Banskied again (Warning! Disturbing content)

I've been Banskied again. This time it was knowingly though. Bansky came to town, but unlike London he probably deduced that local authorities wouldn't take too kindly to his art on the walls of the city (unlike gang graffiti which they don't seem to mind at all). So instead he took over a store front on Seventh Avenue near Houston, the Village Pet Store and Charcoal Grill.

I would like to offer my usual speculations on whether this was art, ahhhrt, fun, or just bizzare, but don't feel quite up to. But take a look and decide for yourself.

There were bales of Hay out front that you can't see here:


Bansky loves his CCTV's so much that he brought a flock of them with him to NY:


Never did like gumballs myself. This probably wasn't my concern though:

Now here's an idea....

I thought my neighborhood was stroller central, but apparently in the few years I've been on the road I've missed a few developments...
from The New York Times...

October 5, 2008, 2:59 pm

Stroller Central, Now With a Valet

By Tina Kelley

Joe Caraballo, the stroller valet at the Prospect Park YMCA, parks up to 75 strollers a day for the overburdened parents and toddlers of Park Slope. (Photo: Christian Hansen for the New York Times)

The mothers rushed into the Prospect Park Y.M.C.A. in Park Slope, heading into prenatal yoga, art classes, or gym time. “You want long term or one hour?” Joseph Caraballo asked, as they left their strollers — some with temperature sensors and pedometers — under his watch.

He takes care to flip the canopies down so the seats won’t be too hot for the chubby thighs returning from yoga class. Except, of course, if it hides the wallet, cellphone, keys and cereal bar wrapper of an absent-minded parent.

“Is this a second-hand sale?” passersby asked, seeing 39 strollers lined up, handle-by-wheel, along 9th Street. “Are they having a race?”

But no, it’s stroller valet parking, a perfect fit notoriously spawnocentric neighborhood.

Mr. Caraballo, 52, who has a 9-year-old son, works in the Y’s maintenance department, and does not accept tips.

Erica Schohn was trying to fit her daughter, Silvia, into a Maclaren, which appeared to be the brand of choice. But Silvia would not bend, throwing back her whale-spout pony tail and arching her body. Ms. Schohn said leaving her stroller out was nice, “because then they don’t have to be folded.” (The kids, alas, do.)

Then there was the lady who left one child in a stroller and took the older one in to the gym: “She said, ‘Oh, the lady inside said I could,’ ” which was not true, Mr. Caraballo said. “I said, ‘Don’t do that.’ ”

Will he, or won't he? Will he or won't he? Willheorwonthe?

I'm sure we've all spent some of our days repeating this question, over and over, over and over: sometimes a prayer (as between the pause your thoughts silently cry out "He will!"); sometimes a dirge ("He won't, he won't..."); sometimes a palliative ("I know he won't, so it's ok, so I won't feel too bad when he doesn't"); and sometimes a mantra, a sequence of words whose power derives not so much as from their meaning as their inherent power and repetition.

You know where I was last Friday. Now take a guess where I am today. Now take a guess what I'm doing. And repeat after me: he will, he will, he will; he had better, HE HAD BETTER, AHHHHHHHH!

BB

P.S. -- See comments.

Brain teaser

Time flies (there's that theme again...) when you're working hard. In addition to keeping the flugelbindery running, I've been setting up my New York apartment. I'm not trying anything fancy, just looking for something to sit on, somewhere to sleep, something to make coffee with, and of course somewhere for my clothes. Sounds simple, doesn't it?

Every time I move I'm amazed by how you very quickly get yourself tied into some kind of catch-22, Gordian, Escheresque knot. So here's a brain teaser for your perfect Saturday morning.

I was working on the flugel frontier the whole week, but flew back Thursday evening because the cable company was going to come by to set up my internet and phone connection, which I need if I want to work remotely from New York. I took an appointment between 6 and 9 pm on Friday, certain that I could be there (and safe in the knowledge that you can still head out for dinner at 9.30 in New York). I was (and am) going to fly back to work on Saturday.

My friends Montse and Jerry came by. We opened a bottle of wine. Ate some wheat thins. The clock ticked, and tension mounted... Soon enough it was 9 pm and there was no cable man. No. cable man. No. Cable. Man. I called the company on my cell phone.

