New York Story

June, 2009.

A summary:
Fathers vs. Daddies
Outkast/Shakespeare
Strawberry Shortcake isn't always sweet


In New York, the good lies right on top of the bad.
There is not enough lateral space to set them side by side.
It is a city of juxtapositions, incongruities, unexpected reveals.

On the 1 Train I overhear this conversation between two teenage girls, one of whom had just lost her father:

"I'm really going to miss him. They took his body, you know?"
"They couldn't have waited a little while longer? At least until you got home?"

Across the aisle two other teenage girls are listening to an iPod; one earbud per girl. They are bobbing in time and singing:

Daddy I'm so sorry, I'm so s-s-sorry yeah
We just like to party, like to p-p-party yeah

Bang bang, we're beautiful and dirty rich
Bang bang, we're beautiful and dirty rich

Days later on the same train two young black guys get on the train and stand near the door. They look nervous and sweaty like they just got away with something. The one nearest me has his hand inside his jacket like he's reaching for his wallet. The other has his thumbs tucked in his jean pockets, his hands keeping a fluttery beat on his thighs. Their jaws are set tight and their eyes are reflective. They look angry and kind of... hungry.
They ride in silence for two or three stops, staring at the window like there's some vista hidden that only they can appreciate.
The one standing next to me shifts. When his hand comes out of his jacket, it's holding a little book with a surprising delicacy.
"Hey, Man. You know when it says:
"Hate the evil, and love the good, and establish judgment in the gate:
it may be that the Lord God of hosts will be gracious unto the remnant
of Joseph."
"Yeah, man?"
"What's that about?"

At Times Square between the N/R/W and the 1/2/3 there is a coveted corner for musicians. There is always a small crowd gathered to watch either the performer or the large screen television in the store window just to the right which is usually playing an Ultimate Fighting championship.
Sometimes, there's a tiny Indian man sitting hunched at a keyboard, his head hanging off his frame at an alarming 90 degree angle, his arms above his head in a Thriller Dance shrug so he can reach the keys.

If you saw him from the back you would think he was headless.

Arranged carefully in a semicircle around him there are these dancing electronic dolls that stand about a foot and a half high wearing pigtails, pink plastic cowboy boots and little gingham dresses. They are stomping to the beat, their little mouths opening and closing like they're gasping for air. All this is scored with the Doris Day version of "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps" and the Indian man's addition of a techno-pop beat.
If you happen to catch one of those rare moments when someone slows down long enough to put a dollar in his hat, you will see a most amazing thing. This crumpled, ashen man will raise his sunken, toothless face and smile with a radiance to singe your heart.

I'm walking down the street thinking about surprise, judgement, defiance of expectation... listening to my iPod when Outkast's 'Gangsta Shit' gives way to Henry VI;Part Two:

"...Just to pull it out, point it at the ground and make a nigga wanna dance
Now what that be for, you're on that reefer and on that Tupac
In front of them oooh wops, trying to show out, that's the hoe route
Talking loud, talking bout.. that's gangsta shit"

3 second crossfade into...

"(soundscape- a whistling wind, a rousing heraldry and the distant sounds of a battle)
The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night..."

Laughing out loud, I don't notice the enormous man on the sidewalk ahead of me who's just walked out of his three martini lunch. He stumbles backward and steps squarely in the middle of my foot with one crisp, business shoe heel. I feel the little bones retreating and the tears rushing to my eyes. I am laughing, crying, grimacing with pain. A cab races by, lays on the horn, kicks up a puddle. The man apologizes. I wince at him. Understanding, but unable to speak, I limp away.


Of note:
Deserving honorable mention in the contradictory persons of NY category - I saw a woman get on the A train wearing a full scale Strawberry Shortcake outfit and carrying a trumpet. She sat down, pulled out a tiny mirror, re-applied her freckles, adjusted her cleavage... and started swearing to herself. And spitting. Wonderful.

