Week One

Note: This is likely really boring, and is intended only for my most enthusiastic fans, and mostly for me so I can keep track of time a bit better. I thought a blog would be better than group email because I have no idea who wants to read any of this and this way I won't inflict anything more than an update notification on anyone. I appreciate your patience. Also, any and all comments will have to be emailed directly to me, as I think that if I open the commentary channel then all sorts of creepy advertisers start posting their junk on here.

So about this time last week I arrived in the big apple, or the big apple’s neighbour, the big crabapple, Brooklyn. After a long flight wondering why I was leaving such good people behind (you all made me feel nice at my various goodbye events), and generally doing my usual existential moping, I was dumped very unceremoniously in front of my new home by an anglophobic cabby (see picture (of home, not cabby)). Hard to understand that a week, only a week, has past. My welcome wasn’t quite as assuring as my departure. The weather was crap, the people were friendly but totally forgetful of how discombolulated a new arrival might be, the house was very smoke filled, the room was very tiny, the phone was in a box somewhere (everyone else was sort of moving in too), etc. etc. I went out prowling my hood, finding it filled with vocal arguing Italians and rain-drenched cranky people in deep hoods, all of whom seemed occupied with shopping at the plethora of dollar stores which seems to be the business of choice for the local merchants. In spite of my reassurances that I was extremely lucky to be living in such a good neighborhood, I remained somewhat unconvinced…

But the next few days quickly turned me into one of those rain-soaked deep-hooders skulking in tacky doorways, as I collected kettles and salt-shakers and cheap shampoos. I quickly began my crime spree, jaywalking, spitting on sidewalks, and yes, garbage rifling where I found this very serviceable office chair on which I now sit. This, apparently, is the easiest way of furnishing one’s apartment. Brooklyners, it seems, have no patience with the idea of a garage sale, and prefer to just dump stuff on the sidewalk where people can haul stuff away for free. However, you can only find so many milk-crates, and so I quickly found the free shuttle bus to the massive IKEA in New Jersey. I used to rail about the parking-lot culture of the huge suburban box store mentality, but stick me for a few days in a place where you cannot buy chick peas or udon noodles (or an inexpensive lighting system called “bobli”) at the local grocery store and I’m on a bus for the burbs. New Jersey is exactly as you imagine it, and so is IKEA. I’m going again tomorrow for a nice rug called “Melby”. So at least I now have something to cook with. I had forgotten how much a pain it is to have to re-stock a kitchen. Apparently my roommates don’t do a whole lot of cooking.

So lessee. I spent my week setting up my living quarters as best I could. I explored Williamsburg, which continues to be the up-and-coming hotspot for all the cool new artists. However, I get the impression that it has been “up-and-coming” since the eighties, so perhaps this label is a little misleading. I did, at least, find a couple good galleries, bookstores, and at least one EXCELLENT place to drink very good tea. I also managed to get out into Manhattan (here referred to as “the city”), where I found extremely elegant “thrift stores”. One of them was selling a baby grand piano. Sarah, Mel, and Palmer: this is nothing like what the Mennonites do.

Entertainment Highlights: 1) Watching a two dollar DVD of Andy Warhol in “Cocaine Cowboys” from the comfort of my hammock in my wee room. 2) Going with Tania and Eric to some ludicrous bands in a funny bar in Greenpoint. There was a raving 18 year old on stage who could just yell his guts out, a mad merging of old Smashing Pumkins with new-wave Interpol all hepped up on some serious latte. Dude sure was angry about something. Then Eric’s friends came on and played 70’s church-organs while wearing space suits. I felt kinda old. But then, I am kinda old. Much more my style was going to see Paul Auster read. He’s a really cool story teller, and it was a great experience to sit there and have him tell a story. He read from “Brooklyn Follies”, which might well be a very suitable book for me to read at the moment. Much less impressive was tonight’s expedition to the Guggenheim (installing a new show, not much to see) and the Whitney. The Gugg promised some “socialist realism”, and while it did have a dozen or so works in a small hallway in the basement, it was just barely worth the subway ride. However, I was intrigued with what I saw. Apparently that stuff is dismissed as propaganda kitsch by the Greenbergian wing who criticized it at the time. But in a few of the paintings, I found something very akin to the American Realist stuff at the Whitney, especially the Hoppers. Hopper’s work is all about absence, the spaces that separate us. The SR stuff I saw also seemed to get at a similar alienation, but this time through a metaphysics of presence, not unlike the creepy presence of the figures in (guess who) Eric Fischl. I expect I’m nuts to find interesting parallels between the two realisms, but. What is the difference between Soviet propaganda and American nostalgia if they make they same pictures? I digress.

So I suppose that is more than anyone wants to read in one sitting. Stay tuned. This week promises great things: A Lars Von Trier film festival, a visit to the NY society for ethical culture, where I will learn what really happened to JFK, a large “apres ski” birthday and housewarming featuring a fully functional cardboard hot tub, more criminal acts (which I am not foolish enough to discuss here), and quite possibly some more serious wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. My special thanks this week to Palmer and Jessica, whose scotch and chocolate have helped me through the darkest hours…

Much love yall. PS: More photos: Buddy, the dog and fifth member of the household, Tony's Pizza, my second home, and the street on which I live.