d i z t o p i a

The Morning After

Seen in the Bronx today, 8:15 am (apologies for crap cellcam pic). Some people really should learn to pick up their toys after they're "done" with them. You don't want to know where the head is right now.

Two Personal Philosophies Expressed as Graffiti in the New York Subway

I'm Going Downtown to Talk to Mitch and Murray

In a rare (OK, unprecedented) turn of events, I have seen two Broadway productions nominated for Tony awards. Saw Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf? with Bill Erwin and Kathleen Turner, and it was wrenchingly excellent. I had never seen the play and only bits of the movie, so this was a tah-reat. Then last week, saw the revival of Glengarry Glen Ross, with Alan Alda, Liev Schrieber, Frederick Weller, Tom Wopat, Gordon Clapp, and Jeffrey Tambor. Fanfuckingtastic and highly recommended as well. Big fan of the movie, of course. The whole cast was good, but Alda and Schrieber in particular blew the roof off. Go forth and see these two. If you live elsewhere, sell enough crack for a plane ticket and orchestra seats. You won't be sorry, especially if you save a little crack for the flight home.

Fordham Road Roundelay

Finally took all those photos of Fordham Road. Go forth and thrill to a virtual walk to work with yours truly through the gilded paradise that is the Bronx at morn. Even supplied captions this time so you can tell one grim scenario from the next. Mostly this is a half-assed photolog of how the ritzy 1920s shopping arcades have been cannibalized and covered over by downmarket pawnshops, cellphone huts, , discount clothing outlets, etc. That said, it's bustling and packed on nice days, serving as the main commercial hub for the borough. But it's too bad there's not a concerted effort (that I know of) to try and preserve some of this original architecture.

Welcome to Low-Quality Cellcam Photo Monday

Just a couple short bits today. Apparently someone else was annoyed at the use of "authoress" on the subway flyer I mentioned last week, as I saw the flyer had been judiciously corrected. Bravo, mysterious subway grammarian.

Secondly, I've been threatening for awhile to do a photo tour of Fordham Road, the bustling thoroughfare in the Bronx that I must traverse each day. It's a long, wide avenue that was massively developed in the 1920s, with an elaborate running facade on both sides of the street. There's evidence of some truly beautiful brickwork, arches, columns, etc., but the vast majority of it has been covered over with hideous modern signage. The old stuff peeks out here and there, and sooner or later I'll take an hour to walk up and down the street and get pics. But for now, I can at least offer this extremely crappy cellcam pic of the original facade of the "Aeolian Hall," uncovered by renovation (and no doubt about to get ripped off, plastered over, or smothered with a TJ Maxx sign or something). I can't find any details about what went on at this Aeolian Hall, though I figure it must be a reference to the Aeolian Hall (scroll down) in Manhattan, or to aeolian halls in general, being a sort of grand and spiffy name for a music/performance space. Tomorrow I'll bring my real camera to take a better shot for posting. Or maybe I'll just go ahead and do the whole photo-walk-tour. Try to stay safely back from the edge of your seat.

Ms. Subways Says:

Inspired by these defacements of the perky courtesy campaign from Caroline Sanchez-Bernat, aka "Ms. Subways."

 

I Am Happy to See You, But That's a 30-Day Metrocard in My Pocket

This morning the bus on Fordham Road was stuffed to the gills. All the normal rules of bus shitiquette were being rigorously observed: slowest-moving rider to the front of the line; lifelong commuters still unable to properly insert Metrocards; woman with most giant ass ignores rest of bus and instead stands directly behind bus driver, causing incoming riders to horizontal-limbo around her buttstruction; International Harvester-sized stroller left parked in aisle, check; seething mob of boisterous junior high kids; old pair of frightened white folks turning, if possible, even whiter at loudness of kids; final delay by bus "kneeling" and extending ramp for wheelchair commuter, etc.

As I considerately wedge myself into the human meat press at the back of the bus, a very large Teutonic galoot, standing and clad in a long black felt coat, sort of bulks me aside, shunting me into a precarious spot by the back door. It's moderately unusual enough to encounter fellow honkies on this route--I'd already noted the jittery older Caucasians--but I am doubly surprised that not only was this large guy just as white as they (and I), but he seems to shield them from the other bus riders with his body. He looms over them protectively. Then the old folks start talking to the big guy, and I realize he must be their son or grandson or somesuch relation.

I turn to observe the trio, which was a mistake. When we get to our first stop, a surge of exiting riders forces me to frantically salmon-flop against their current to stay aboard. I end up right next to Andrew the Giant again. Sensing my presence, he turns to face me. Behind me, a countersurge of illicit riders scrambles in the bus's open back door, and I find myself pressed right up against this guy. He braces himself and I grab the rail next to his head. The doors close, and off we go.

