Fun With a Boulder, Floyd the Barber and Jesus

Posted on October 14, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

The Gagosian Gallery on 23^rd St. in Chelsea recently featured this work by Michael Heizer.

Negative Wall Sculpture (1992-94)

It’s a 5.7 ton hunk of black granite mounted with a metal rod (apparently, a damn strong one) inside a weathered steel frame.

You can say it’s just a rock in a box. A reasonable argument can be made that it has little to do with art. But when I walked into the gallery, it filled me with a moment of awe. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of the surrounding white walls or the fact that no one else was there. Just me and this big, stupid, imposing, beautiful rock enveloped in a thick, heavy silence. It really did work for me.

Since it’s in a gallery, I have to presume it’s for sale. I wonder how much? It’d pull the side of my house right down.

Over at the Sean Kelly Gallery is this clever eye-trick by Idiris Khan.

kahn1

A feather pattern printed in white on hanging panes of glass. Stand in front of it and light streams through.

Move in close and its secret is revealed: They’re sentences.

Printed words layered until they merge into each other. I couldn’t make sense of what it said, which I imagine is intentional. The message is the pattern, not what composes the pattern. I think.

Khan also printed this large piece on a wall at the gallery entrance. [Note to self: Next time, include an object to show scale.] There’s no way to preserve this. It’ll simply be painted over when the exhibit closes.

This one includes layers of English and Arabic.

In tonight’s shocking episode of “The Andy Griffith Show”:

iiiiiiii…KNEW IT! It’s so obvious in hindsight. I always thought Floyd was a little light in the loafers. And he was the town hairdresser, after all.

I went to church a couple of weeks ago. I occasionally attend and always go with an open mind and an open heart. It meant a lot to my mom and it’s meaningful to My Bride. I want to be respectful.

The first reading was a faerie tale about how God put a man to sleep, open his chest, extracted a rib and invented women. I am astonished that people still believe this is how women evolved. And please don’t tell me it’s an allegory. If that’s the case, are there other allegories I should be made aware of? How about the resurrection?

The second reading was from the New Testament. Jesus was asked his opinion about remarrying after divorce. He deemed it tantamount to adultery. That means that my mother, a devout Catholic who spent untold hours performing charitable works in the Church’s name, is now burning in hell as an adulterer. My blood started a slow simmer.

Instead of a Gospel reading, we were treated to a video by The Most Rev. David M. O’Connell, the Bishop of the Archdiocese of Trenton. He announced the beginning of the Faith to Move Mountains fundraising initiative. The church needs cash. He said he didn’t just want us to give. He wants us to give until we feel the weight of a true sacrifice. I took that to mean we should give an amount that causes some mild economic distress to our household. This church [not our regular church] serves an affluent community and is known for its aggressive fundraising. We know someone who was called at home and told a $10,000 contribution would be an appropriate amount to give.

After listening to a load of blarney about how women were invented and then being told that, according to a strict interpretation of Catholic doctrine, my mother is no better than a common whore in the eyes of the church, they wanted me to give them some money.

So that didn’t go as well as I would’ve liked.

The next day, I read in the New York Times that the church spend $170,000,000 to restore St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5^th Avenue.

$170,000,000 for one church. Praise Jesus and his mysterious, tax-free ways.

Our Young Hero Weeps Salty Tears

Posted on September 27, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

In this episode, the Emperor of Tender Hearts and Self-Pity rides in on his sad, gray horse. Hi ho.

bin3

April 27, 1995

A fun New York-y thing happened to me. I was on my way to work and because I’m working these crazy hours, it was midday and there weren’t many people on the subway platform. Near the center stairwell, waiting for the train, was a group of about 15 children with three or four teachers. They were around 6 years old, mixed races and genders. When I walked by, their conversations mashed together into a high-pitched buzz. Like tiny bees. I was annoyed because I wanted to read my paper so I started to walk off in a huff towards the end of the platform.

There was a sudden silence. They all turned to one of the teachers. She said something inaudible and they began singing Yellow Submarine in absolute perfect harmony. Their voices were sweet and angelic. It sounded like a choir but they were just children. No one voice was singing louder than the others. The acoustics in the subway were perfect. Their singing had a rich, full, echoy sound. Everyone standing around looked up from their reading material and stared. It was surreal. All those beautiful voices in that filthy setting.