The automated system asked for my accout number. I entered my cell phone number, but the automated message said, "You have enterred a cellular number. Please enter a valid phone number." Now by way of background, for those of you who don't live in the US, the cable companies here have heavily pushed their telephone service, along with cable television and internet. In other words, many people, like me, are trying to set up a phone number but are being asked for a phone number to do so. Recalling this paradox, I realized that I had given my Boston land line. After getting through the menu, I reach an operator and was told...

"I do apologize for the inconvenience. Our technician came by at 7 but you didn't answer." And I: "BUT I WAS HERE!" "Our records show that he called you at 7 pm, but there is no reply. We've rescheduled you for Wednesday next week between 2 and 6 pm." So here it is.

The cable company wants to set up my phone service, indeed boasts this as a great service, but in order for me to do this, I need to have a phone they can call to confirm I'm at home. Does not compute.

* * *

But I've got a plan. My friend Vinny lives three doors down. I am going to run a long phone line along the street. Or perhaps she can just stick her head out the window and shout to me. Or perhaps I can give a home phone number in London, Venice, or Australia and one of you can e-mail me when the cable guy knocks at your door.

BB

Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus

Even with the help of Wikipedia this all the cleverness I can manage for the morning...

So I'm back in New York and in Boston. How can one return to two places? Many people ask me this, and a few understand, but nonetheless it is difficult to explain. It's not like you mirror your life, with two of everything. Because each side of the mirror is different. For a long while the Boston side had a work life and spartan living, and New York had my apartment and life. I've recently moved the flat to Boston, so what's left here in New York? A camp-like sublet, while I'm waiting on a more stable place in New York. And of course life!

New York in summer is a bit like a hyperactive child on Ritalin -- it is quieter than usual, though only a loving parent would notice. But it's true. You can actually get into a restaurant of your choice on 5 minutes' notice, and at a decent time (8,9,10 are prime time depending on your age and nationality) rather than phoning 10 days ahead to be told gleefully that "we can offer you 5.30 or 11.30". It's true none of the usual celebrities are hanging out, and the famous chefs are probably away too. But that's fine with me -- I don't care for the former and I'm sure the latter are pretty handy with a whisk as well.

Of course, some things you do have two of -- toothbrush, for example. But for everything else you end up either wishing you had the things from one city in the other, or worse forgetting where everything is, or even worse losing things in the back and forth.

But what I feel most strongly is indeed that time flees. The promised summer came and went (note the past tense, sadly). And yes, work was done, meals cooked and enjoyed, friends well met, concerts attended, all washed down with whine.

Perhaps a little more grit, earth, sand, friction, texture would slow things down, and if they went slower then I could savor every moment a little more (extensively, if not intensively, because if nothing else, life is intense).

Perhaps a little more idling would allow dust to gather, seeds to sprout, and the joys of life to settle around me, like a flock of birds coming to rest, rather than me like a hound in pursuit.

Tempus fugit. (And indeed why not that other over-used but profound phrase?) Carpe diem.*

BB

P.S. I usually blog about my musical follies, but here's my soundtrack for the morning and a solid start if you're feeling autumnal in late summer.

** Horace, Odes, 1.11

Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi	Leuconoe, don't ask — it's a sin to know —
finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios	what end the gods will give me or you. Don't play with Babylonian
temptaris numeros. ut melius, quidquid erit, pati.	fortune-telling either. It is better to endure whatever will be.
seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,	Whether Jupiter has allotted to you many more winters or this final one
quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare	which even now wears out the Tyrrhenian sea on the rocks placed opposite
Tyrrhenum: sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi	— be smart, drink your wine. Scale back your long hopes
spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida	to a short period. While we speak, envious time will have {already} fled
aetas: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.	Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.

(Thank you Wikiedia for this bit of cleverness. Absurdly I "read" the Odes when I was 17. Sometimes it might be better to leave some pleasures to later in life when one can appreciate them.)

The look

One of the first things I rediscovered after getting back to New York from London is the look. By this I don't mean what I'm wearing (or choose not to wear), or the style, or the attitude.

I mean simply that people look at each other. In London I thought I had it figured out. At a distance of 10m or more you were free to appraise people, but then any closer you would turn your eyes away, only turning them back at the subject as you passed. Interesting, but really quite limiting.