The big guy gazes down upon me, and remember that I'm 6'1" myself, so that's no mean feat. He's mildly curious as to why I'm intruding on his personal space. He has that guarded vibe of someone who doesn't often ride mass transit and is surprised there's so many "people" that do. (You know what I mean by "people," don't you? Good, because I don't.) I glance down at the old folks. They are also looking at me. The old man peers at me suspciously; by contrast, the old lady looks almost pleased to see me. Don't worry, I want to say. I've only had a couple shouting matches with people on this route, and I've only come across one shooting.

I look back up the big guy. To my surprise, he appears to have interpreted my glance towards the old folks as some kind of inappropriate behavior or threat. His face has hardened into a patently adversarial expression. It's a staredown! What to do. I can't laugh, which is my first instinct. Well, I could, but that wouldn't make anyone happier, except me, until I was pounded. I don't think conversation is the answer. He probably wouldn't appreciate a reassuring smooch.

Instead I execute the extremely ill-advised maneuver of turning around to face away from him. We're still packed in by other people on all sides. I have to reach behind my own head to maintain a grip on the rail. With this dude hulking up behind me and my arm thrown sumptuously backward, I feel like a handmaiden about to be ravished by Conan the Barbarian. I manage to maintain a psychologically charged security zone of a couple inches between our torsos. The chitchat between old folks and giant-boy ceases. It's so awkward I can't stop smiling, though I try to mask it with frequent yawns and coughs. What to say? "I assure you, young man, this is not frottage." And then I'd have to explain what "frottage" means. It might actually be worse if he did know what it means. I consider wriggling away through the crowd, though that could lead to another shouting/shooting match.

I'm saved by the bus-stop bell, as the trio gets off at the next stop (along with the wilding junior high kids). They seem to be heading toward Arthur Avenue, which might mean they're here to tour Little Italy, which is, of course, mostly Albanians now. But let them discover that for themselves, as another chapter in their thrilling Bronx safari.

Gates of Wrath

Orange alert! Here's my first round of photos of The Gates, the Central Park art project of white wrappers Christo and Jean-Claude. These pics were taken on the overcast opening day. The next afternoon was much sunnier and picturesque, but I was forced to labor indoors and could not play outside with the fun kids.

My verdict: Purdy neat. The Gates are not (is not?) majestically dramatic, but it/they is/are definitely a strange and novel reprogramming of the parkscape. Check out this Gates blog for a nice of mix of text, audio, and pictorial commentary, plus links. Rrrrrg, art weird. Art make me feel funny.

Gay, Old

I do not like this mural because (choose all that apply):

1. It is on a building  near my office on Fordham Road in the Bronx. The Flintstones and Rubbles always seem to mock me. "Morning there, chump! Welcome back to another day of stultifying drudgery here in the Borough that Time Forgot!" Are they amused that I'm getting off a subway or bus as they motor past in their bitchin' rockmobile? Or are they sneering as they drive off and leave me behind? "So long, sucker! Have a great time breakin' rocks!"

2. It is on the wall of and in fact incorporates the logo (not pictured) for "American Ways Rent-a-Car". Leaving aside the no doubt baldfaced licensing theft from Hanna-Barbera, it seems questionable to lure auto-rental customers with an image of a car made of stone, twigs, and stretched hide. Note, however, that they thought to leave out the Flintstones' and Rubbles' feet protruding from the bottom of the car, as the idea of renting a foot-powered car would really lack appeal for a modern customer.

3. I never liked the Flintstones, even as a child. I don't think my child self was cognizant of the fact that the show was a ripoff of the Honeymooners, but it still had this universally communicable anachronistic vibe .... even exceeding the obvious anachronisms of being set in caveman times. The Flintstones breathed the foul, musty fumes of the repurposed sitcom it was. The plots rotated around mundane issues of jobs and domestic strife and neighborly squabbles. Kids do not care about this bullshit. Same problem with the Jetsons really, though at least there were occasional alien and robot attacks there.

4. Of the Flintstones' many irritations, the one that really annoyed my younger incarnation was the tiresome and endlessly revisited Stone Age technology joke, as in the foot-powered car. These Rube Goldberg contraptions often as not involving an enslaved dinosaur or pterodactyl, and they seemed to use up more energy and resources -- and cause more hassle -- than simple human labor. What is the point of pushing that ridiculous car around with your feet, for God's sake? I was always depressed by the smaller creatures imprisoned under the sink and forced to eat refuse, used as can openers, mounted on vehicles and squeezed to perform as car horns or sirens, etc. What kind of society does that? I'm surprised they didn't have the last remaining Neanderthals yoked up to treadmills or serving as temple prostitutes.

5. Don't even get me started on the creepy celebrity guest-toons. Just take a look at Fred with guest "star" Tony Curtis. Try to imagine the effect this has on a child.

6. Finally, it reminds me of a youthful anal-retentive issue (one of many, you might be surprised to learn). Look at Fred Flintstone's eyes in the mural. They are big and saucer-like. Everyone else -- even his own children -- has little dots or little beady eyeballs. It makes it seem as if Fred is always dilated. He's X-ing, man! As a kid, it bothered me when characters on the same cartoon had their features drawn in different ways. I suppose it had to do with making Fred more expressive, but in the end it was crap Hanna-Barbera animation anyway, so who cares.

