Category Archives: new york city

Lame Adventure 349: Farewell 2012 New York Film Festival

Posted on October 16, 2012 | 41 comments

Sunday night the New York Film Festival closed with several screenings of Flight starring Denzel Washington.  He is one of my favorite actors, but I refuse to shell out $20 for a film opening nationwide November 2nd that I can see at my local multiplex before noon for seven clams.  Milton did snag a ticket, but if he thought that Flight was the greatest movie ever made, he is in no hurry to sing its praises to me.  I am not feeling any suspense as I await his verdict.  It is very likely that when I see him this evening, any discussion of Flight might well be superseded by something as mundane as someone in his office misplacing the precious pizza cutter that he personally guards.

Milton and I did see two more films together – a hit and a miss.  The miss was The Last Time I Saw Macao.  We, along with our fellow audience members attending this sold out screening, chose to see this film because we were so impressed with the Portuguese director, João Pedro Rodrigues’ previous film that played the NYFF in 2009, To Die Like a Man.  That earlier film was a compelling story about a drag queen in Portugal living her life as a woman whose estranged son in the military re-enters the picture.  If this film sounds anything like La Cage aux Folles, that’s unintentional for it’s very different and ends tragically, no heartfelt singing of I Am What I Am here.

For The Last Time I Saw Macao Rodrigues collaborated with João Rui Guerra da Mata, a fellow filmmaker of Portuguese descent that was raised in Macao, a former Portuguese colony in China.

João Rui Guerra da Mata (left), João Pedro Rodrigues, and NYFF moderator Melissa Anderson.

The filmmakers original intent was to shoot a documentary about how much Macao had changed since Guerra de Mata lived there thirty years ago.  Instead, they turned it into a story with film noir-type elements about a man the audience never sees searching for an unseen friend in some sort of trouble with unseen bad guys.  If that last sentence confused you, exalt in the fact that you were not attending that screening.

The dialogue is voiceover of Guerra da Mata reading his memoir about Macao and Rodrigues reading something else I was frankly too bored to recall, but they revealed afterward that they wrote the script after they shot the film.

It showed.  We suffered.

The action is all on the soundtrack while the images are focused on various scenery including numerous stray dogs and cats, building windows, a dead rat in the gutter, a shoe, a cloth-covered bird cage, etc.  While watching these images the viewer hears the action occurring off screen throughout the entirety of the film.  Sometimes the audience hears someone terrified pleading for her life followed with the sound of a loud splash, sometimes the audience hears gunshots, sometimes there’s a fantastically loud rumble as if Armageddon is approaching.  As the ending credits rolled Milton declared:

Milton: I could have made that on my fuckin’ iPhone!

Milton’s iPhone with screensaver featuring Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford in “Gilda”.

Afterward during the q&a, where much yawning was emanating all around us, one of the audience members volunteered:

Audience Member: I really didn’t understand who was being killed.

The filmmakers explained that they had made “an abstract film noir”:

Filmmakers: Some people get killed.  Some people survive.  Some people turn into animals.

Milton groaned deeply.  Afterward, he told me that the woman sitting next to him didn’t know whether to laugh or sleep.  He found her struggle infinitely more interesting than what was taking place onscreen.  He issued me a dictate:

Milton: If you write about this in your blog, don’t raise it a notch and call it crap!

The next day we saw No, a vastly more entertaining political thriller directed by Pablo Larraín set in Chile in 1988 when the Pinochet government announced they would hold a vote to get the people’s permission to maintain control.  The opposition was allowed 15 minutes of broadcast time each day for four weeks leading to voting day to build a case urging the citizens to vote no.  A clever  ad man played by Gael García Bernal oversees the No campaign.  Larraín intercut many of the actual campaign spots that were broadcast in 1988 within his film which he shot on U-matic videotape, the same format used in that era.  Compared to The Last Time I Saw Macao, No received our vote for the greatest movie ever made.

Pablo Larraín sitting between Antonia Zegers (left) and NYFF moderator Amy Taubin (right).

As Milton and I were leaving Alice Tully Hall for the last time until we return to the New York Film Festival in 2013 he announced:

Milton: This was a lot of fun even though I hated most of the films.

For anyone that would like to know what are Milton’s 100 personal favorite films click here.

Milton’s iPhone gotcha shot of Pablo Larraín.

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Lame Adventure 348: Before and After

Posted on October 12, 2012 | 65 comments

Last month, I either entertained or bored (depending on who you are) my dedicated readership of seven, when I took you on a virtual tour of the outdoor Saint Clair Cemin sculpture exhibit currently on display near seven subway stops on upper Broadway here in Manhattan.  For those of you that would like to take that tour click here.

“In the Center” in the center of the exhibit map.

