big adventure
Jan. 21st, 2006 04:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oiranReturned from New York. I want to see my Mr. and my pets, and I want to be nearby for Rhi's spectacular baby-producing experiment, but I really wish I could be in New York and still do those things.
I slept wrong on my right shoulder (on the plane, even) and it hurt like hell all week - still does, in fact. So picture me grimacing yet valiantly soldiering on as I type, type, type.
BTW, this is so long. SO long. You may require sustenance to even contemplate reading to the end.
shelter plug: I stayed at Hotel 17, which I would highly recommend for anyone who wants a cheap, clean, well-located place to stay. There were minor issues (all easily resolved), but for $80 a night, I was very satisfied. The opposite of deluxe, it's not a hotel for picky people who like to be catered to - however, there are lots of $300/night hotels in the neighborhood for those travelers, as well. If you're me, it's walking distance to everything. If you aren't into walking, it's close to the subway.
all things punnilicious: I got to see Punny and her Sir. It was raining with vicious determination, but we went to the Met anyway. We arrived soaked, as did everyone else, and the museum was whiffy with the odor of wet dog. There were several shows we planned to hit, including a Rauschenberg combine retrospective that I was very excited about. I had also checked in advance that the Costume Institute would be open, so I was looking forward to that, as well.
Pun is the only person I know who has a favorite Indian emperor. Her special guy, Akbar, had a huge library, although he was illiterate and needed to have his volumes read to him. One of his books, long since broken apart for convenience's sake, was on display, complete with a rack of magnifying glasses for close perusal. The pages were not particularly large - about 7" x 9" or 10" - but were crammed with detail, and colors as bright as they were when applied to paper 400 years ago. Brushstrokes so fine that it was impossible to imagine the brush that painted them - thinner than the finest hair. Intricate gilding, filigree with microscopic piercings - just amazing. There were even a couple of slashy pages (first noted by the fully-indoctrinated Sir Pun, actually), including one scene wherein a fellow spontaneously combusts from love for his lord and master, who, seated on horseback at a safe distance, touches a finger to his mouth in a gesture of bemused concern.
The Rauschenberg exhibit was interesting for both the quality and lack thereof. Like anyone, Rauschenberg has some pieces that are not so good among the examples of true genius. He's often paired with and compared to Jasper Johns, whom I consider by far the superior artist, but he's hardly without merit of his own. However, I feel that he's frequent guilty of grandstanding instead of creating anything with lasting resonance. Besides some very familiar pieces (the goat in the tire, many candy-bright canvases with attached furniture and/or lighting, taxidermy galore), there was an absolutely beautiful antique Japanese screen that he'd fucked up with paint and glue and broken crap in response to the questions from some Japanese journalists back in the 60s, and it kind of pissed me off because it seemed to me that this was a truly lovely thing that he'd smeared ego all over and basically trashed. There was also a piece which had amongst its elements a suitcase attached by a rope, the word "OPEN" painted on its lid. Apparently, when first exhibited, people were encouraged to put things in the suitcase and take items away, as desired, but now, of course, it's forbidden to interact with it in this way, and it really makes the piece (otherwise good) seem crippled and thwarted. So, unfortunately, it has become too precious to be anything but a dried-out relic and is no longer doing its job as art - a state of affairs so pathetic as to repurpose, as it were, the piece entirely. It's always unclear to me when viewing such work whether or not I'm supposed to notice the way in which rarity and celebrity have rendered such art toothless and drained. Additionally, Sir Pun pointed out that the "found" elements (wallpaper, newspaper comic strips, etc.) incorporated into the pieces now seem just as excruciatingly nostalgic as they once were blatantly unremarkable, knocking a bit of the modern off of the art. This sounds all so negative, but I did enjoy seeing the work. I like art history and art gossip very much, but I also like to evaluate work based on its context at the moment I'm seeing it, so it's just as (well, almost as) satisfying to me to be underwhelmed as to be transported - whatever happens, happens.
After all my wishing and hoping, the Costume Institute was a dud. I don't know for certain whether or not there was an Apfel gallery in the CI prior to this exhibit of Iris Apfel's loud and expensive wardrobe, but I wouldn't be surprised if this show was the favor the Met did to obtain the Apfels' funding. Lots of mid-70s to mid-80s garish designerwear mixed with ethnic pieces (which were nice) and HUGE, gaudy, jewelry. The jewelry was cool, especially if one imagined wearing it with plain clothing. Picturing it worn with the clothing on display was somewhat migrainous, however.
I loved the Akbar book, but my favorite exhibit was a group of drawings, sculptures, and architectural models by Santiago Calatrava, a Spanish architect with whom I was entirely unfamiliar. He's responsible, it turns out, for an amazing bridge in Seville, Spain, which has only a single support beam. His work focuses on balance, often in relation to the human body, using minimal elements. Most of the sculptures consisted of blocks (wood, marble, concrete), a base, cables, and some point of axis or connection. A drawing of a human head with notes about the function of the neck led to a sculpture consisting of a large block drawn firmly down to rest on a slender, angled stick, and the positioning of the elements was such that it was ridiculously obvious how effective and strong this structure would be. This, ultimately, became the bridge mentioned above. I can't tell you how much this rocked, really - I don't have the vocabulary. Another group of marble sculptures, rounded yet pointy and needle-sharp, begged to be touched (and licked, I must confess) but these being museum pieces, I wasn't allowed to get them dirty. As it turns out, this architect is responsible for designing a transit hub to be built on the WTC site. The model is beautiful, but Sir Pun tells me that some elements of the design have already been truncated due to "security risks."
