Chip upper lip, old boy.

I’ve been seeing London through foriegn spectacles these past few weeks and I’m all the better for it. Playing tourguide to Yanks and Aussies. I’m warming to it; cheese and wine in cellars, playing cards with Satan in Lynchian Wapping (before he tried to make out with me), drinking in an oppulent backstage boudoir, flicking through porn over coffee, reading some of Beckham’s early handwritten correspondance (“I just got my first wage packet. I got £120 …”), drinking in Britain’s tiniest snug bar, seeing horror at the theatre, fairies under London Bridge, eating Okonomi, fish curry, jam rolly polly & custard, venison pie, Welsh cakes, yuzu chocolate truffles and blowing over £100 across Turnmills and the Ministry of Sound (though upon exiting at 5.30am I won the MOS entrance fee back on a scratchcard).

I also bumped into someone in the National Portrait Gallery who I’d met at The Met in NY back in November ‘05 (art geeks tend to travel in small, albeit international, circles). Leading from our brief conversation I was inspired to get back into practical fine art and also dip into ‘art business’. So I’ll be looking into part time courses … and what to do/where to live in 2006! Oh, and I might get round to finding out where in the world half of my genes come from.

“I love the sea, and I love England as long as you can see the edge of it”. AA Gill (author, ‘This Angry Isle’).

And his words on what Churchill referred to as ‘old friends’ – the only food stuffs exempt from WWII rationing: “Fish and chips is … generally better remembered than eaten. It’s a totem of Englishness, a thing that is more than mere dinner and rather less than actual food. … Fish and chips is a silent meal. You shouldn’t talk and eat. It is a race against falling temperature. You need to be perfectly concentrated, constantly blowing and sucking, wolfing with bared teeth and flared nostrils”.

Whilst on a trashy British food note, I found this in a free mag in a bar in Paris (selling wonderful glasses of house red for just £1.20!), extholing the marvels of the English fry-up or, Brunch A L’Anglaise; “Enfin une idee originale pour bruncher a PAris! Sur de grandes tables facon cantine, vivez une experience culinaire rare: beans, jacket potatoes, sausages et bacon, assortis de scrambled eggs, scones, blueberries et delicieuses doucers a l’anglaise, vous reprendrez bien une tasse de the?” If you couldn’t translate that, the accompanying image was pretty self explanatory:

They weren’t kidding when they said ‘une experience culinaire rare’.

Something a little more confusing, is just what goes on at this little bar in the backwater town of Commercy in central France. Sexy drink party and an avalanche of T-shirts? Sounds like heaven. Checkout the flyer:

I also managed to catch the ‘Velasquez’/'Tim Gardner’ shows at the NG, the ‘Photographic Portrait Prize’ at the NPG, the ‘Fischli & Weiss’/'David Smith’ shows at TM and ‘Bound For Glory’ at The Photographers’ Gallery.

Eating eels with Grandad.

Dutch 101:

Tootsines Goodbye

Tootslater Seeya later

Tootsguy Seeya tomorrow

Tootsie Bye

Flying into Amsterdam. All canals and flatness. The field explodes into blackbirds.Van Gogh’s last, haunting painting flashes into view in my head. Urinals in the airport terminal have little ‘fly’ targets in them. The second time I’ve seen this this month. Can’t remember where the first was, though. Oh my – it seems rational adults can be trusted to use normal, screw-thread water taps, instead of the stupid, tweedle-dum tweedle-dee push-button ones! My eyesight’s shot past 20ft. I hope it’s fatigue. Staying up ’til 3 getting Paris tip-offs from Tony Bourdain. Read the graffiti trackside on the way to Arnhem; HITS, RHYME, BRUSH, DUPLO.

Great Indonesian lunch. Later, discovered that my Opa’s (grandad’s) promise of a party with unlimited food and drink translated into bingo and an enormous, almond cookie. Seems there’s a lot of politics in octagenarian bingo; “Because you don’t live here, if you win you’ll get dark glances – they’re a jealous bunch”. Good wine, pickled herring, smoked eel and smoked salmon. Opa extoles the virtue of TV show ‘Casualty’; he likes it because of all the ingenious ways the writers come up with to injure people, it seems. At coffee, an old boy enters and shouts out a harmonious “OH YEAAA”. Opa tells me the guy’s not mad … just looks it. My grandad lives with other ex-servicemen in a Dutch military museum. Living exhibits.