Since I am a tactile type I have been known to run my hand over a surface, but I recall keeping my grubby mitts to myself when I photographed each work of art.   The sculpture called In the Center struck me as rather intimidating.  It’s an imposing fourteen and a half foot tall plaster of Paris, wood and metal figure in a gaucho hat holding a divining rod.  It’s so big it’s easy to feel like a dwarf when in its presence.

Before: “In the Center” under cloud cover giving me the divining rod.

A week ago, as I was approaching it, I was distracted from my regular go-to thoughts about sex and death while narrowly sidestepping a slow moving pigeon, when I did a double take.

After: “In the Center” under wraps under blue skies.

I thought:

Me (thinking):  Why is it in that huge plastic baggie?

Then, I looked closer and saw the answer.

Memo that arrived too late

Arm before.

Arm after.

I suppose the downside to a public art exhibit is some members of the audience, in particular those with the intellectual acuity of a small soap dish coupled with a lack of impulse control.   I don’t know who was compelled to climb it; possibly it was some dunderhead inspired to do chin-ups using the arms.  Or, it might have been a child that garnered parental approval when he or she needed to scratch the jungle gym itch.  Whoever it was I imagine that they had an audience and laughter filled the air until someone asked:

Someone:  Hey, is it me or do you hear something cracking?

Whoever was the culprit, it was not raining geniuses that day.  As for the progress of the restoration, In the Center remains under wraps.  In this state of disrepair, a more accurate name for it might be In the Bodybag.

It seems to be a very slow moving restoration.

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Lame Adventure 347: New York Film Festival 2012

Posted on October 9, 2012 | 112 comments

The New York Film Festival is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year.  Milton and I have been there every day since Saturday, even though we’ve only seen three films thus far.  Milton, who has been a longtime member of the Film Society of Lincoln Center, has not been wild about the location of our seats.  For many screenings we seem to be sitting in the nosebleeds.

Guy playing the piano with his dog outside Alice Tully Hall on Saturday.

The first film we saw was Amour, written and directed by one of our favorite filmmakers working today, Michael Haneke.  He won the Palme D’Or at Cannes for this very unsentimental story set in Paris about Georges and Anne, a longtime married couple coping with the ravages of old age after one suffers a stroke and the other is the caregiver. The octogenarian actors, Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva, both give extraordinary performances. Veteran actress Isabelle Huppert plays Eva, their middle-aged daughter that resides in London, who feels increasingly frustrated and helpless every time she visits her parents.  Although this film is depressing,  Haneke is such a talented filmmaker, it is riveting and packed with brilliant moments including a chilling nightmare sequence that elicited gasps from the audience.  Of course the real horror is the physical decline that likely awaits many of us as we approach our own mortality.   Yee ha.

Paparazzo Milton sees Michael Haneke milling around the Alice Tully Hall lobby pre-screening of “Amour”.

We noticed that our audience was full of senior citizens including a woman that inched toward her seat with half the energy of a sleeping snail before she settled in front of us.  All the while her friend repeatedly bleated in a thick New York accent, “Fran!  Over here, Fran!  Fran, over here!”  This agitated Milton who kept muttering fluent monosyllabic. There was also quite a lot of loud phlegmy coughing around us prompting him to mutter:

Milton:  God, we’re seeing this in a tuberculosis ward.

Fortunately, the film was excellent, even though we were sitting in row U.

The next day we had tickets to Beyond the Hills, written and directed by the Romanian filmmaker Christian Mungiu.

Milton’s iPhone gotcha shot of Christian Mungiu mingling with fans post “Beyond the Hills” screening.

We’re sitting in row T and Milton is fixated on the two and a half hour running time:

Milton:  This better be good.

I reminded Milton about the Bela Tarr screening we attended last year for The Turin Horse, a film about the futility of existence as illustrated through an ill work horse and two peasants eating potatoes. It was 146 minutes long – but we both loved it.

Beyond the Hills, is a story set in the present about two 25-year-old women that were best friends in a Romanian orphanage after they were abandoned at a very young age by their parents.  One woman is essentially an atheist, but the other has joined a monastery.  When they were in the orphanage, the relationship was sexual.  The secular woman, after working as a waitress in Germany, misses her friend terribly, so she visits her in the monastery.  She wants to rekindle what they had before but the religious woman has decided to devote her life to God.  Life in the monastery provides her with security and a sense of home. The besotted secular friend, grows increasingly unhinged.  The members of the monastery, a priest and several nuns, resort to a barbaric religious ritual to control the situation.  It ends miserably.

Milton declared this film:

Milton: Brokeback Mountain meets The Exorcist.

Milton iPhone gotcha shot of Anjelica Huston trying to slip into Alice Tully Hall through a side door.