Here in New York instead people simply look at you. No, not stare, but give you an honest moment's appraisal. And unlike some other places (Paris? I am inventing this? Those who know more, please correct me) in which any such inspection requires a neutral to bored expression, in New York you are allow to appreciate what you see. People will smile, or more often simply let you know that they like what they see. You can sit at a sidewalk cafe, and those at tables and on the those on the streets are always playing the look game. And if that's all you're going to do, then you have pretty much a free pass. If you want to proceed to the next level - a word exchanged, perhaps more - then it's another game, more on which later when I myself learn the rules of this game.

But the look game is simple and fun, because once you get into it there is more than one look. There's inquisitive, appreciative, disapproving, flirtatious, bewildered, scolding, critical, and of course the harried-get-out-of-my-way look.

* * *

Last night my friend Till and I were sitting at an sidewalk table; unusual for NY and more typical of Paris we were both seated to look out at the street. It was a street and not an avenue so the traffic was not overwhelming. But what a scene! First there were the 4 motorcycles, each parked to occupy a car spot (not laterally). Curious. And then after a while a man in a big SUV rolled along, his four children jumped out to go the Mr. Softie ice cream truck, and he got onto the one of the bikes, but just lounging not driving. Initially, I wondered whether he was just sitting on someone else's bike. The man had a perfectly hemispherical belly and wore shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. After a while, an older man who I had assumed was just loitering came up to him, approached him really. They spoke, and the younger man gave the older man the keys, and went in. The man rearranged the pylons that were cordoning off the area, and began to shift the cars around. After he was done, he was beaming. As though his position conferred great importance on him, and perhaps it did. I noticed that were 2 older guys just hanging out, looking after the different cars.(*)

A while longer and I noticed that there were many people loitering near the entrance to the building were the man had gone in. From time to time, people would stop by and speak to someone in the second-floor window above us (the same man?). Others would go in. The people going in were a wide cross-section of New Yorkers. I couldn't really pin down the type. Many seemed to live there, many did not.

After a while, the man above threw down some keys to one of the younger guys and he drove off with one of the motorcycles. But not before the boss's 8 year old son got to turn the ignition key and rev up the motorcycle. He was thrilled, and skipped off seeming very important.

And I suppose the highlight of the evening was when the woman made her appearance. She was fake blond, with reasonably good legs, but pretty (I believe the New York word is...) curvy from there up. She wore a black and white knit dress with horizontal stripes that was shall we say very fitted. Right out of a cartoon, Till commented.(**) Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Don't be too sure, because she hung out for a quite while, just chatting to people she seemed to know, and Till and I had to move along before we found out how this story ended.

* * *

Another night in the East Village.

xoxo

BB


(*) I was trying to pin it down, and finally I concluded they reminded me of the old men that populate the edges of town in a Sergio Leone or Kurosawa movie.

(**) Till went a bit further. He said, Europeans can't really pull off this look. They're too self-conscious. Americans (both North and South) can really inhabit the character without any inhibition, with a why not me? feeling.

There's no place like home -- get me out of here

I've been working out of my summer sublet here in New York the last three days. It's hot, though not oppressively so, but my good German-Italian landlord doesn't believe in air conditioning. So I keep the windows open and get a pretty decent cross-breeze as the landlord promised. So far so good.

(A quick digression here -- It takes me back to the mid-1980s when I was traveling in Italy with my parents. We stopped for the night in Viareggio. Our little hotel was on the main beach drag. But when we asked where the air condition controls were we were told that there were none. Not needed! Here we have the fresh sea air! It was one of those becalmed nights with no breeze, and we roasted. Looking back of course all of this does seem naive of us. Even now, but even more so then, air conditioning is a luxury in most European countries and many of those who can afford it just don't believe in it. I've become a little hardier since then, and unless it is past the low-30s can survive without complaint. After that, I still survive, but might complain a little.)

(Another quick digression -- Americans love air conditioning! Every building has central air conditioning or you see window units, hanging precariously and symmetrically from the window. It's true that NY is a hot city in summer, but it is still remarkable. My windows open out into the central court hard of the building, and for most of the day and night the din of air conditioners is so loud that sounds like I'm next to a runway. On the plus side, it drowns out other city noises.)

So back to my sublet. For the last three days there's a builder (love this word - such a concrete image - better than construction worker) doing something in the courtyard below. I know when he arrives because he starts whistling. Every day it's a different tune, with a fine clear tone and heavy vibrato. But it's the same tune the whole day. I repeat the whole day.