The rain had stopped, but our coats were still wet, and the wind was brutal. I reminded myself that I'd wished for cold weather, so I was able to experience a sick sort of enjoyment while I shivered. Once back downtown, we went for excellent Indian food that was somewhat pricey (for Indian food) but well worth it. I had a lychee mojito which, due to the quantities of mint stuffed in the glass, tasted like any mojito (i.e., yummy). I am so very fond of Pun and Sir. We talked about longevity in guinea pigs, among other things, because I am nothing if not a fascinating conversationalist.
snow boots and snapshots: By morning, there was snow on the ground. Snow and ice. The rain had already forced the purchase of an umbrella (purple, prone to gust-related inversions). The slippery sidewalk situation necessitated boring shoes, i.e., boots with traction. I arrived on an unseasonably warm day, which everyone was complaining about. A thunderstorm my second night there turned to a blizzardette, which everyone then complained about. Snow and ice and bitter, bitter cold did not diminish my enjoyment too much. Instead of sexy shoes, unfortunately, I had to buy snow-type boots so that I could move about at more than an octogenarian hobble. They're not bad: gorgeous green leather with a waterproof lining and a traction-y sole, though the calves are sized for someone with a fat leg. Interestingly, no matter how vigorously people insist that Ugg boots are out, they're apparently not actually getting rid of them or anything. Uggs everywhere. In a snow context, they're cute on little feet - but not so much on anything over a size 7 or so.
I took pictures of my neighborhoods of choice, which was the ostensible reason for this trip (well, that and another free plane ticket that had to be used). The sun set about 4 PM, the wind was bitterly cold, and pictures that were clear in the viewfinder are oddly blurred on my laptop's screen. The camera reacted sluggishly in the cold which was unexpected and made me treat it, albeit temporarily, like a shivering little animal and not a machine. The wind blew harder and chillier yet, and I could feel the seams on my clothing, with their multiple layers of fabric, as a grid of fractionally greater warmth over cold-stiffened limbs. Despite the real aching in my bones, I liked - or maybe appreciated is a better word - being forced to deal with practical, physical concerns, and my occasional inability to make progress against the wind was both frustrating and exhilarating. Sometimes I'm such a literal baby that I wonder where I've been for almost 40 years. Not in my skin, apparently.
names, ukraine: Brunch at Veselka with Pun and Lenore on Sunday. Idle musing: I don't do it here because this is LJ, after all, but it is also difficult for me to call either of them by their real names when we are face-to-face, perhaps more than any other friends I've made via this forum. At one point, I was on friendly/talking terms with six people who have Pun's real name so I stuck with Pun to avoid confusion - besides, Pun just fits her so well. Lenore's real name is perfectly fine, but I can't help feeling that Lenore is just more her, i.e., charming with darker hints, should you care to see them. Good food, thick accents circling around our heads, waitstaff impatiently patient with our table-hogging. We talked about TV we no longer watch, TV we do watch, and the ebb and flow of fanfic. I have literally dozens of bits and pieces of Smallville stuff I have been encouraged to post as-is, and I probably will. Lenore tells me that there is RPS for Project Runway, and I am going to have to hunt that down. I love that show. It's the only thing I watch besides reruns of The Sopranos. And Daniel and Andrae are so doing it...
shopping, rat hat: I did some running around to find things I can't get in Nashville and/or wanted to see before buying online. I got most of it out of the way on my first couple of days in the city, but over the course of the week I did wander in and out of the following places:
Bloomingdale's: claustrophobic, cheap smell of fabric sizing, undeservedly snobby.
Barney's: trying hard to not seem uppity with variable success, price tags like a kind of conceptual art. Boots marked down from $730 to $290 fit like they were made for me and seemed like a bargain in that context. However, due to snow, expenditure for non-traction-having boots seemed retarded. Now I regret not bringing them back with me, especially as they were well under my rather lofty reasonable-cost limit.
Saks: tolerable mix of the possible and the ridiculous in both atmosphere and merch - my overall favorite, I suppose.
H&M: the synthetic smells and godawful soundtrack erased all line-standing tolerance despite the lure of $5 t-shirts.
Sephora: how many ways can a lipstick tester be fucked up?
Diesel: didn't go in, but while walking past I could not help noting that everyone working there was incredibly good-looking, which would likely make not buying anything seem morally dubious. Oh, pretty blond boy, if only you'd brush your bangs off your forehead once again I'd GIVE YOU ALL MY MONEY AND ALSO A KIDNEY.
Anthropologie: home of the $68 t-shirt, and they apparently no longer sell shoes. Feh. But a marked-down t-shirt (that was still too expensive) is now mine.
