Brain was playing games with me today. Blood pressure was low but anxiety was high. I don’t remember that being a thing ever before. I spent the day at the Met Museum again. I never thought to love that place but I think I will. I looked at room after room full of art from ancient India. I also happened to spot The Organ Rehearsal, which is a favorite painting of mine that I had never seen in reality before. I had no idea how enormous was that painting. Also saw a bunch of familiar Renoirs and more familiar paintings than I would expect. Either I know more paintings than I realized or the Met just happened to have its prime materials out. At a certain poihnt I gave up appreciating specific works and just immersed myself in being there, surrounded by all that stuff.
I went from the Met to the Met Breuer, which is the new wing of the Met located in the building which used to house the Whitney. My first thought when I heard they were opening a Met museum at the old Whitney sapce was probably the same question all New Yorkers asked: What will they do with the payphones in the basement? I was surprised as hell to find that they left them where they were. Three payphones in glass-enclosed booths. None of them work but I would think one of them, with PTS branding, might return to the living at some point.
The Breuer had pretty shabby exhibits. Two floors of incomplete paintings by so-so artists sounded more interesting than it was. A ground floor room filled with LED lights hanging from the ceiling was pretty cool. Each LED light displayed a number which changed. Kind of hard to describe, don’t think I will try…
I am at a place called Sissy McGinty’s on Steinway Street. More like McLoughlin’s, actually. It is not unlike the Irish Rover, which is nearby, but for a common American bar it is somewhat strangely located in the Little Egypt section of Astoria, flanked on all sides by Hookah bars and Arabic signage. You know what it is? It is altogether unremarkable except that the TVs at the tables are kind of cool. A dartboard. Some pretty girls. A dude combing his hair, which seems off since he barely has any damn hair. I see someone rolling in the karaoke gear and take that as my cue to exit.
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It is the next day. A beautiful hot summer Saturday, which finds me once again at the Trump Tower Public Garden. There is actually quite a churn of people up here today. I read that Trump’s people think this building is being bugged. Maybe the surveillance is going through the payphone in the basement. Hah.
I am only here for a little bit today. I bought a 7-day unlimited MetroCard and intend to milk it for every ride I can get. Spending hot days on air conditioned buses is the pinnacle of high class living. Hah.
I wonder if there are analogies to be made between a potential President Trump and his people’s inattention to detail in the finer points of operating this building. Obviously the payphone does not work, and in fact it has languished in uselessness for years. Yet signage throughout the building promises “TELEPHONES” (plural). There is a single phone but sure as the day is long it does not work and probably never will. Similarly dispiriting signage includes a “DIRECTORY” which lists nothing more than a reflection of the ceiling windows — which are quite dirty, by the way. Not filthy but certainly in need of a wash. What became of all the shops that used to be here? One assumes the building is better taken care of for those who actually pay to live here. Is that another analogy to be made for a possible President Trump?
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I just read a beautiful if somewhat pungent comment: Your pain is what makes you who you are. I think I believe that. I know I believe that. How could anybody not believe that?