The first day it was fine, because I didn't know the tune. But it was infectious. As the day went on, I began whistling it too. Then it was New York, New York! Still good. Then yesterday, it was Mellow Yellow. I began to get nervous. And then after an hour of whistling it, he began to sing it too! "They call me melllllow yelllow...." And finally this morning, he's on to that tune from the Wizard of Oz.

Can I call 311 to complain? (This is the city complaints hotline.) 911? (Police, fire, medical emergency.) Buy ear plugs? Yesterday I went over to the window and began whistling along. We had some fine counterpoint going for a minute.

xoxo

BB

**Update: Today he switched tunes -- he's on to "If I were a rich man..." He had better not start singing the "Yubby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dum..."

I did as instructed

Synecdoche

Synecdoche: A form of metaphor in which the part stands for the whole, the whole for a part, the genus for the species, the species for the genus, the material for the thing made, or in short, any portion, section, or main quality for the whole thing itself (or vice versa).


BB

P.S. In praise of Google. I remember I had learned the name of this literary device when I was 13 or so (even remembered the example given "All hands on deck"), but of course forgotten the name. Google be priased.

P.P.S. Do I need a better camera? These aren't great pictures as such, but the cell phone allows me to take them without anyone noticing.

P.P.P.S. I loved how these strollers stood silent, whereas with their occupants the room would be filled with all kinds voices, crying, laughing... I also liked how each stroller is personal - a toy in the undercarriage, a drinking bottle on top, a pair of gloves... By the way, this night the stroller parking was only half full!

Final P.S. I may have committed a horrible blunder... I believe this is metonymy, the use of a word for a concept with which the original concept behind this word is associated. I hope my high school English teacher is not reading this blog.

And what was he reading so intently?

Tropic of Cancer...

BB

Desolate city (Still here)

Just had one of those blog moments where I lost my entire post...

But just to run down the key ideas:

- I'm still alive.
- I'm not where I should be, but I'll get there soon.
- The city in summer is a desolate place. There are people but everyone looks vaguely lost, marooned, displaced. Drinking a nice German Riesling helps, but does not cure this condition.

But I like the city, even in summer. It's quiet and this allows you to appreciate things around you with more care. I came across this building and loved it from first sight. Reused, abused, and abandoned in so many different ways, each of them wonderful.

Act 1

I always enjoy the pvblic face civic architecture, especially when it's nicely worn; pomposity gone, it's like bones in a graveyard.

Act 2

Caged birds trying to escape, lovely in their futility

Act 3An older citizen feels young again as new uses are found; old but not yet outdated.

Act 4

Only the best training will do for our municipal lifeguards.

Summer sports: sample sales

It's time for everyone's favorite summer sport: sample sales! Indeed, it is sporting and competitive. Not only because there is a huge queue when you arrive only 45 minutes before the opening of the Catherine Malandrino sale:

Velvet ropes and crowd control, even for a sample sale! But the real competition isn't to get in, but to look just right while waiting to get in:

(Who let the gazelles and flamingos out of the zoo?)

These pics are thanks to my friend Nuria, who in the end seems to have done very well for herself...

I am now going into a period of intensive training for the pinnacle of the season, the Barney's sale... Off to do my laps and work on my quick grab.

Cheers,

BB

New York Nocturne

Lulled to sleep by the burbling river of traffic, punctuated by the traffic-song of car horns. The forest never sleeps, but learns to live with the night. Sleep is neither fought nor sought. It comes and leaves as needed.

BB

So I was in New York last weekend

It's a bit like meeting the ex. There's various things you might feel: nostalgia, anger, loss, desire, revulsion. So I was in New York last weekend and did not feel any of these. Instead, what I felt was a sense of exotic beauty that I have previously associated with visits to Paris or Venice. The feeling that it's unique, wonderful, magical. For me, it's a moment in which all my senses seem to click and pass on a tingling sensation to my brain: a slightly warm, humid breeze; the smell of pollution and garbage; cars shooting down the street; pedestrians crossing in every direction; little shops, not all elegant, but all ready to trade. It felt claustrophobic, which was also why it felt cozy. All this on the rather undistinguished block where I live.

Next train...

to the stars...

BB