On Monday night Milton and I had tickets to a film written and directed by Sally Potter called Ginger and Rosa.  We have third row balcony seats, seats he despises because they’re located a time zone away from the screen.

Ginger and Rosa is a pretentious 89-minute film with a terrific classic jazz soundtrack that seemed to run five hours as I drifted in and out of consciousness.  The story is set in 1962 England during the Cuban Missile Crisis, a time when 17-year-old Ginger, a budding radical suffering extreme anxiety about a potential nuclear holocaust, worships her best friend, Rosa, a full fledged slut, who sleeps with Ginger’s cad of a father.  The worship ends, the world continues and Ginger writes a poem where she forgives Rosa.  Milton delivered a one-word review:

Milton: Awful.

I would have almost preferred watching a black screen with Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie playing on the audiotrack.

Afterward he revised it when he assessed the talent of the 63-year-old filmmaker, Sally Potter:

Milton: She’s too old to be making a film this bad.

Then, he revised his assessment a third time; he was impressed with Elle Fanning’s performance as Ginger:

Milton:  I don’t know what’s in the water those Fanning sisters drink, but they all have talent.  Too bad they can’t find a filmmaker that knows what to do with them.

Elle Fanning sitting in the center during post “Ginger and Rosa” screening q&a. Photo taken from third row balcony seat i.e., the moon.

He added authoritatively:

Milton:  This was so bad it made Beyond the Hills seem like Gone with the Wind.

Red carpet.

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Lame Adventure 346: The Old Bag is Dying

Posted on October 5, 2012 | 147 comments

This is the right place for that idea.

Even though late at night and early in the morning, I have a cough that sounds like a death rattle and it currently feels like a colony of squirrels are performing the Gangnam Style dance inside my left knee, I am sticking around.  Now that it is October, and the weather in Gotham City is transitioning into real deal fall feel, I am savoring the final moments of tee shirt season as well as the magic hour clouds that almost appear to glow.

Magic hour cloud.

After I photographed this cloud above my Upper West Side neighborhood block, I turned my attention to the tree with the two bags tangled in its branches.

Tree with distinction of bagging today.

Same tree with hanging bags in March.

Last spring – halcyon days of tree bagging.

I can report with authority that one of the bags, the one in white plastic declaring, “thank you” — with an original purpose that was probably used in transporting a dinner delivery, entered the ether in September.  Together, lets pause and remember our departed tree bag-friend.

On that same September day in early fall, the Fairway grocery bag was continuing to hold its own.

Drunk with tree bagging power. “This tree is all mine!”

Therefore, it won Survivor: Tree Bagging.

Now, that it is October, it appears that after seven months of hang-time in that tree, nature is finally taking its toll on the surviving bag.

How the situation looked in September.

How things look in October.

It seems very possible that a drenching rainstorm coupled with the power of wicked wind, and this once hardy plastic bag that has been nestled in those branches since spring will be making its final exit.  Seasons change, leaves fall, and bags eventually disintegrate.  There you have it, the circle of tree-bag-life Lame Adventures-style.  This actually saddens me.

I have a tremendous amount of respect and admiration for this grocery store bag’s achievement.  The average bag likely ends up in a landfill within a week.  This bag not only survived its initial purpose, when it was used to carry groceries, but it survived the trash collector and made its escape into a tree, where it has resided since March.  It’s tackled seven months of outdoor elements.  That’s so remarkable.  What tenacity!  In bag-years, this bag is probably 90-years-old.  If a plastic bag could run for public office, this one would have made a formidable candidate.  Considering all that this heroic bag has seen from its perch, it might have been the one plastic grocery bag that could have served on the Supreme Court.  Alas, we’ll never know.  One can only wonder what this bag might say if it could talk, much less think.

“I will outlive you, bitch.”

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Lame Adventure 345: Stiffed Again

Posted on October 2, 2012 | 116 comments

Three days after I needed a tenth quarter to do my wash at my local Chinese laundromat, the 23 MacArthur Fellows for 2012 were announced.

Above at the Ansonia, below lies my laundromat.

Those selected in the arts included a flutist and arts entrepreneur in Brooklyn, a writer and professor at MIT, a mandolinist and composer in New York City, as well as a novelist and journalist in Washington. Recipients with singular talent also made the cut including my personal favorite a stringed instrument bow maker in Boston.  He must have appreciated the irony in receiving what the New York Times called “a no-strings-attached $100,000 a year for five years”.

I could not help but notice that many of the artistic recipients reside in the East, but once again no web writer, such as a blogger and numismatist on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, made the grade.  One would imagine that “blogger and numismatist” has enough of an esoteric ring to fit in with that elite crowd.