Lots of things that seem to be completely out of fashion in Nashville are still going strong in NYC. Juicy Couture, for instance. The aforementioned Ugg boots. Overly-distressed and busy washes for jeans. BIG cuffs on jeans. Those ugly puffy coats that are like mobile sleeping bags. However, there was something I ended up desiring like crazy but couldn't find: a huge, quasi-Russian fur hat - you know, like the hat Elmer Fudd wears when he goes hunting wabbits, or the "rat hat" that George Kostanza gets on Elaine's expense account. I saw a fair number of sub-par examples on the street, but only a few good ones. What I liked was an outsized sort of racoon-on-the-brain look with a distinctly wobbly, top-heavy chic that managed to elevate the rest of the wearer's mundane winter wear to a loftier style standard. It's just as well I couldn't find one, though: it's not cold enough for long enough here to justify the purchase, and I think it's more of a big-city thing anyway. I can easily imagine puzzled strangers asking me if I was wearing such a thing because I was related to TN homeboy Davy Crockett, then feeling sorry for me when hearing that I, you know, liked it.
Kinokuniya is a Japanese bookstore where I could have easily spent much more time and money. As it was, I restrained myself and walked out with untranslated manga, men's fashion magazines,and a very satisfying book: Ryu Murakami's In the Miso Soup. I originally read him because he's shelved by the other Murakami, i.e., Haruki. This is probably the most accessible of his books, and the least stomach-turning, which is saying something since this one is about a serial killer on a Tokyo sex tour (well, sort of, but anyway...). It has a perfect ending. I very much admire perfect endings because I don't have the knack of writing them myself.
walkabout: Despite the cold, I woke up oddly energized on my second-to-last day and set off from the hotel at a brisk pace. I was planning to find a subway station to take a train downtown, but instead just kept going. East 17th to 3rd Avenue, then down 3rd , which became a stretch of Bowery with nothing but restaurant supply houses on both sides of the street for block after block. This segued into a tiny chair district, and a surge of lighting and lamp suppliers, but I turned on Broome before I could determine the extent of the lighting district. This was also Chinatown and it became possible to see how dirty and decrepit this part of town had been perhaps even a couple years ago. I have yet to see any part of Manhattan that is in any way scary or dangerous-seeming. I think there are just too many people living in the city now for there to be any practical way to keep back the tide of gentrification.
I don't think I could have been any happier.
My vague goal was to find Pearl River Mart, which was easily done. There was a Discovery channel film crew there to document the faux shopping experience being had by a plastic woman with helmet hair. She'd say her very basic lines (something to the effect of, "Look at this dress.") and the entire crew would effusively praise her sensitive delivery before making her do another take. By the time I was ready to check out (Morinaga caramels! Pocky! A cheap padded silk bag to protect my camera!), the charmingly cynical teenage cashiers were hollering "Action! Cut!" at one another with every movement and opening mocking the proceedings.
Although I'd set out on a mostly southwestern trajectory, I was surprised to find myself at the WTC site. I had to stop and check the map to be certain I'd really walked that far and, having determined this to be the case, I made a panicky retreat. I'm paranoid about the toxic/morbid dust that may still be blowing around, and then started wondering about the buildings all around the site. Are they really safe? There was a bunch of advertising on the walls near the site encouraging people to return to the area and rejoice in the retail opportunities to be found there, but I've read too many stories about the nasty inhalant-related health concerns to think this is a particularly good idea. I'll come back when the memorials are finished, of course, but I don't feel the need to respectfully gaze into open pits and breathe in mysterious particulate matter (the composition of which is the stuff of nightmares).
Wandered back through Tribeca and Soho and noted the many high-end shopping opportunities without partaking. Not a shopping day. Just kept moving and observing, north and eventually east. Didn't take pictures, though this was a better day for it. After all this photo-getting neurosis, the necessity for such documentation is...less important than I'd told myself. I'm afraid this might have been a stalling tactic - again.
Anyone who knows me well and/or has heard some of the more crazy-person type stories will perhaps recognize that I'm very capable of creating difficulties from opportunities. Painted into corners, following in the footsteps of The Girl Who Trod On A Loaf, stubborn as hell. Reasonable discussions and questioning regarding my characters and plot have been interpreted wilfully as disdain and discouragement and it's exhausting trying to defend myself from myself, much less get any words on paper that I could ever consider sharing. If I put the energy into writing that I put into making excuses and throwing up barriers, I'd...well, I'd be somewhere else in this process, at any rate.