They finished Yellow Submarine and began a song they were taught to sign. It was about how being here with their friends and singing makes them happy. There was a beautiful choreography of tiny hands, all moving in graceful unison. I started thinking of all those little children who were blown up in Oklahoma City last week. They’ll never see their friends or sing again. I started crying right in the middle of the subway platform. I had a suit and tie on and looked ridiculous. I was so embarrassed, but it made me happy that I live in New York, where crazy shit like this happens on a fairly regular basis.

May 1, 1995

The evening shift is killing me. I can’t sleep during the day. You can’t imagine how clean this apartment is. I’m a very clean person, you know? This morning, I ironed four shirts (medium starch) and scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom floors. You can’t use a sponge mop. Do you know who uses sponge mops? Lazy, wussy-pussy losers. You’ve got to get down on your hands and knees with a scrub brush and scrub that motherfucker until your knuckles and back hurt. I seriously think I’m losing my mind.

Ellis and Oswaldo are meeting a friend from college tonight for dinner. He became a teacher, taught all over the world but also had a secret life as “Miss Terry.” Get it? He’s HIV positive and can’t teach anymore. It’s only a matter of time.

Laura gave me a homework assignment. In one column, I’m supposed to list the things I like about the work I do and in another column I’m supposed to list the stuff I don’t like. I stared at a blank sheet of paper and couldn’t come up with any positives. I haven’t accomplished a damn thing. I’m going to spend rest of my life as an office drone. I want to seduce her, so I’d better make up some positive stuff. What is a good thing?

I remember sitting at that crappy presswood and tube steel table in that crappy apartment in Phoenix and writing a letter to Peggy about my Arizona adventures. The next morning, before dropping it in the mail, I reread it and was surprised at how good it was. A magic elf could’ve snuck in overnight and wrote it, but that didn’t happen. I wrote it. I thought it was my imagination but Peggy called the day she got it and said she passed it around the office and it made everyone laugh. She said, “You do know that you’re a writer, don’t you?” I got choked-up but she never knew, thank god. [Caveat: I’m not fishing for compliments or encouragement, all appearances to the contrary. I’m just regurgitating what’s in the binders.]

I accidentally/on purpose came across the studio shot of Karen. I couldn’t stand it anymore so I called the travel agency and they said she left four months ago. It made me wretch. I’ll never find her. To insure that never happens again, I took the photo outside and burned it. It was supposed to be cathartic but my memory didn’t go up in flames, like the metaphor promised it would. I still think about her.

There was an ad in the Village Voice personals by a girl who’s trapped in a corporate environment and looking for a writing partner. You have to call her voicemail and leave a message. I thought I’d fumfer if I spoke off the cuff so I typed-out a response:

[Redacted]

The voicemail message (which cost me $2.50 to listen to) said she’s looking for a “very smart, very sexy man who can write who’s not intimidated by a very smart, very sexy woman who can write.” I hung up. I couldn’t do it. She’d see right through me. I think what I’m looking for is a wilted violet.

I forgot to wear a belt to work the other day so I went to H&M at lunch to buy one. Have you ever been to H&M? My first and last visit. Their target audience is 15-year old girls tweaked out on meth. It’s like being in da club at 2:30 a.m. All mirrors and loud, thumping, headache-inducing “music.” I was standing in the checkout queue having a brain aneurysm, looked up and across 42nd St. was a Gap. A nice, quiet, gentle Gap.

The view from my office. The days are getting shorter. Autumn is here.

Blog Post Tapas

Posted on September 20, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

I did a post like this not long ago. I’ve got a bunch of interesting bits and pieces floating around that, hopefully, make for a worthwhile post.

A Lot of Plot for One Statue

This is the Hindu goddess Durga. I met her at The Rubin Museum of Art last week. Here, she defeats the wicked demigod Mahisah. Nepal. 13th Century.

Durga decapitates a buffalo and pulls Mahisah out by his hair (ouch). Before he can draw his sword, she stabs him in the chest with her varja (OUCH).