The MacArthur Foundation awards, also referred to as genius grants, cannot be applied for.  According to Wikipedia, “People are nominated anonymously by a body of nominators who submit recommendations to a small selection committee of about a dozen people, also anonymous.”  Therefore, nobody involved knows anyone, but then every year — poof — a select cluster receives half a million clams paid out in quarterly installments over five years.  Nice award if you can win it.  The chosen could afford air conditioning and an iPhone.  In fact they would not need to tear their hovel apart in search of that one elusive quarter.  They could afford to have their laundry done.   Unfortunately, once again, bloggers, the Rodney Dangerfields of the written word, were given no respect.

Three days earlier I had nine quarters when I needed ten to do my wash.  I looked through the quarters in my coin tray, but alas, every one of those eight dollars in quarters were either from the U.S. Mint’s America the Beautiful series or the 2009 District of Columbia and U.S. Territories Quarters Program.

Coin tray full of rare coinage.

There are six coins in that program but thus far, I have only collected five.  It infuriates me that I’m still missing American Samoa, not that I have a clue where to find that territory on a map.  I have four Puerto Rico’s and three D.C.’s, but not a single American Samoa.  I also have five Grand Canyons and five Yosemite’s; rather popular tourist destinations with shoppers in my neighborhood unlike Alaska’s Denali National Park and Preserve quarter.  I think I will sooner see dead people than that one.  Even though I have duplicates of several coins in the America the Beautiful series, I refuse to subject any of my rare change the indignity of being ingested by the quarter quaffing machines at my laundromat. Although it is likely that when my niece, Sweetpea, inherits this fine collection, she’ll forget its distinction and will feed each and every one into a parking meter.

When I arrive at the laundromat, lacking a common Washington quarter circa 1998, I give the clerk two dollars and in exchange she gives me eight quarters.  One happens to be a Chaco Culture National Historical Park quarter, a quarter I did not know I lacked for a place in New Mexico I never knew existed.  When I regain feeling in my mind I celebrate and toss that quarter in my coin tray.

If a time arrives when the MacArthur selection committee either collectively slips up or lowers the bar to floor level and lifts the ban on awarding their fellowship to web writers, possibly a blogger, maybe one that wears a second chapeau as a numismatist with a now $8.25 quarter collection, will be considered to share the wealth. Or maybe that blogger and numismatist will sooner gain the ability to see stiffs.

I see balloon people.

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Lame Adventure 344: Visiting Christopher Columbus in His Penthouse

Posted on September 28, 2012 | 102 comments

In August I heard that the Public Art Fund was presenting an exhibit called Discovering Columbus that would open in September.

Discover Columbus now through November 18th.

The artist Tatzu Nishi was designing a penthouse apartment around the Christopher Columbus statue in Columbus Circle at Central Park West and Broadway here in Manhattan.  Admission price would be my second favorite four letter f-word, free.  Over beers, I told my pal, Milton, about the statue that was now encased in scaffolding:

Me:  We have to see this.

Milton:  Yeah, I’ve noticed that scaffolding.  Okay.

Penthouse on top of scaffolding ensconced statue pedestal base.

Positing this question to him over beverages was a key component of my strategy.  Milton is not a fan of climbing stairs. The downside of visiting the Christopher Columbus penthouse is that it happens to be in a six-floor walkup. Fortunately, due to the upside of the decision-impairing effects of a few pints, Milton was feeling game.

What drew me to this exhibit was the sheer novelty of really seeing a thirteen-foot statue that I have only known from afar for the twenty-eight years I have lived on the Upper West Side.  Whenever I walk past it I primarily glance at the sixty-foot pedestal base and the protrusions in the column representing the sailing ships, the Niña, the Pinta and the Santa Maria.  I, like my fellow New Yorkers, have been completely oblivious to the details of the marble statue on top. Apparently, it was sculpted by Gaetano Russo and completed in 1892 in commemoration of the 400th anniversary of Columbus landing in America.  Even though Columbus Circle is a vast transportation hub, I’m quite sure this is not the exact spot where the legendary explorer set anchor. Presented with the opportunity to see this monument up close and personal in a living room setting with spectacular views and full of furniture from Bloomingdale’s and Mitchell Gold, hey, count me in.

Fast-forward a month later. Milton is now stone cold sober, recovering from a cold and feeling much less game about this visit than me.  The fact that this exhibit is free is a huge plus with him, and I did the work with getting our timed tickets to attend.  All he had to do was show up and meet me there.  We arrive forty-five minutes early for our 7 pm viewing but we’re told to return a half hour later for they follow the schedule closely.  We kill time roaming the area.

Detail of sailing ships protruding from statue’s column in pedestal base.

Visitors on observation deck taking pictures.

Milton looks up at the outdoor staircase with sheer contempt.

Exit side staircase.

Milton: Do you know what I hate more than anything?  Stairs.

Then, he notices there’s an elevator.