John Vanderslice at The Music Hall of Williamsburg - Photos and words by Dominick Mastrangelo for venuszine.
This man is adorable. He moves like he's still flirting with his adolescence, bashfully shrugging his guitar closer to his wrinkled T-shirt. He sings with a long-distance focus in his eyes, but when he stops between songs he is absolutely there for you and you only.
Opening act, The Tallest Man on Earth, was like watching someone being born every few minutes. Each time he inhaled, we were relieved... and riveted for what might be next. There's something truly alarming about this performer, and a performer he is. He can simultaneously hold a look of absolute innocence and discovery and in the same moment seem to harbor the mischievous antidote.
His encore 'Moonshiner' sent me back to high school and the discovery of Uncle Tupelo's March 16-20 1992. Sitting in the parking lot in Jameel's car singing at the top of our lungs, we'll be late for Mr. Bruce's choir class, but we don't care. What an incredible record. Black Eye still gets me right.. there.


Patrick's. I had the pleasure of introducing two out-of-towners (L.B.! and Inga! and soon... Alycia!) to my neighborhood dive bar this month. Now, when I say dive, you say 'how dive?' and I say, 'you don't even know.' I love, love this place. Somehow I ended up doing time-steps with Pamela (the bartender) and Drake (her Vegas brother)whose family used to own a tap studio in the neighborhood, hearing the life story of a Deadhead, dispensing relationship advice to total strangers, fending off free Irish car-bombs and yet again having the conversation over the check that goes:
"How much do I owe you?"
"I don't know, how much do you think?"

Cafe Asean ">Cafe Asean. Incredible food, cute back patio.


Gus Place. (between 6th and MacDougal on Bleecker) Great wine, great food (except for the zucchini fritters). I will be back here.

Cafe Arte. (106 W. 73rd UWS) Delicious, affordable prix fixe meal. I had the goat cheese ravioli in vodka sauce, the spinach salad, the hazelnut gelato. The Sangiovese was lovely and the staff was hysterical. We sat next to this fantastically dorky teenager taking his grandparents out for dinner and a young dad out to dinner with his 4 yr. old who kept asking the nearby diners why they hadn't finished their food yet.

Alice's Teacup. I can't wait to go back here. We stopped in for directions (twice) and the guy behind the counter was ridiculously charming and adorable. I was helpless to resist a large (salty!) chocolate cookie just out of the oven.

Magnolia Bakery. Of SNL's 'The Chronic (What?!)cles of Narnia' fame. Amazing red velvet cupcake. The uptown location at Columbus and 69th.

Awash. Great Ethiopian food. Ridiculously bad decor.

Bali Nusa Indah. Excellent Indonesian food. Banana crepes!



Theatre:
August: Osage County (The Music Box) Phylicia Rashad was fearless and wonderful. Who knew Mrs. Huxtable could be such a drug- addled, volatile lunatic. Also wonderful- Amy Morton playing Barbara. My only complaint - the fights were unbelievable. Ha! I just looked up who choreographed them and it's the president of SAFD... a guy who not only gave me my certifications but drank beers with me and my friends on my birthday last year- sorry, Man... but still....

Twelfth Night (The Public in Central Park) I spent the first 20 minutes being grouchy about Anne Hathaway... 'what's this little starlet know about Shakespeare... oh! she is slaughtering that speech... blahblah nonsense, and then... I decided that she was utterly charming and kind of a joy to watch. Audra McDonald? Incredible. And Hamish Linklater absolutely stole the show with (my dream role) Andrew Aguecheek.
Also. A raccoon walked up on stage halfway through the first act.
A huge raccoon. Sidled up and took his light.

South Pacific (Lincoln Center) The overture begins, the lights swell, the stage rolls away to reveal the full orchestra... I look over at Inga and she at me. We are eight years old in my parent's living room, the record with Mitzi Gaynor and Rosanno Brazzi on the cover is on the turntable and we are over-dramatic, we are melancholy, we are dancing around the room like fools... We are thirty-one in the front row mezzanine at the Lincoln Center and we are both tearful and grinning.

Waiting For Godot (Roundabout) What a singular experience. Sitting with my long lost and found Inga Aesoph.
"We can still part... if you think it would be better".
No, no, I don't think it would better.