Stop this crazy thing! Spleen vented? Check. I do like the "D-Block" graffito, though. Props to the homeys on D-Block!

Don't Hang Your Coat on This Fish

Such was the lesson learned this past weekend at Hogs & Heifers, one of the bars that inspired Coyote Ugly (establishment and shit-film) and the requisite potty-mouthed barmaids, singin' out to country songs, women jumpin' on the bar crap. Not the above fish in particular, though it woulda been better as an actual Big Mouth Billy Bass. (Side note: wouldn't it be killer if you could make your Big Mouth Billy say anything you want? Ah, but you can. Glory be.)

Anyway, things were not off to a good start at H&H when they reamed us for a $5 cover charge at the Meatpacking District's faux-dive of choice. But I had guests -- one out-of-towner, one new immigrant -- so I thought it might be a lark. In we go. When I ask for three beers, the barmaid growls, "You wanna drink like a pussy, get a six-pack and go home. Order me a shot!"

Now there was a time when I thought this was cute. Yes yes yes, a little raunchy joust with the liquor slattern! Tally ho! But I just waved her away. "Sure, drink your shot or whatever it is," I said. "I don't care. Just bring three beers." Whereupon she turned on her heel and marched away, disgusted and most assuredly not toward the beers.

Right. So Yours Chumply scans around, looking for someone else to service me. I should mention that this was the period in the evening when continued consumption of alcohol was very important. Very, very important. I honestly didn't care if the barmaid needed to engage in the stage business with the shot of lemon juice or whatever it was in the special bottle that only bartenders drank from. I understood that I had to throw down a few extra bucks for that bit o' foolishness. But that didn't mean I had to watch and applaud and/or hoot. Not to mention that of the few ladies who'd gotten on the bar so far, none were of the sort that improved from an anterior view. And perhaps it would have been more rewarding if one could respond with equal venom, like "Shut it and get the beers, you cheap slut! If I want your mouth open, I'll see you in the alley with my fly unzipped and a roll of food stamps."

Ha ha ha! (The foregoing is dedicated to our female readers. Thanks ladies!) No really, of course, saying such a thing would get me no beer at best and pummeled by the bouncerati at worst. So instead I ignored her, and she ignored me, till my continued, glowering presence brought her back, where our respective routines were repeated verbatim. Except this time, she slouched over to the taps and brought the beers. I asked the damage, she said "Eighteen bucks plus tip!" Ah heh heh. I left the $18 plus a buck apiece for the three beers. It seemed impossible that I should be expected to tip for the "shot" the bartender served herself.

But the fun didn't end there. After worming our way over to the wall and observing the unimpressive spectacle, FPP takes off his coat and hangs it on a wall-mounted fish. Now bear in mind this fish didn't even look real, and if it was, it had seen better days even long after it was dead. Fins were broken off, eyes were gouged out, and it was caked with grime and dust. Nevertheless, this transgression brought a bouncer over almost immediately. "Don't hang your coat on the fish, man!" he bellowed, eyes bulging. This was a member of the Fat Bouncer subspecies. Fat Bouncers are almost always stationed inside for crowd control. Fat Bouncers aren't nearly as threatening as Giant Bouncers, who are usually placed on doors and are the sort who can palm your head with their small hand.

FPP laughed and removed his coat from the fish. Fat Bouncer retreated to his bar-side perch. About a minute later, FPP proceeded to hang his coat on a wall-mounted hubcap, reasoning logically that it was a fish-protection rule, not a no-hanging-coat rule. Wrong. Fat Bouncer came charging back. "If you can't hang your coat on the fish, what makes you think you can hang it there? Don't be a fuckin' asshole!" FPP laughed some more and took his coat down, then asked, "You got a hook, then?" Fat Bouncer snarled and retreated.

Well, that couldn't be the end of it, could it? FPP decided to try and get on Fat Bouncer's good side by reporting on another patron sitting on the pool table. Myself and third man GVB held up our digicams, ready to capture FPP's inevitable beatdown. In retrospect, the resulting ejection may have been caused by our expectant shutterbugging as much as FPP's insolence, as Fat Bouncer reportedly complained loudly about us as he told FPP to fuck off and get out. FPP dutifully turned and exited via the side door with Fat Bouncer in moderately hot pursuit, as GVB and I strolled out the front.

We found FPP whistling cheerfully outside, as Fat Bouncer peeked out the door and heartily declared that we should all go get hit by a bus. FPP returned fire with some unsolicited weight-loss advice, and that was that. The Hogs & Heifers theater project is kinda funny at first, but when it becomes so carefully prescribed that you can't even hang your coat on a hubcap, the place just turns into TGI Fridays with halter tops and dirty talk.