Saturday was a really weird day. There’s a guy here who I swear loses teeth between smiles. There’s also a guy here with a green parrot on his shoulder. I think it’s great that an ex-Navy man has a parrot on his shoulder. He quizzed me on why, when he printed photos from his computer, only the last in the set would come out in colour? It was surreal, what with the parrot eye-balling me and Opa acting as translator (made less helpful by the fact that he kept referring to the coloured ink as ‘paint’, and earlier that day he’d asked me what a website was, so I wasn’t confident that all of my advice was coming through unscathed in his translations – which would explain the guy’s puzzled expression. And the parrot’s.). The guy perked up, however, when the smoked eels were brought in. Now I’ve seen eels, and I’ve eaten smoked eel. But I’ve never seen eels, smoked. These, apparently, were ‘medium’ – meaning about 15″ long. Just as I was coming to terms with the fact that yes, eels have skin and heads, the octagenarian opposite me pulled off a head and sucked it. Eeel brains taste like eel, only more bitter and … gritty. Eating a whole smoked eel (actually, two), is an amazing sensory experience. The skin is slimy and smooth, but for wrinkling around the head. It’s tone ranges between tissue-white and a murky green/brown – translucent, revealing a raised, ridged pattern, similar to that found on Greek temple facades (think multiple, simplified swastikas, interlinked). With practice, you can peel it off in one go. The flesh is tender and mild, thinning towards the tail and replaced by an auburn jelly. You eat it straight off the spine. All this requires a large napkin. It’s messy work.

When I visited Opa 5 years ago, there was a guy waiting in the breakfast line in a wheelchair, with a mangled fore-arm. Seems the shrapnel had torn it apart, and he was one of the first people ever to have skin graft reconstructive surgery. The British Queen Mother had visited him in hospital shortly after the operation. They’d got to talking, and he’d told her that once they’d camped by a school that had red rose gardens, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d seen during his time in combat. The next day he woke up, his room full-to-bursting with red roses. The QM had ordered them in for him overnight. He was crying by the time he got to telling me that bit. I think he died a short time ago.

This is beautiful. It’s taken from her latest album, on the leaf label [www.posteverything.com], which has been kicking out great tunes for years: http://lekplats.com/av/colleen-ill_read_you_a_story.mpg

