If you visit New York between now and June 26th and are trolling around for a mind-blowing art exhibit, head over to the Gagosian Gallery on 21st St. between 10th and 11th Avenue. Some of the big-name galleries and art dealers in New York occasionally put on shows that rival those in the major institutions. For example, the nice people at the Gagosian are presenting Claude Monet: Late Work.

The exhibit contains 27 extraordinary works dating from 1904 to 1922. There’s not a clunker in the whole show. These aren’t the typical Monet “pretty” pictures you’re use to seeing. These are paintings of his garden at Giverny that were executed through his failing eyesight.

I nearly passed out. I walked through the exhibit thrice and will probably go back for another peek before it closes.

The show was assembled via loans from museums all over the planet; Paris, Switzerland, Japan, Chicago. When you think of the breadth of what went into this exhibit (not to mention the cost), it’s pretty impressive stuff. And what’s really shocking is that nothing is for sale! (This is, after all, a gallery. Not a museum.) There’s no admission charge, either! It’s there for your enjoyment. Amazing. I love New York. And the Gagosians, too.

10 of these paintings (my favorites, as it turned out) are on loan from PRIVATE COLLECTIONS. These are pieces that are rarely, if ever, seen in public. It also means that somewhere in the world, someone walks into their dining room and one of these Monet’s is hanging there. A new benchmark for my own ordinariness.

Monet’s vision deteriorated to the point where he had to number his tubes of paint so he would know which color he was using. This was one of my favorites. It’s borderline abstract expressionism.

Let’s say you were on your way to work and looking to fulfill your a.m. salt bagel and coffee needs (as I often am). Are you going to go here:

Or are you going to go here:

Convenience is not a factor in your decision.

It’s a choice that, in a small way, defines who you are and what kind of city you want to live in. New York use to be full of red pills, like the one on the left. But for whatever reason, they are disappearing and being replaced with blue pills, like the one on the right.

This is the same fight that I meditated on in this David v. Goliath New York story. And for the record, even though I don’t think my small contribution will amount to squat, I always swallow the red pill of truth vs. the blue pill of blissful ignorance. (For salt bagels and coffee, that is. Please don’t test me on Life’s Big Decisions.)

This is Bryant Park, right behind the big library on 42nd Street and 5th Avenue, with the new sod all laid out. Can you old-time New Yorkers pick out what’s odd about this sod?

What’s the biggest surprise in these photos?

The shock is that nobody is ON THE GRASS! The lawn is surrounded by an ankle-high orange rope and small signs imploring people to stay off the sod and allow it to take root.

This is as good an illustration as any as to how far New York has come since I move here over two decades ago. When I got here, Bryant Park was a den of crime and drugs. You didn’t dare go NEAR it. All the dregs of 42nd Street would empty out into the park. At that time, the crackheads would have used the rope to tie up wayward tourists and picked their pockets. Now, it’s clean and full of law abiding citizens.

Some people bemoan the disappearance of “old” New York and pitch a fit about the “Disneyfication” of Times Square but take it from me, even though it may have cost the city some of its soul, this is a much, much better way to live. Don’t argue with me. It just is.

The seasons are changing. In a small Mission in Capistrano, California, the swallows have returned from their winter migration. Here in New York City, we also have a touchstone to mark the approaching balmy nights. Last week I had my first sighting of The Naked Cowboy in Times Square. True, he lacks the panache of small, delicate birds returning to a Mission, but give me a break. It’s New York. We’ll take what we can get.

The Naked Cowboy is a busker who walks around Times Square wearing just his skivvies with “Naked Cowboy” written on his ass, a cowboy hat and boots. If you stand right in front of him, his guitar covers his shorts and he does, in fact, appear to be naked. He’s been at it for quite some time and has become a Times Square institution.

Some of the locals think he’s just a nut with a gimmick, but I like him. He makes the tourists happy and what’s bad about that? When I pass through Times Square and stumble across his act, I always like to step back and watch the reactions of the crowd. Their faces run the gamut between abject horror and raw lust. The guy is built like a brick shithouse.

There’s a hole cut into the top of his guitar and after he poses for a pic, you’re suppose to drop a few bucks inside. Seems innocent enough to me. My point of all this is that the weather has finally turned a corner. All the cafes have put tables and chairs out on the sidewalks and the new lawn has been planted in Bryant Park. The welcome mat is rolled out, folks.

In New York you can forget,
forget how to sit still.
Tell yourself you will stay in
But it’s down to Alphaville.

You got to put the women and children first
But you’ve got an unquenchable thirst for New York

New York
U2