Just for the record, I prefer the Village to Tribeca or Soho, but, really, there isn't any place in the city I wouldn't live. You know, in case anyone with unoccupied real estate was wondering...
odeon: When I was a freshman in high school, I discovered Interview magazine. In 1979, it wasn't available everywhere, as it is now. It was a bit underground, a bit of a fabulous in-joke that I was desperate to be in on. The first issue I ever saw featured an interview with pop idol Rex Smith (of Sooner or Later fame, which probably isn't fame any more but merely the answer to a trivia question) wherein Andy Warhol asked him, apropos of nothing (his typical interview style), to name his favorite lipstick brand. I don't remember the answer, but I do remember that Rex Smith was kind of taken aback. Andy was doing the interview in tandem with someone else, of course - I think maybe Bianca Jagger, who had nothing better to do with her time at that point in history and was always playing journalist for Interview. Anyway, there were these ads that fascinated me for something called Odeon. While I suspected this was a nightclub, I wasn't at all sure. There was no text in these ads, only a b&w photo, a rear view of a bowler-hatted man's head beneath the ODEON sign. Noirish, reminiscent of Magritte, enigmatic. It was years before I found out that this was a restaurant. Naturally, when I walked past Odeon on West Broadway, I had a little inward squee, since I identify this place (well, to be accurate, its advertising) with my long-since quashed sense of possibility, and I determined to eat dinner there.
In an earlier conversation, Mr. G expressed bewilderment as to why I was having so much trouble finding sit-down places to eat. It's not that I couldn't find them, but that I decided not to enter. Being a lone diner incites pity and fear. The waitstaff become nervous and take care to clearly enunciate their questions, behaving with either exaggerated solicitiousness (my smiling, smiling, smiling waitress) or pointed disdain (the busser who swept away the three extra, not-to-be-used place settings with a sneer). Other diners sneak surreptitious glances and mutter to their friends (thank god they have them!) from the corners of their mouths, or stare outright at the mateless and uncomfortably-human-seeming dining monkey that dares to exercise its opposable thumbs in public. It's almost worse, however, when everyone adjusts to the giant, rough block that is the lone diner and you...disappear.
I would not recommend Odeon. A shiraz that was either a year too young to drink, or a year too late. Watery mac & cheese in a soup bowl for $19. Perversely-ordered apple tart that was unremarkable but for the tiny scooplette of deliciously vanilla ice cream. Outsized tip in keeping with the rest of the bill and because the waitress truly was trying to be nice. Also, she was pretty. I wouldn't go back, but I don't regret eating there, either. I had always wanted to go, I've now been, and I need no longer wonder. About anything.
peter berlin: Peter Berlin is a figure I remember from childhood, though I honestly can't imagine how I saw him. My parents were not exactly interested in gay porn then (or now). Still, when I saw the ads for That Man: Peter Berlin, I recognized him instantly. Blond pageboy, chiseled-yet-dainty face, gigantic package. He most resembles a 1000% sexier Owen Wilson with a normal nose. I went to see the movie in a tiny theater and was the only woman in an audience of 20-some people. When I walked in, there was a moment of silence, which surely was meant to honor me and not to express dumbfounded surprise that a girl was spreading her cooties all about a sacred manspace. Anyway, I loved the movie. It's a documentary about Peter Berlin's self-creation, self-documentation, and self-adoration. He's now 63 and doesn't look it - still hot, still being very creative with his pants. He's a smarter, sweeter man than might be expected. It's a very entertaining story, and the clips from the porn were startlingly sexy - more suggestive than explicit, which is actually what he's all about. Unsurprisingly, I now have a huge, crush on Mr. Berlin, both the now and then versions. Oh, and there are downloadable zips of some images at the film site, though sadly none of them do justice to the moving spectacle. (I can't get the quicktime movies at the site to work, but I'm sure they're worth watching if you can get them to run...)
There is currently a showing of his self-portraits at the Leslie-Lehman gallery. After wandering through the warren that is the underground home of the gallery, I emerged into...a room full of guys, and again a respectful moment of silence. Geez. Aren't there any hags left in NYC? Everything was for sale and, if almost all of it hadn't already been sold, I would have loved to have bought a couple of gorgeous prints. Instead, I settled for the freebie postcards, one advertising a fashion show of his 1970s garb that takes place tonight (writing this on the 19th). I am sick with envy that random strangers who could go to see this will not, and that I am stuck here in Nashvegas with nary a gay cruisewear strutfest to be seen.
I have ordered the second of his two movies - the first one (which is the one I really want) isn't out on DVD yet, but will be soon. I'm sure I'll have more to say about Peter Berlin in the future.
bun-bun, boys and their toys, home again: It's one of those things that wasn't planned, but just evolved: I have a collection of rabbits, plush and ceramic. I once, briefly, had a real rabbit but it wasn't a particularly good pet, IMO. I don't dislike real rabbits, but it seems that I'm much more interested in rabbit representations. It's likely due to deep, overly-emotional exposure to Watership Down at a formative age. Of faux lapins, my new favorite is the Smorkin' Labbit by Frank Kozik. There's an almost-life-sized version, but my favorite is the tiny bunny. There are a bunch of different versions/colors, and you can't tell what you've got until you purchase and open them. I got just two of them, and I want more as soon as possible. They're just so cute, and awful, and then cute again. I picked them up at Kid Robot. My fascinations with toys, miniatures, art and Japan are all squashed together in this store, and I am both glad and sad I didn't come across it earlier in my trip. Very cute, modern-nerdy boys work there (there might be girls, but I didn't see them), and I overheard two of them actually playing as they rearranged toys in a case. Playing! Talking about what a particular toy might eat! I wanted to make out with everyone, but instead I went and caught a train to Ronkonkoma and the airport.