Letter from America 3: The biggie.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin …
Halloween saw me in suit and butterfly masquerade mask once again, this time at the Halloween parade; the cast of Thriller, Itchy & Scratchy, gay Batmen and all. Afterwards scoped out the great and cavernous Art Bar in the West Village with my flatmate. Mango Mojitos are very good things. Past the trannies, popped into underground chill zone Fat Cats, before finishing up, once again, in Union Pool.
Fell in love with Burritoville, then fell in love with the Vanguard and the Robert Glasper Trio. Tipped off and accompanied by Matt, I coasted the West Village, got lost, and eventually spent the night listening to the best music I’ve ever heard. The guy is my age! Unfortunately words fail me. His album is called Canvas.
Skipped around the Lower East Side, checked out the superb LES Tennement Building Museum, -3 floors of preserved living space spanning more than a hundred years. Discovered bubble tea anew, saw Rockefeller Centre, eavesdropped on wheeling & dealing Jews along Diamond Row, disappointed by Little Brazil, watched a bag float to the ground from a 70th storey window and had birthday comfort food at Uno’s Pizza.
Next morning hit the Financial District hard about 9am. Started with a roadside power-shake with bee pollen. It resembled a gruesomely murdered tomato soup and tasted worse. Remedied it with a NY fry up, sitting next to a Doctor who said to his friend; “Now this dog had SUCH a lovely temperament I said to her – Why don’t you clone him?” Took the Radio City Music Hall tour, saw the Rockettes rehearsing (felt like a kid in a candy store – “Mummy, can I have some?”) and the white domed meeting room in the Roxy Suite where Cary Grant, Hitchcock and Judy Garland discussed contracts (and did coke). The elevators under the stage here can lift 8 tonnes and are so technologically advanced that government agents guarded them during the War years. Then to the Carnegie Hall tour led by an incredibly knowledgeable woman and her even older, bumbling, wrongly-informed and incompetent assistant. Made for an amusing double act. The Guggenheim Foundation was founded in Rebay’s apartment above the Auditorium, where Calder and Kandinsky were given funds for buying paint and canvas. A crap Diner dinner of onion rings and corned hash beef with a beautiful young lady topped the evening.
Started working on the evaluation team for the Metropolitan’s “Metfinder” device. Its kinda like a GPS system for the museum. All very interesting. Dinner of martini shrimp, Dark Sea Fish and Sake Kamakaze Mojitos in S.E.A (of Sex In The City fame, I’m told) before heading to Barcade (does exactly what it says on the tin … photos hopefully to come) and the burlesque show/’Smut’ magazine party at Galapagos in Williamsburg. Clambered over various obstacles to sit at the end of a concrete breaker and stare in awe at Manhattan on the other side of the East river. Alas in a few years time this will be a pleasure reserved only for those who can afford the new riverside development properties. According to the Southern Rock-A-Billy accompanying us, I do a great Southern drawl. “The first time ah saw mah momma cry, was August 16th 1977, the day Elvis dahd”. Finished in old faithful, Union Pool.
The shower stopped working. Dinner at the Headwig-&-The-Angry-Inch-esque Yaffa Café, peanut butter & chocolate milkshake then a confusing trek to the 55 Bar via scrabble and iced tea at Fat Cat to see Chris Potter and a legendary clarinet player play. So palpable. Like you could reach out and touch the music emanating from those instruments a couple of feet away.
Next morning the laundry change machine ate my last $5 so I had to trek to the nearest (Spanish speaking only no less) bank, ‘Banco Popular’ to cash some cheques. Crap day, really, had a bad burger in a restaurant (which is kinda like having a bad omelette in a bistro) with more TVs than customers.
Bowling birthday party at Chelsea Harbour Pier. Scored the winning 128. This place was a blacklit bbq, disco, arcade, bowling alley and massive, rear-projection sports TV bar all in one. I felt like a rabbit hypnotised by headlights. A colleague told me; “Hayden, I’m from the U.S. and I find this strange!” Pizza, ice-cream cake (I’m not making this up) and curly fries made for a fitting finish to a bizarre night.
Marina Abromovic on day five of her mostly naked performance art shenanigans in the middle of the Guggenheim Rotunda. I caught a pulled pork sandwich, candied yams with walnuts, frickles (deep fried gherkins) and cream soda with a vegetarian (haha) companion at Brother Jimmy’s BBQ. Celebrated this homage des States Unites with a trip to Country n Western night at Union Pool and The Royal Oak, an unassuming house façade in Williamsburg hiding rich and enormously flocked red wallpaper, 50s pin-up beer tap handles and deep leather booths. Dodged cruisers trying to pick me up on the street corner to get a taxi home. A lazy night.
