel whole again. I should take her to a monastery and save her from all this wrath.

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