So. Home again.
I slept wrong on my right shoulder (on the plane, even) and it hurt like hell all week - still does, in fact. So picture me grimacing yet valiantly soldiering on as I type, type, type.
BTW, this is so long. SO long. You may require sustenance to even contemplate reading to the end.
shelter plug: I stayed at Hotel 17, which I would highly recommend for anyone who wants a cheap, clean, well-located place to stay. There were minor issues (all easily resolved), but for $80 a night, I was very satisfied. The opposite of deluxe, it's not a hotel for picky people who like to be catered to - however, there are lots of $300/night hotels in the neighborhood for those travelers, as well. If you're me, it's walking distance to everything. If you aren't into walking, it's close to the subway.
all things punnilicious: I got to see Punny and her Sir. It was raining with vicious determination, but we went to the Met anyway. We arrived soaked, as did everyone else, and the museum was whiffy with the odor of wet dog. There were several shows we planned to hit, including a Rauschenberg combine retrospective that I was very excited about. I had also checked in advance that the Costume Institute would be open, so I was looking forward to that, as well.
Pun is the only person I know who has a favorite Indian emperor. Her special guy, Akbar, had a huge library, although he was illiterate and needed to have his volumes read to him. One of his books, long since broken apart for convenience's sake, was on display, complete with a rack of magnifying glasses for close perusal. The pages were not particularly large - about 7" x 9" or 10" - but were crammed with detail, and colors as bright as they were when applied to paper 400 years ago. Brushstrokes so fine that it was impossible to imagine the brush that painted them - thinner than the finest hair. Intricate gilding, filigree with microscopic piercings - just amazing. There were even a couple of slashy pages (first noted by the fully-indoctrinated Sir Pun, actually), including one scene wherein a fellow spontaneously combusts from love for his lord and master, who, seated on horseback at a safe distance, touches a finger to his mouth in a gesture of bemused concern.
The Rauschenberg exhibit was interesting for both the quality and lack thereof. Like anyone, Rauschenberg has some pieces that are not so good among the examples of true genius. He's often paired with and compared to Jasper Johns, whom I consider by far the superior artist, but he's hardly without merit of his own. However, I feel that he's frequent guilty of grandstanding instead of creating anything with lasting resonance. Besides some very familiar pieces (the goat in the tire, many candy-bright canvases with attached furniture and/or lighting, taxidermy galore), there was an absolutely beautiful antique Japanese screen that he'd fucked up with paint and glue and broken crap in response to the questions from some Japanese journalists back in the 60s, and it kind of pissed me off because it seemed to me that this was a truly lovely thing that he'd smeared ego all over and basically trashed. There was also a piece which had amongst its elements a suitcase attached by a rope, the word "OPEN" painted on its lid. Apparently, when first exhibited, people were encouraged to put things in the suitcase and take items away, as desired, but now, of course, it's forbidden to interact with it in this way, and it really makes the piece (otherwise good) seem crippled and thwarted. So, unfortunately, it has become too precious to be anything but a dried-out relic and is no longer doing its job as art - a state of affairs so pathetic as to repurpose, as it were, the piece entirely. It's always unclear to me when viewing such work whether or not I'm supposed to notice the way in which rarity and celebrity have rendered such art toothless and drained. Additionally, Sir Pun pointed out that the "found" elements (wallpaper, newspaper comic strips, etc.) incorporated into the pieces now seem just as excruciatingly nostalgic as they once were blatantly unremarkable, knocking a bit of the modern off of the art. This sounds all so negative, but I did enjoy seeing the work. I like art history and art gossip very much, but I also like to evaluate work based on its context at the moment I'm seeing it, so it's just as (well, almost as) satisfying to me to be underwhelmed as to be transported - whatever happens, happens.
After all my wishing and hoping, the Costume Institute was a dud. I don't know for certain whether or not there was an Apfel gallery in the CI prior to this exhibit of Iris Apfel's loud and expensive wardrobe, but I wouldn't be surprised if this show was the favor the Met did to obtain the Apfels' funding. Lots of mid-70s to mid-80s garish designerwear mixed with ethnic pieces (which were nice) and HUGE, gaudy, jewelry. The jewelry was cool, especially if one imagined wearing it with plain clothing. Picturing it worn with the clothing on display was somewhat migrainous, however.
I loved the Akbar book, but my favorite exhibit was a group of drawings, sculptures, and architectural models by Santiago Calatrava, a Spanish architect with whom I was entirely unfamiliar. He's responsible, it turns out, for an amazing bridge in Seville, Spain, which has only a single support beam. His work focuses on balance, often in relation to the human body, using minimal elements. Most of the sculptures consisted of blocks (wood, marble, concrete), a base, cables, and some point of axis or connection. A drawing of a human head with notes about the function of the neck led to a sculpture consisting of a large block drawn firmly down to rest on a slender, angled stick, and the positioning of the elements was such that it was ridiculously obvious how effective and strong this structure would be. This, ultimately, became the bridge mentioned above. I can't tell you how much this rocked, really - I don't have the vocabulary. Another group of marble sculptures, rounded yet pointy and needle-sharp, begged to be touched (and licked, I must confess) but these being museum pieces, I wasn't allowed to get them dirty. As it turns out, this architect is responsible for designing a transit hub to be built on the WTC site. The model is beautiful, but Sir Pun tells me that some elements of the design have already been truncated due to "security risks."