Abromovic was wearing a 15ft high ball gown the next night. I fled to Christies to sit in on its Latin American Art Sale. Guys bidding millions sitting a few seats away. Lots of fur and back-patting. Some shocking sales, many below estimate – A Diego Rivera went for just $500,000 – $400,000 below estimate. Amazed that the staff still managed to mess up the order in which the works were displayed on stage. Dinner at punk rock chef Anthony Bourdain’s ‘Les Halles’ for pork rillettes and a Rossini Burger – topped with fois gras and accompanied by a black truffle and red wine dipping jus. Immense.
Next the first of my two day foray into Harlem. It really is all black up here. Checked out ties in a pimp shop, walked past a ‘Bootery’, saw an old lady in gold high heels and a gold shell suit weilding a gold cane. Walked past a drug dealer at a subway station as he raised his jacket to display a pistol to another dealer in passing, recommending that; “Yo – you gotta keep something against yo’ stomach!”. Guys riding bikes calling Cigarettes! Cigarettes! The music coming out of the shop fronts and car windows is all soul! Friendly, really nice people. This place is my favorite part of New York. It actually feels like a community. Further north, overlooking 700 acres of Rockefeller-bought land on the opposite side of the Hudson lay the Clositers – a collection of cloisters from Medieval monasteries from all over Europe, built into a museum atop Tryon Park, home to big red bats. Saw masterpieces like the Campin altarpiece, the Tres Riches Heures de Jeanne, Duc de Berry and a boxwood rosary bead. Really weird too, when the sun came out walking round some of the cloisters makes one feel as if they actually are in Italy or France. Dinner at famed Sylvia’s restaurant on 125th St, with Sylvia herself in attendance, as well as a lot of fat Americans. Not surprising really. I had the fried chicken, buttered corn and waffles.
Day two saw me join a high school party tour of the Apollo Theatre. The old tour guide knew Ella Fitzgerald when she was 16, and starred in ‘Malcolm X’. One of the girls got a photo of me standing next to her as she thought it was cool I was British. Visited the colourful and punchy Studio Museum (curated by the streetwise and challenging Thelma Golden). Then got lost, quite frankly, up around 140th Street. Wondered around the most beautiful domestic architecture before eventually finding Striver’s Row and St Johns Cathedral – the worlds largest Gothic Cathedral. So dark I couldn’t see the ceiling, let alone the dome (under which the Statue of Liberty could fit). Again, feels like you’re in Europe, until you hear the basketball game going on underneath it! Haha. Yes, still in America. Saw BodyVox perform Civilisation Remixed at the Joyce Theatre. A great skit involved the dancers taking calls on stage on their mobile phones from members of the audience.
A guy I worked with told me all about his book “Weed & Corn”, based on the inbreds he grew up with in Ohio. Then a girl came up and took a photo of us coz she thought we were cute. You can’t drop your guard in this city, something weird always happens when you least expect it. Saw some of a ridiculous French Country outfit play at the Whitney later that night. Case in point.
Next night a workmate’s house party in Asotoria, Queens with zubrowka and apple juice, rum and orange sherbert smoothies and lots of food. And of course, great company.
Next day dinner at transplanted 50s diner Union Picnic, comfort food – chicken a la King (Elvis?) with dumplings, jalapeno fries and fried green tomatoes (trying to see how many film titles I can order over here). Saw break dancing buskers on the L train and a magician whose tricks involved a live dove and rabbit. Met an artist from Glasgow SOA at a Union Pool birthday party who talked me into getting my dissertation published and afterwards one of my buddies gave me a great painting she did – a stain study.
Beaten by the rain in the financial district. Checked out Winslow Homer and Sargent in the Met. Had satisfyingly chewy, red pepper octopus in a tiny Korean place to escape the deluge.
Headed up to Ashley’s house from Harlem at 9am by train. She lives in a wood. Drove to Lakeside Place for French food and cocky seagulls eye-to-eye. Then to the biggest enclosed Buddha in the Western Hemisphere surrounded by 10,000 little Buddhas. The great thing about them is that they used a number of different moulds, so when you stand in front of them all they look like a heckling footie crowd. Then checked out the tiny Union Church in Westchester for its Matisse and Chagall stained glass. Chagall paints here with light, scratching the paint with his fingernails and burning into the glass with acidic paints. Simply wonderous. Saw an eagle perched in a tree on the way home. Tried Birch beer (tastes like Root beer, only less medicinal).