The Goddess’s 18 arms fan out showing her arsenal of weapons. All this violence is balanced by her calm expression. She’s pretty bad-ass.

This antagonized my feelings towards religion. Catholicism places women on a pedestal and then imprisons them a gilded cage. Their virginity is obsessed over. They’re not fit for the priesthood and are only offered servitude roles. Don’t get me started on how Muslims treat women.

Hindus make their women into WARRIOR GODDESSES who can kick a man’s ass when he’s being a wicked demigod.

Blue Sky + Gray Hair > Gray Sky + Blue Hair

I was lying in my hammock daydreaming about The Partridge Family. I remembered that in the Mad Magazine parody, Danny stole Laurie’s training bra, cut eye holes in it and used it as a bandit mask. I recalled the illustration of Danny wearing the bra on his head while Laurie complained to mom. I had a good retro laugh.

Earlier that morning, I was picking up a prescription for my daughter and when the pharmacist asked what her date of birth is, my mind went white.

C’mon, get happy.

With Apologies to Bob Dylan

Dear younger self:

The lyric in the second verse of the Top 40 chestnut Go All the Way by Cleveland pop sensation The Raspberries is not

Oh, I love her
screwing me

as you and your young school chums once believed. Rather, it’s

Before her love
I was cruel and mean

Glad I finally got that sorted out. Took long enough.

A recent post by Samara about Lay, Lady, Lay reminded me that, for many years, I thought Bob Dylan’s most romantic ballad was actually written and performed by 70’s Lite FM staple Mac Davis, he of Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me fame. That means I thought the lyrics

Whatever colors you have
in your mind
I’ll show them to you and you’ll
see them shine

and

Girl, you’re a hot-blooded woman-child
And it’s warm where you’re touchin’ me

CAME FROM THE SAME PEN.

The Sound of One Hand Clapping

“Imagine you are alone in a room. The lights are down low, you’ve got some scented candles going. Soothing New Age tunes, nothing too druid-chanty, seep out of the hi-fi to gently massage your cerebral cortex. Feel good? Are you the best, most special person in the room right now? Yes. That’s the gift of being alone.”

Colson Whitehead
The Noble Hustle: Poker, Beef Jerky, and Death

Graphique Fantastique

Look at these two magnificent posters for Broadway productions. Graphic design is a pretty great art form, even if it is primarily a vehicle for commerce.

This first one is by Paul Jeffery. It’s for the new David Mamet play starring Al Pacino. It reminds me of those cool travel posters from the 1950’s. Nice, dignified color palate. It says noting whatsoever about the play itself, but it conveys all the information needed to make you want to buy a ticket, namely,

AL
PACINO

and

DAVID
MAMET

It worked on me. I got a ticket. But those two old rattlesnakes, Mamet and Pacino, aren’t the sure bet they once were. They’re not exactly at the top of their game anymore. The evening can go either way.

This one is for a musical you can’t get a ticket to unless you’re extraordinarily wealthy. I don’t know who did the poster but the logo is genius. It has movement and beautiful stark contrasts. The top point of the star is implied. His buttons are a nice, subtle accent.

XVI

One rose for each year. A happy anniversary to my Bride. 16 years this past 9/11. Thanks, terrorists, for fucking up my anniversary. AND my town.

We didn’t celebrate for a few years after the attack. It didn’t feel right. But we decided to reclaim the day. We mean no disrespect to people who lost someone but it’s ours and we choose to celebrate it. 16 years now. 18, unofficially. The score is:

Annus Mirabilis: 18
Annus Horribilis: 0

Would you autograph your book for me?

Posted on September 13, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

119

I was perusing the fall author appearance schedule at the 5th Avenue and Union Square Barnes & Nobel. I like getting signed first editions. I have shelves full of them. Sara Bareilles is coming in October and I had absolutely no idea who she was so I clicked on the More Information link. To wit:

Special Instructions

Wristband event
No memorabilia
No posed photography
Two books per person limit
Purchases starting 9:00AM the day of the event and join the signing line outside the front of the store.

Sara Bareilles will only be signing her new title Sounds Like Me. Event guidelines are subject to change. Please follow instructions given by the events team. In advance, the courtesy of your cooperation is appreciated.