The rain had stopped, but our coats were still wet, and the wind was brutal. I reminded myself that I'd wished for cold weather, so I was able to experience a sick sort of enjoyment while I shivered. Once back downtown, we went for excellent Indian food that was somewhat pricey (for Indian food) but well worth it. I had a lychee mojito which, due to the quantities of mint stuffed in the glass, tasted like any mojito (i.e., yummy). I am so very fond of Pun and Sir. We talked about longevity in guinea pigs, among other things, because I am nothing if not a fascinating conversationalist.
snow boots and snapshots: By morning, there was snow on the ground. Snow and ice. The rain had already forced the purchase of an umbrella (purple, prone to gust-related inversions). The slippery sidewalk situation necessitated boring shoes, i.e., boots with traction. I arrived on an unseasonably warm day, which everyone was complaining about. A thunderstorm my second night there turned to a blizzardette, which everyone then complained about. Snow and ice and bitter, bitter cold did not diminish my enjoyment too much. Instead of sexy shoes, unfortunately, I had to buy snow-type boots so that I could move about at more than an octogenarian hobble. They're not bad: gorgeous green leather with a waterproof lining and a traction-y sole, though the calves are sized for someone with a fat leg. Interestingly, no matter how vigorously people insist that Ugg boots are out, they're apparently not actually getting rid of them or anything. Uggs everywhere. In a snow context, they're cute on little feet - but not so much on anything over a size 7 or so.
I took pictures of my neighborhoods of choice, which was the ostensible reason for this trip (well, that and another free plane ticket that had to be used). The sun set about 4 PM, the wind was bitterly cold, and pictures that were clear in the viewfinder are oddly blurred on my laptop's screen. The camera reacted sluggishly in the cold which was unexpected and made me treat it, albeit temporarily, like a shivering little animal and not a machine. The wind blew harder and chillier yet, and I could feel the seams on my clothing, with their multiple layers of fabric, as a grid of fractionally greater warmth over cold-stiffened limbs. Despite the real aching in my bones, I liked - or maybe appreciated is a better word - being forced to deal with practical, physical concerns, and my occasional inability to make progress against the wind was both frustrating and exhilarating. Sometimes I'm such a literal baby that I wonder where I've been for almost 40 years. Not in my skin, apparently.
names, ukraine: Brunch at Veselka with Pun and Lenore on Sunday. Idle musing: I don't do it here because this is LJ, after all, but it is also difficult for me to call either of them by their real names when we are face-to-face, perhaps more than any other friends I've made via this forum. At one point, I was on friendly/talking terms with six people who have Pun's real name so I stuck with Pun to avoid confusion - besides, Pun just fits her so well. Lenore's real name is perfectly fine, but I can't help feeling that Lenore is just more her, i.e., charming with darker hints, should you care to see them. Good food, thick accents circling around our heads, waitstaff impatiently patient with our table-hogging. We talked about TV we no longer watch, TV we do watch, and the ebb and flow of fanfic. I have literally dozens of bits and pieces of Smallville stuff I have been encouraged to post as-is, and I probably will. Lenore tells me that there is RPS for Project Runway, and I am going to have to hunt that down. I love that show. It's the only thing I watch besides reruns of The Sopranos. And Daniel and Andrae are so doing it...
shopping, rat hat: I did some running around to find things I can't get in Nashville and/or wanted to see before buying online. I got most of it out of the way on my first couple of days in the city, but over the course of the week I did wander in and out of the following places:
Bloomingdale's: claustrophobic, cheap smell of fabric sizing, undeservedly snobby.
Barney's: trying hard to not seem uppity with variable success, price tags like a kind of conceptual art. Boots marked down from $730 to $290 fit like they were made for me and seemed like a bargain in that context. However, due to snow, expenditure for non-traction-having boots seemed retarded. Now I regret not bringing them back with me, especially as they were well under my rather lofty reasonable-cost limit.
Saks: tolerable mix of the possible and the ridiculous in both atmosphere and merch - my overall favorite, I suppose.
H&M: the synthetic smells and godawful soundtrack erased all line-standing tolerance despite the lure of $5 t-shirts.
Sephora: how many ways can a lipstick tester be fucked up?
Diesel: didn't go in, but while walking past I could not help noting that everyone working there was incredibly good-looking, which would likely make not buying anything seem morally dubious. Oh, pretty blond boy, if only you'd brush your bangs off your forehead once again I'd GIVE YOU ALL MY MONEY AND ALSO A KIDNEY.
Anthropologie: home of the $68 t-shirt, and they apparently no longer sell shoes. Feh. But a marked-down t-shirt (that was still too expensive) is now mine.