Elevator.

That gives him hope.  A half hour passes and we join the line to enter.

Fast moving orderly line.

The line moves quickly and the wait is short, but Milton is feeling cranky.

Milton: I can’t believe we’re standing in line to climb six flights of stairs to see a statue.  This is proof that you can get people in New York to do anything.  They’ll climb enough stairs to see a sandwich.

Egg salad sandwich as never seen before with a spoon. This was not waiting for us six flights up.

A worker scans our timed tickets that grant us thirty minutes to view the exhibit.  Milton, looking longingly at the lift, awkwardly asks:

Milton:  Is it possible to take the elevator, or is it just for, you know, the handicapped?

When he says “the handicapped”, his voice drifts for he anticipates the answer that’s coming.

Exhibit worker:  It’s just for people that really need it.

Milton resists mentioning that he’s recovering from a cold.  He crabs at me:

Milton:  I’m walking slow.  We’ve got more than enough time to see four walls.

I figure that when we reach the top we’ll both be huffing and puffing like two steam engines. It’s possible that one or both of us will require a hit of oxygen from a tank.  The further we climb the more the gray steel utilitarian steps make creaking sounds.

Milton’s nervous feet standing on creaky steel platform.

Milton announces:

Milton:  Did you hear that?  Now my vertigo’s setting in. [light bulb] Oh!  Did I tell you that I just saw that film again when they screened it at Film Forum?

Me:  Really?  They screened Vertigo?

I chatter with Milton about Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece to distract him.  I take a picture of the view up Broadway.

Looking north up Broadway where car lights are bright.

Somehow we reach the top without collapsing.  In fact, neither of us is remotely winded.  It is an easy climb.

Carpet in entryway.

We walk down a narrow hallway, enter the 800 square foot living room with a sixteen-foot tall ceiling and see the centerpiece attraction, Christopher Columbus.

This guy is hard to miss.

That was surreal.

Yes, that’s the 120 year old Columbus Circle statue standing on a coffee table in the middle of a living room.

The statue is made to appear like it is perched on a coffee table.  Actually, the table has been built around the statue,  which is an imposing presence and showing its 120 year age.  I agree with Roberta Smith, the reviewer with The New York Times who observed that,  “… weather and pollution have reduced the marble to something that looks like cast concrete.”  After the exhibit ends the statue will undergo cleaning and repair.

“I need a bath and some work done.”

Tatzu Nishi has covered the walls of the room with whimsical pink and gold wallpaper he designed featuring everything you need to know about American culture — Elvis, Michael Jackson, Marilyn Monroe, a hotdog, Martin Luther King, Jr. with Malcolm X, the Empire State Building, Coca Cola,  McDonalds, baseball and Mickey Mouse.

Cultural highlights of America Tatzu Nishi-style.

A 55-inch high definition TV plays CNN non-stop.

Obama’s in the house!

The sofa and chairs are plush and look very comfortable.

Have a seat.

The polished hardwood floors are covered with area rugs.  The bookcase is full of books by American authors encouraging visitors to sit back and leaf through the pages, but during our visit, no one read.

Bookcase with untouched selection of books.

Unread but probably very carefully selected books.

The primary focal points were the statue and the view.

Looking south down Eighth Avenue.

Visitors like to duplicate the Columbus pose in front of the statue. Milton and I resisted doing this.

Wall art.

Not wall art.

Being in such close proximity to the statue and observing this magnificent view from the same perch reminded us that this is usually only available to New Yorkers that were born as pigeons.

Nice hat.

This exhibit, which runs through November 18th, is a treat for anyone without wings.  Even Milton’s grousing came to an abrupt end as he took photographs with his iPhone.  Milton, his dour mood lifted, observed:

Milton:  His outfit is so fab!

The original “I see land” pose.

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Lame Adventure 343: Let’s Put On An Art Exhibit!

Posted on September 25, 2012 | 58 comments

Once again, there’s free art on Broadway for the unwashed masses.  The Broadway Mall Association has organized a public art exhibition called Saint Clair Cemin on Broadway in collaboration with Chelsea-based Paul Kasmin Gallery, New York City’s Department of Parks and Recreation and the New York City Department of Transportation.  For anyone not inclined to toss so much as a single solitary toenail clipping inside a museum or an art gallery, for five subway stops in Manhattan between West 57th and West 157th Streets, you can easily find yourself gobsmacked with one of seven sculptures created by the Brazilian-born artist Saint Clair Cemin who has a studio in Brooklyn.