Please follow instructions. In other words, to borrow a famous New York Daily News headline:

Sara Bareilles To Fans: DROP DEAD

Carrie Brownstein will also hit the road this fall to shill her memoir. I’ll bet it’s thrilling. A New York Times fluff piece said:

…she’s relieved that book tours are generally not as extensive as music tours. “As much as I wanted to have a stop in Indianapolis.”

Carrie Brownstein To Indianapolis: DROP DEAD

Are book tours really so arduous? Is meeting your readers such sublime torture? Don’t these frail, delicate, l’artistes realize they’ve won the lottery? I can’t stand it when people turn unimaginable success into a crushing burden.

I’ve been to PLENTY of author meet-and-greets and, for the most part, they’ve been satisfying experiences. Michael Chabon is always engaging. Sherman Alexie is the best reader out there. At one reading, I asked Nick Hornby if I could publish one of his essays in a chapbook and without blinking, he said yes. Most authors seem genuinely appreciative of their audience. But some are tormented by us.

I went to a David Foster Wallace reading. I brought three older titles with me that I wanted him to sign. When I got to the table, he sat there with his arms crossed, looking straight ahead. Not at me. The Barnes & Nobel rep said, “Mr. Wallace will only sign one old book for every new book purchased.” He looked mortified saying it.

I felt stupid and small. I tucked my tail between my legs, got out of line, bought three more new books and went to the back of the line. He then, grudgingly, signed the old titles. In hindsight, what I should have done, was chuck the new book at his stupid bandanna and told him to jam it up his ass. Christ. He’s lucky to HAVE old titles.

Look, I know getting a book autographed is trite. I’ve meditated on it and I can’t figure out its appeal. But it’s something I like to do. It’s an innocent hobby and Dear Dead David made me feel ashamed for it. He took that small joy away from me. It would’ve cost him NOTHING to just sign the fucking books and send me on my merry way.

If I’m ever lucky enough to be published and I’m sent on an author tour, here’s what you can expect from me:

A detailed, passionate inscription thanking you for reading my book.
A vigorous handshake. I might yank your arm out of its socket.
Two books per person limit? Feh. How many can you carry?
An invitation. Can I buy you a drink? Are you hungry?
Do your feet hurt? Can I give you a foot rub?

To all the tortured souls with impending book tours this fall, especially Carrie Brownstein and Sara Bareilles (I’m still not sure who she is), that’s how it’s done, you ingrates.

I’m on a roll. What’s my other favorite red button issue? Oh, yeah.

Awwwww…C’MON PEOPLE! SERIOUSLY?! Is this what we’ve come to? Are we, as a society, so addicted to mobile phones that we can’t even put the damn things down long enough to take a piss? Man, are we soft. China is going to dink our milkshake. The phone did not, despite my pleadings and offerings to the various Gods and Goddesses, slip out of his hand, drop onto the urinal cake and get pissed on.

Oh, yes I did, take that picture.

Summer is over and these two are none too happy about it.

It was a good season. Lots of sun and beach time. If this is global warming, I’ll have some more, please.

Summer is over for my little translucent, black-eyed friend, too.

We Like New York City

Posted on September 9, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

I was invited to participate in the Big Birthday Playlist Tsunami for Samara. The idea was to post a song that represents her persona out here in the ether but I can do one better. We have a song that’s ours.

Samara and I are seekers on the same path. We’ve never bumped into (or stepped over) one another along the way, but we’re on the same path. We lived in the East Village for many years before it got tidied-up and became a playground for the wealthy. When we were there, the wealthy only visited when they wanted to go slumming.

What was once this:

Is now this:

Those city years left an impression on us. You can call it a scar but I like to think of it as a beauty mark. We both fled to the New Jersey suburbs for the same reason; to make a better life for our kids. The East Village is no place to raise a child. She lives just a few towns over.

Joey Ramone sent us a post card from our past. This song fills us with blue melancholy. In addition to having a great hook, the video for his New York City is a stop-motion masterpiece. It winds through some of the same streets where we lived. Our streets. That guitar solo over the Brooklyn Bridge feels like going home. It’s like a home movie with a kick ass soundtrack. Reet, doll?

Happy birthday.

Here are the other participants and their tracks.