Lots of things that seem to be completely out of fashion in Nashville are still going strong in NYC. Juicy Couture, for instance. The aforementioned Ugg boots. Overly-distressed and busy washes for jeans. BIG cuffs on jeans. Those ugly puffy coats that are like mobile sleeping bags. However, there was something I ended up desiring like crazy but couldn't find: a huge, quasi-Russian fur hat - you know, like the hat Elmer Fudd wears when he goes hunting wabbits, or the "rat hat" that George Kostanza gets on Elaine's expense account. I saw a fair number of sub-par examples on the street, but only a few good ones. What I liked was an outsized sort of racoon-on-the-brain look with a distinctly wobbly, top-heavy chic that managed to elevate the rest of the wearer's mundane winter wear to a loftier style standard. It's just as well I couldn't find one, though: it's not cold enough for long enough here to justify the purchase, and I think it's more of a big-city thing anyway. I can easily imagine puzzled strangers asking me if I was wearing such a thing because I was related to TN homeboy Davy Crockett, then feeling sorry for me when hearing that I, you know, liked it.
Kinokuniya is a Japanese bookstore where I could have easily spent much more time and money. As it was, I restrained myself and walked out with untranslated manga, men's fashion magazines,and a very satisfying book: Ryu Murakami's In the Miso Soup. I originally read him because he's shelved by the other Murakami, i.e., Haruki. This is probably the most accessible of his books, and the least stomach-turning, which is saying something since this one is about a serial killer on a Tokyo sex tour (well, sort of, but anyway...). It has a perfect ending. I very much admire perfect endings because I don't have the knack of writing them myself.
walkabout: Despite the cold, I woke up oddly energized on my second-to-last day and set off from the hotel at a brisk pace. I was planning to find a subway station to take a train downtown, but instead just kept going. East 17th to 3rd Avenue, then down 3rd , which became a stretch of Bowery with nothing but restaurant supply houses on both sides of the street for block after block. This segued into a tiny chair district, and a surge of lighting and lamp suppliers, but I turned on Broome before I could determine the extent of the lighting district. This was also Chinatown and it became possible to see how dirty and decrepit this part of town had been perhaps even a couple years ago. I have yet to see any part of Manhattan that is in any way scary or dangerous-seeming. I think there are just too many people living in the city now for there to be any practical way to keep back the tide of gentrification.
I don't think I could have been any happier.
My vague goal was to find Pearl River Mart, which was easily done. There was a Discovery channel film crew there to document the faux shopping experience being had by a plastic woman with helmet hair. She'd say her very basic lines (something to the effect of, "Look at this dress.") and the entire crew would effusively praise her sensitive delivery before making her do another take. By the time I was ready to check out (Morinaga caramels! Pocky! A cheap padded silk bag to protect my camera!), the charmingly cynical teenage cashiers were hollering "Action! Cut!" at one another with every movement and opening mocking the proceedings.
Although I'd set out on a mostly southwestern trajectory, I was surprised to find myself at the WTC site. I had to stop and check the map to be certain I'd really walked that far and, having determined this to be the case, I made a panicky retreat. I'm paranoid about the toxic/morbid dust that may still be blowing around, and then started wondering about the buildings all around the site. Are they really safe? There was a bunch of advertising on the walls near the site encouraging people to return to the area and rejoice in the retail opportunities to be found there, but I've read too many stories about the nasty inhalant-related health concerns to think this is a particularly good idea. I'll come back when the memorials are finished, of course, but I don't feel the need to respectfully gaze into open pits and breathe in mysterious particulate matter (the composition of which is the stuff of nightmares).
Wandered back through Tribeca and Soho and noted the many high-end shopping opportunities without partaking. Not a shopping day. Just kept moving and observing, north and eventually east. Didn't take pictures, though this was a better day for it. After all this photo-getting neurosis, the necessity for such documentation is...less important than I'd told myself. I'm afraid this might have been a stalling tactic - again.
Anyone who knows me well and/or has heard some of the more crazy-person type stories will perhaps recognize that I'm very capable of creating difficulties from opportunities. Painted into corners, following in the footsteps of The Girl Who Trod On A Loaf, stubborn as hell. Reasonable discussions and questioning regarding my characters and plot have been interpreted wilfully as disdain and discouragement and it's exhausting trying to defend myself from myself, much less get any words on paper that I could ever consider sharing. If I put the energy into writing that I put into making excuses and throwing up barriers, I'd...well, I'd be somewhere else in this process, at any rate.
Just for the record, I prefer the Village to Tribeca or Soho, but, really, there isn't any place in the city I wouldn't live. You know, in case anyone with unoccupied real estate was wondering...
odeon: When I was a freshman in high school, I discovered Interview magazine. In 1979, it wasn't available everywhere, as it is now. It was a bit underground, a bit of a fabulous in-joke that I was desperate to be in on. The first issue I ever saw featured an interview with pop idol Rex Smith (of Sooner or Later fame, which probably isn't fame any more but merely the answer to a trivia question) wherein Andy Warhol asked him, apropos of nothing (his typical interview style), to name his favorite lipstick brand. I don't remember the answer, but I do remember that Rex Smith was kind of taken aback. Andy was doing the interview in tandem with someone else, of course - I think maybe Bianca Jagger, who had nothing better to do with her time at that point in history and was always playing journalist for Interview. Anyway, there were these ads that fascinated me for something called Odeon. While I suspected this was a nightclub, I wasn't at all sure. There was no text in these ads, only a b&w photo, a rear view of a bowler-hatted man's head beneath the ODEON sign. Noirish, reminiscent of Magritte, enigmatic. It was years before I found out that this was a restaurant. Naturally, when I walked past Odeon on West Broadway, I had a little inward squee, since I identify this place (well, to be accurate, its advertising) with my long-since quashed sense of possibility, and I determined to eat dinner there.