The first Cemin piece that caught my eye I noticed one evening in late August when I exited my go-to 72nd and Broadway subway stop on the West 73rd Street side.  It was a mirrored stainless steel object that brought to mind a drafting table.  This prompted me to think “WTF?”  It was too dark for me to take a good photograph of it, but a few weeks later, while heading into that same subway station, I noticed that it had been relocated closer to 72nd Street.  I hit the brakes on my Jack Purcell sneakers, reversed course and took a second look at that sculpture before catching a train heading down to The Grind. A sign had been added announcing that the piece is called Portrait of the Word “Why”.

Portrait of the Word “Why”, 2008, stainless steel

Frontal side view Portrait of the Word “Why” reflecting some cityscape.

Rear sideview Portrait of the Word “Why”

Others might look at this sculpture and modify its name to Portrait of the Words “Why Bother”.  The piece had the opposite effect on me.  It intrigued me so much I decided that I would forego my usual Saturday morning power sleep and check out the six other installations in daylight hours so early many of the denizens in this city that never sleeps were likely pounding their snooze buttons.

In my 100 block of travels up and down Broadway my quest was to determine if I might uncover any clues about what New Yorkers, when led to culture, think using my own weaknesses of observation.

I first inspected the sculpture on the south side of 72nd Street Cemin calls The Four.

The Four, 1997, corten steel

I think that New Yorkers think that they can use two of its sides to house their trash.

You had to stuff your napkin in there, really?

You could not walk ten feet to the nearest trash can?

I rode a 1 local train downtown to 59th Street Columbus Circle, and exited the 58th Street side where I encountered Vortex, a hammered stainless steel coil climbing 123 feet into the sky.

Vortex, 2008, hammered stainless steel

I looked up at it, semi-strained my neck and thought:

Me:  Wow, that’s tall.

I highly doubt that it will be installed in any swell’s living room any time soon.

I walked four blocks north to the street divider at 62nd and Broadway where I saw a crouching figure called O Pensador that’s made from hammered copper.

O Pensador, 2008, hammered copper

O Pensador, sideview

O Pensador, rearview

It made me think of a wrinkled abstract Buddha and I felt immense relief that Cemin resisted producing a surreal sculpture of the prophet Muhammad.

At 66th Street I caught the uptown express to West 157th Street.

Pretty subway stop sign if you overlook the century of grime.

There, I observed a seven-foot tall dancing marble figure Cemin calls The Wind.

The Wind, 2002, marble

I think that others are referring to it as The Repository for Lost Keys.

Keys in The Wind.

Keys ready for their close-up.

Next, I caught a 1 local downtown and exited at 116th Street Columbia University.  In the subway station, I saw a welded steel functional sculpture by Michelle Greene called Railrider’s Throne.

Columbia University 116th Street subway stop.

Railrider’s Throne, 1991, welded steel

How predictable that a woman would create art that is both aesthetically pleasing and actually useful.

Back outside, I walked a block north to 117th Street and inspected Cemin’s hammered copper sculpture called Aphrodite standing nearly eight feet tall.

Aphrodite, 2006, hammered copper

I thought:

Me:  Small breasts, big hips.

Pretty face.

Afterward, I hopped onto another 1 local heading downtown and exited at West 79th Street where I observed In the Center, a fourteen and a half foot tall hydrocal (that’s a William F. Buckley way of saying plaster of Paris), wood and metal behemoth in a gaucho hat holding a divining rod.

In The Center, 2002, hydrocal, wood and metal

This sculpture reminded me of the strict Catholic clergy that were chasing the mischievous schoolboy, Guido, in Federico Fellini’s 8 ½.  As much as part of me wanted to access my inner Guido and bolt from this monster, irrationally fearing that if it leaned forward it could impale me, the rest of me decided to relax and shoot these final images of this free exhibit that can be seen on the streets of Gotham City through mid-November.

Saint Clair Cemin on Broadway

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Lame Adventure 342: Pia Lindstrom and Beer Trucks

Posted on September 21, 2012 | 122 comments

On the second to last day of summer, Milton and I attended our last theater production before the advent of fall.  We took advantage of the 20 at 20 discount, a discount that allows theatergoers to get tickets to select off-Broadway shows for $20 twenty minutes before curtain.  The show we chose to see was Forbidden Broadway: Alive and Kicking!, a satirical send-up of Broadway musicals.

A hilarious spoof on Broadway musicals from Wicked to Once to The Book of Morman and many other shows in-between.

Milton arrived at the theater ahead of me so he went to the box office and added his name to the list of people that were hoping to score seats at about 75% off the regular $79 ticket price.  As we were waiting, he recognized a gay male porn star and Pia Lindstrom, daughter of Hollywood legend Ingrid Bergman.  The porn star was not attending the show, and Pia was not trying to score a deeply discounted ducat.  In fact, when I checked her out on Wikipedia, I learned that we were all seeing this revue on her 74th birthday.

When Milton said to me sotto voce, “Pia Lindstrom,” I had my usual reaction:

Me:  Huh? Who? What? Where?

