The goodbye look

Posted on March 15, 2011 by Exile on Pain Street

Disneyworld is pretty much the last thing that comes to mind when I think of taking some time off and going away on a relaxing holiday. But then I get this:

I know what happens.
I read the book.
I believe I just got the goodbye look.

So that pretty much settled that. I’m going to Disneyworld. I just got an e-mail from a friend who is, as this very moment, vacationing in Venice. It was a lifetime ago that I saw Italy and it’ll be another lifetime until I can return. Until then, I’m off to the happiest place on earth. So help me Bog, it had better not rain. Not for the kind of money I had to burn.

Won’t you pour me a Cuban breeze, Gretchen?

* * *

Last Sunday, The New York Times printed their semi-annual fashion magazine, T. This was the spring issue. It’s thick and glossy and nothing but ads, really.

One spread featured Lou Reed wearing a Rick Owens jacket ($1,602), t-shirt ($286) and pants ($750).

Lou Reed!

Wearing a friggin’ $286 t-shirt!

I guess I’m glad for Lou because he certainly did earn it, but it makes me kind of sad, too. When I was a tyke, I saw Lou tour his Sally Can’t Dance album at Cleveland’s Music Hall. He had platinum blond hair. At the beginning of the show, someone walked a dazed Lou out to the mike at center stage, strapped a guitar on him and he stood rooted in that spot for the entire show. But he got through it!

Now he’s a model.

Okay. As Bukowski put it, scramble two.

Free tip from the Buddha/Baby, it’s cold outside

Posted on March 9, 2011 by Exile on Pain Street

“Look how he abused me and beat me,
“How he threw me down and robbed me.”
Live with such thoughts and you live with hate.

“Look how he abused me and beat me,
“How he threw me down and robbed me.”
Abandon such thoughts and live in love.

In this world
Hate never yet dispelled hate.
This is law,
Ancient and inexhaustible.
You too shall pass away.
Knowing this, how can you quarrel?

from the Dhammapada

I suppose this can be dismissed as a platitude, but it got under my skin and stayed with me. In reading it over and over, I revealed an unattractive truth about myself. It’s something I’m working on.

* * *

I had to stay in the city overnight so I got a hotel room. When I walked out the next morning at 6:30, I turned onto 57th Street and was hit with a blast of frigid crosstown wind. The Hudson River to my left, the East River to my right. Caught in the crossfire!

I simply can’t take the cold anymore. It’s been a long, cold winter. I fought my way eastward to the A train against a wind gust that stung my ears and made my eyes water. I lost it. I had a moment of insanity and started cursing God. I called him the most vile and foul things I could think of. Take it from me. I can be pretty imaginative.

To remedy this I am exercising the only option I have. I’m playing the Disney card. I’m taking all The Girls to Florida next week. So help me God, if the weather is bad when we get there, I’m going to find the nearest Catlick Church, kick the door in and give the Holy Father a piece of my mind. I’m not kidding.

Statue. Gesundheit! [get it?]

Posted on March 7, 2011 by Exile on Pain Street

The annual Armory Art Show took place this past weekend. It’s a big contemporary art fair that the Manhattan galleries look forward to with great anticipation but it’s something that I’ve never attended. Not once! In celebration of the show, Times Square was transformed into a sculpture garden. Here are a few examples. All photos are clickable. Make sure you click on that first one to see the detail.

This big boned gal is by Niki de Saint Phalle. You can’t tell but she was kind of sparkly. Water streamed out of those upturned jugs.

This oversized happy mouse is the work of Tom Otterness. His stuff is so clever. It’s playful. He makes something as hard as steel look soft.

He had a wealth of permanent fixtures in Manhattan that include playgrounds, subway stations and a hotel on 42nd Street. I’ve got a bunch of photos of his stuff and have been meaning to do a post.

This flock of sheep was grazing right outside the big Marriott.

They were hand-made from heavy paper by Brooklyn artist Kyu Seok Oh.

I was wondering if the whole flock of sheep/gaggle of tourists thing was an intentional metaphor. I hope not. That would be a bit of an insult. We need our tourists. Without tourists, this town would be about as special as Enid, Oklahoma.

Idiot x 2

Posted on March 3, 2011 by Exile on Pain Street

This pic accompanied a story in The New York Times about Bob Porbert, a member of the Detroit Red Wings who passed away last July at age 45.

An autopsy revealed that repeated blows to the head caused a degenerative brain disease. Probert was an “enforcer.” An enforcer, for the uninitiated, is a guy on a hockey team who will skate out onto the ice and beat the shit out of someone in order to intimidate the other players or payback an opponent who has fouled his team. A 2007 Hockey News poll rated him the “Greatest Enforcer in Hockey History.”

Bill Daly, deputy commissioner of N.H.L., commenting on the autopsy report, said he thought the findings were “interesting science” but, at this time, couldn’t recommend taking any steps to address excessive fighting.

Hockey will always be a bush-league, second rate sport until they clean up this mess and get rid of idiots like Bill Daly. And the scariest part of that photo isn’t the blood. It’s the look on that kid’s face.

Speaking of idiots.

* * *

I saw Green Day’s American Idiot, currently at the St. James. It has had a pretty successful run but I had mixed feelings about it.

The music was, of course, great, which comes as no surprise since I already know and like the album. The performances were good enough. A lot of pseudo-punk Broadway kids. The staging and lighting was genius. There was an wholly unexpected hallucinatory dream/flying sequence between a wounded Iraq war vet and a veiled Middle Eastern dancer, that was beautifully rendered. It whetted my appetite for Spider-man.

But, Holy Mother of God, what were they all so angry about?! The play starts and everyone is very, very pissed but you’re never given any context as to why. I think it’s because they live in the suburbs or they hate Republicans or they’re angry at their their step-dads but I’m not entirely certain. I thought the choreography was amateurish. :90 minutes of fist pumping, head bobbing and foot stomping does not a dance make.

Most surprising of all, I had no idea the show was so damn dreary. I like a little dramatic ebb and flow to my plots. This thing was one long ride straight to hell without a breather. So I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I think I must be the wrong demographic.

Not Scarface

Posted on March 1, 2011 by Exile on Pain Street

I’ve received a few random comments and e-mails inquiring about the status of the wound on my forehead from when I had a small piece of skin cancer cut out a few weeks ago. [Strong content. View discretion is advised.]

I haven’t written about it because there’s no story. I had a cracker jack dermatologist who was a whiz kid with the needle and thread. A true star! People assured me that I’d be scared for life and that I should have had a plastic surgeon in the room to sew up the wound. I was further assured that I would need a skin graft to fix that mess. I got all worked up. People are such busy-bodies.

Well, as you can see, I have practically NOTHING to show for all that agony. (And, believe me, it was a horrific experience. Sewing the wound shut was a violent act!)

I have to confess (perhaps foolishly) that I am deeply disappointed. I wanted a big, prominent scar. I’ve spent my whole life looking like a goddamn actuary accountant. I wanted a scar in the hope that it would toughen-up my look a bit. Like I fought off ninja assassins or something.

I had to walk around the city with a thick bandage on my forehead for two weeks after the operation. When people asked what happened, I told them that I got it the night Voldemort murdered my parents. It was fun! Perhaps I’ll go back and insist that he reopen the wound and restitch it in a more careless, less professional manner.

I was commenting to Mrs. Wife that perhaps the scar won’t tan and that it would become more prominent in the summertime. She callously reminded me that too much sun is what got me into this mess in the first place and that, henceforth, I would be wearing a hat to the beach. What a killjoy.