In an earlier conversation, Mr. G expressed bewilderment as to why I was having so much trouble finding sit-down places to eat. It's not that I couldn't find them, but that I decided not to enter. Being a lone diner incites pity and fear. The waitstaff become nervous and take care to clearly enunciate their questions, behaving with either exaggerated solicitiousness (my smiling, smiling, smiling waitress) or pointed disdain (the busser who swept away the three extra, not-to-be-used place settings with a sneer). Other diners sneak surreptitious glances and mutter to their friends (thank god they have them!) from the corners of their mouths, or stare outright at the mateless and uncomfortably-human-seeming dining monkey that dares to exercise its opposable thumbs in public. It's almost worse, however, when everyone adjusts to the giant, rough block that is the lone diner and you...disappear.
I would not recommend Odeon. A shiraz that was either a year too young to drink, or a year too late. Watery mac & cheese in a soup bowl for $19. Perversely-ordered apple tart that was unremarkable but for the tiny scooplette of deliciously vanilla ice cream. Outsized tip in keeping with the rest of the bill and because the waitress truly was trying to be nice. Also, she was pretty. I wouldn't go back, but I don't regret eating there, either. I had always wanted to go, I've now been, and I need no longer wonder. About anything.
peter berlin: Peter Berlin is a figure I remember from childhood, though I honestly can't imagine how I saw him. My parents were not exactly interested in gay porn then (or now). Still, when I saw the ads for That Man: Peter Berlin, I recognized him instantly. Blond pageboy, chiseled-yet-dainty face, gigantic package. He most resembles a 1000% sexier Owen Wilson with a normal nose. I went to see the movie in a tiny theater and was the only woman in an audience of 20-some people. When I walked in, there was a moment of silence, which surely was meant to honor me and not to express dumbfounded surprise that a girl was spreading her cooties all about a sacred manspace. Anyway, I loved the movie. It's a documentary about Peter Berlin's self-creation, self-documentation, and self-adoration. He's now 63 and doesn't look it - still hot, still being very creative with his pants. He's a smarter, sweeter man than might be expected. It's a very entertaining story, and the clips from the porn were startlingly sexy - more suggestive than explicit, which is actually what he's all about. Unsurprisingly, I now have a huge, crush on Mr. Berlin, both the now and then versions. Oh, and there are downloadable zips of some images at the film site, though sadly none of them do justice to the moving spectacle. (I can't get the quicktime movies at the site to work, but I'm sure they're worth watching if you can get them to run...)
There is currently a showing of his self-portraits at the Leslie-Lehman gallery. After wandering through the warren that is the underground home of the gallery, I emerged into...a room full of guys, and again a respectful moment of silence. Geez. Aren't there any hags left in NYC? Everything was for sale and, if almost all of it hadn't already been sold, I would have loved to have bought a couple of gorgeous prints. Instead, I settled for the freebie postcards, one advertising a fashion show of his 1970s garb that takes place tonight (writing this on the 19th). I am sick with envy that random strangers who could go to see this will not, and that I am stuck here in Nashvegas with nary a gay cruisewear strutfest to be seen.
I have ordered the second of his two movies - the first one (which is the one I really want) isn't out on DVD yet, but will be soon. I'm sure I'll have more to say about Peter Berlin in the future.
bun-bun, boys and their toys, home again: It's one of those things that wasn't planned, but just evolved: I have a collection of rabbits, plush and ceramic. I once, briefly, had a real rabbit but it wasn't a particularly good pet, IMO. I don't dislike real rabbits, but it seems that I'm much more interested in rabbit representations. It's likely due to deep, overly-emotional exposure to Watership Down at a formative age. Of faux lapins, my new favorite is the Smorkin' Labbit by Frank Kozik. There's an almost-life-sized version, but my favorite is the tiny bunny. There are a bunch of different versions/colors, and you can't tell what you've got until you purchase and open them. I got just two of them, and I want more as soon as possible. They're just so cute, and awful, and then cute again. I picked them up at Kid Robot. My fascinations with toys, miniatures, art and Japan are all squashed together in this store, and I am both glad and sad I didn't come across it earlier in my trip. Very cute, modern-nerdy boys work there (there might be girls, but I didn't see them), and I overheard two of them actually playing as they rearranged toys in a case. Playing! Talking about what a particular toy might eat! I wanted to make out with everyone, but instead I went and caught a train to Ronkonkoma and the airport.
So. Home again.