Then, we scored our cheap tickets, seats in the middle of the last row of the mezzanine (a fancy name for the balcony).

View from the rafters – nephew of Max Headroom did sink in his seat once the show got underway.

Milton went to the restroom.  When he returned he reported:

Milton:  Pia’s sitting in the fifth row of the orchestra.

Me:  Thank you Pia stalker.

While we were watching from the rafters and Pia Lindstrom from the premium orchestra, everyone laughed uproariously, Milton got wheezy, and then the show ended and everyone left.  Barely five steps outside the theater Milton mutters in a confidential tone:

Milton:  Plaid shirt — that guy from Saturday Night Live.

My head becomes a periscope, I don’t know where I’m looking, I don’t see any guy in a plaid shirt, much less anyone from Saturday Night Live.  I bleat:

Me:  Who?  Andy Samberg?

Milton:  No.  You missed him.  He’s gone.  You know, the fat one.

Me:  Horatio Sanz?

I realize that Horatio’s been off the show for close to a decade.

Milton:  He plays women.

Me:  Bobby Moynihan?  He plays Snooki.

Milton:  I think that’s who it was.

Whenever I am out with Milton, rarely is there ever a time when he does not spot some celebrity on the street that I often miss even after he points them out.  Milton has an excellent eye for noticing famous people.  I don’t.  At all.  I’m almost celebrity sighting blind.

These are the types of sights that catch my eye:

Fallout shelter sign — who knew that these are still around, much less still around the Upper West Side?

1965 Ford Mustang parked on East 66th Street.

Purple stuffed ape in garbage can with wild thing sign.

Wimpy cloud.

Beer truck.

Me if I were a balloon in this past sweltering summer.

Mixed message, “Do I stay or do I go?”

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Lame Adventure 341: Mystery Pens

Posted on September 18, 2012 | 136 comments

Since I had spent the better part of this particularly sunny and pleasant late summer Sunday indoors web surfing a seventies era Gillette Foamy shaving cream commercial featuring the legendary New York Mets ballplayer, Ed Kranepool*, and coming up short, I decided that the time had come to take my pasty white scrawny being outside for a walk while light still remained in the dwindling day.

*Ed Kranepool – is that a classic baseball player name or what?

Just as I was about to exit my sanctum sanctorum, I encountered an iPad box full of pens sitting atop the radiator cover in my building’s vestibule.

iPad box full of pens.

Although I would personally prefer the iPad it originally contained, there appeared to be many nice pens in that box.  The radiator cover is where tenants occasionally place items they no longer want, usually dull magazines and junk mail, but one year I recall that someone put out some Halloween candy.  I look at this stuff, but I’m not the taking type and it would be just my luck that I’d pop the piece of candy laced with a razor blade or arsenic in my pie-hole.

Pens, on the other hand, appeal to me.  They’re user-friendly.  I feel very discombobulated when I want to jot a note and I reach into my messenger bag only to discover that my pen is missing.  When this last happened to me I had to buy an emergency pen at a newsstand, but much to my chagrin, the seller only had blue ballpoints.  I utterly detest blue ink, but I had no choice, so I lowered myself and made the purchase so I could jot:

“If outlook on life dictates longevity, I should have been dead a week ago last Tuesday.”

Back to the present, I noticed that the iPad box packed with pens for the taking had many in black ink.  I helped myself to four, but took one in green for it reminded me of my charming Significant Whatever.

The chosen five pens.

I am certain that if she were a pen, it would not be one that’s generic and black.  She’s quick with a clever quip.  Recently, she cooed, in reaction to my always attaching photographs in my emails to her; the most recent being an image of a bag of artificially flavored sour cream and onion potato chips — after admitting that she did not necessarily require a visual aid to envision this foodstuff:

Chips I would never eat.

SW: I’m beginning to think maybe this is a form of OCD or Tourettes with you.

After I palmed my five chosen pens I headed out the door and proceeded to walk up my block at a jaunty clip.  I observed a new bag in a new tree across the street from the other tree that’s been bagged since spring.

New tree bagged.

Significant bag caught in branches.

It was a satisfying stroll where I was subject to only one tiny bug flying into my face – and just in-between my eyes rather than into my glasses.  My thoughts as I walked were primarily focused on the presidential election, new angles of intimacy with my Significant Whatever, and who left those pens behind and why?  It was quite a collection that was accumulated.  Did it take years?  Some appeared to be from hotels, others from places including Yale.  Were the rest purchased by their former owner or just absconded from the workplace, another great American pastime – filching office supplies?  Or, was it someone whose mate laid down the law:

Mate:  Either those pens go or I go!

When I left for work on Monday, the pens were still there, but it appeared that more were taken and my fellow tenants were indulging in this magnanimous gesture.  When I returned home that evening, the iPad box full of pens was gone.  Maybe their original owner had a change of heart and could not bear forfeiting his entire pen collection?  Or, could it be that in the course of the day every pen was under new ownership? Possibly, my landlady now has that iPad box full of pens sitting in her kitchen alongside her ancient answering machine, with the message declaring in her Irish brogue, “This is a machine”?

There it is, another unsolved mystery about as confounding as why no one has yet to post that Ed Kranepool shaving cream commercial on YouTube?

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Lame Adventure 340: Up On the Roof In Times Square

Posted on September 14, 2012 | 96 comments

If there is one place in New York City where I guarantee I will never be found as long as I am breathing, it is Times Square on New Year’s Eve.  Being there at that time on that day has less appeal to me than playing slip and slide over hot coals while naked. There are certain situations that I feel so strongly negative about and this is one that scores sky high on my hole in the bucket list, right under how much I loathe clichés like bucket lists.

I am not a list-er and I prefer to blather about what I’ve done after I’ve done it.  Whenever people are compelled to yammer at me about what they intend to do – take a class, write a novel, throw a party, shoot an arrow, whack a mole, whatever it is that is so important at that moment, my eyes glaze over.  If you’re compelled to do something, I say:

Me:  Great.  Do it.  Tell me about it when it’s an actual thing and not air-infused pontification that is about as likely to happen as world peace by next Tuesday.

Earlier this week I happened to be in Times Square with my bud and fellow blogger, Natasia, who writes Hot Femme in the City.  Last month she had suffered a ferocious cold accompanied by one of those coughs that sounded similar to a phlegm-filled foghorn.  She was very bummed that her illness prevented her from attending an outdoor screening of Raiders of the Lost Ark in Bryant Park with her colleagues.  Factoid-on-feet-me told her that this film was going to open for a week in September in IMAX theaters in conjunction with its release on Blu-ray DVD.

When that week rolls around, Tas and I make a beeline for a screening after we left our respective grinds for the AMC 25, the IMAX theater in Times Square.  We were joining the minor masses i.e., it was not a horde of rabid theatergoers, eager to catch this classic popcorn flick first released in 1981.

We arrived an hour early.  We didn’t have enough time to head over to any of our preferred watering holes in the area. It was also premature to start stuffing ourselves with a trough of popcorn so heavily salted I am certain that I have fulfilled my sodium requirement for the remainder of the month or possibly the rest of my life since that infusion of salt could result in me succumbing to a massive stroke by the weekend.  So, what to do with forty minutes to kill?  We hightailed up to the roof.

This multiplex theater’s rooftop is not the most romantic in New York City so it is probably not a go-to place for a proposal unless the proposal is, “How long is the movie?  Should we hit the bathroom before hand or what?”

Couple on lower level AMC 25 rooftop, not exactly Hollywood romance surroundings.

Great place to propose bathroom break strategy.

Although this hidden rooftop oasis is essentially industrial strength viewing, it does offer a unique perspective on this world famous area that’s also tourist and crowd-free. Apparently it’s also a welcome place to eat sunflower seeds.

Sunflower seed detritus or possibly evidence of a visit from a Yankee or Met.

Check out the other sights.

Madame Tussaud’s mitt up close and personal.

Thomson Reuters headquarters building.

The Thomson Reuters building is also known as 3 Times Square.  As interesting as seeing Madame Tussaud’s well manicured hand, we were far more captivated seeing the Times Square Ball in the off-season.

The Times Square Ball mid-pole in September. The colors gradually change.

Times Square Ball changing to lighter color.

Times Square Ball closer.

Times Square Ball in bolder colors.

We were hypnotized as we watched the Times Square Ball, but then I started to bark like a seal and we regained our senses.

The Paramount Building.

The Paramount Building is also known as 1501 Broadway.  At the time we were looking at it, Tas guessed that it was Big Ben.

The view looking west down 42nd Street.

A ship sailing the Hudson with New Jersey in the background.

Hotel Carter.

The Hotel Carter, which opened in 1930, has a reputation for being ranked the dirtiest hotel in America for four years running.

The Westin Times Square.

For tourists that would like to avoid bedbugs, the Westin Times Square might be an infinitely more attractive alternative.

The Westin even has a pretty reflection.

One Astor Plaza.

One Astor Plaza is home to Viacom’s headquarters and MTV’s New York studios.

The Times Square Building and the former home of The New York Times.

“Hey Tas, let’s go back inside! Don’t bring the stranger!”

Dinner comprised of salt, popcorn and 37 napkins.

As for the film, it holds up well — if you ignore the boulder-sized hole in the plot of the Nazis being completely oblivious to Indy’s archaeological dig taking place right in front of their faces.

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