Thanksgiving! Snowed overnight. Thanks to the generosity of my hosts, I spent the day eating. Wholemeal waffles, champagne and cheese, turkey, spaghetti squash, suede, mash and gravy, apricot, walnut & cornmeal stuffing, pumpkin and peanut butter soup, peacan pie and pumpkin pie. Stuffed silly. Played Parcheesi by an open fire and won.
Hit the sales at SAKS, Bloomingdale’s and the Japanese stores. Met up with Matt at the Jazz Standard for a stunning, baked, mac-&-cheese and root beer to accompany Grammy winner Maria Schneider conduct the Big Band there. Wandered around with a couple we met from Seattle, then ditched them for the second Schneider set back at the Standard. Did we walk home? I don’t remember.
Becky and Claire turned up out of nowhere at the Guggenheim! Pleasant surprise. Got lost for maybe the third time now (?) trying to find the Corner Bistro with Matt. Found it after about an hour of wandering aimlessly through the rabbit warren that is Greenwich Village. One of the smallest, busiest and most laid back places I’ve ever been to. Great burger on a paper plate. Via mojito cookies to the 55 Bar for Chris Potter and an English guitartist playing “The Adventures of Bagpuss” (I was the only one laughing) and “Leafy” – “… this is what London’s suburbs sounds like”. Not far off, actually.
Worked with Bill at the Met (“I get away with a lot because I’m old”) and discussed at length the marvel of cheap Chinese restaurants. Realised I’d been in New York for 6 weeks and had yet to visit Chinatown! Headed to a pick-a-mix noodle bar. Bottled out of getting pigs blood in my soup, instead spent the whole time trying to figure out what parts of the cow (?) I’d been served. Finished with a curious concoction – a sort of red bean bubble tea where the red beans were the bubbles.
Chai at the recently converted Roebling Teahouse in Williamsburg, then caught rap-improvisarios ‘Yah Supreme and Brohemian’ at Black Betty. Finished off the night at 2am by being harassed by a crack-whore in the Laundromat with truly horrendous oral herpes. Nice.
Next night fittingly stormy. Headed to East Harlem to eat a Huitlacoche (the fungus that grows on sweetcorn) crepe. Sat in a 24hr bakery til 3am with subway workers and cops, writing a letter to my Great-Uncle whilst cancer flooded his brain. FedExed them over night. They were the last words I’d ever share with him. I suspect I will come to hate myself for staying on in New York. If I don’t already.
Hit Soho the next morning, visited a possible Basquaiet which, if original, is worth $300,000. If not its worthless, it was found in a dumpster. Saw a superb Vietnamese/American artist exhibition at the Drawing Center on Wooster. Photos of Kymer Rouge prisoners printed onto leaves with sunlight made for an intense forest floor installation. Got an artist in the street to draw me a picture and then another to print my photo on to paper. Then checked out the aptly named 2nd floor New York Earth Room which an artist filled with tonnes of earth; “We believe its from Pennsylvania or Upper New York State but it was the COLOUR that was key”. Sure it was mate. This guy was sitting in a room next to the earth with a fax, pc and printer. I tried to imagine what sort of work he had to do there. Dinner in a diner, Soho style – meaning proscuitto and charred melon pizza & white truffle fries. Hmm. Salty.
Following day checked out the Asia Society then the Frick. Dinh Q. Le had been in the group show yesterday. He creates pictures made up of spliced photos of prisoners, personal photographs, iconic Kymer Rouge photos and scenes from Hollywood ‘nam movies to make thoughtful and intense studies about the nature of mass conscience and memory. Saw Cy Twombly’s “Bacchus” show on Madison Av. Like walking into Patrick Bateman’s living room after the he’d dispatched his colleague with an axe. Later went to The Cakeshop to attend Casey Holford’s CD release party with The Bloodsugars and a girl who sang hilarious songs about Elizabeth I.
Saw the soothing Chinese Secular & Sacred show at the Met on Friday, followed by Aeon Flux at the cinema. Which sucked. Such good material wasted.
On day off checked the Small Press Book Fair and then the rest of the Frick Collection. Played pool then headed to Planet Thai in Brooklyn for my mates 21st. Just how do they make calamari melt in the mouth? Teriyaki lobster was a bit too intense though. Finished with a late night viewing of my flatmates play an outstanding show at the terrific venue The Knitting Factory. Snowed so heavily when we got out. Drove around like madmen til 5.
A couple of nights later I picked up (some say, and I was pretty convinced was) the best pizza in NewYork at Lombardi’s, followed by fancy rice pudding at the Jetsons-esque Rice to Riches in the East Village. That night I caught Nate Smith on drums with Chris Potter on sax at the 55 Bar. We got the best seats in the house which meant I got to sit facing Nate. This guy contorts his shoulders and his face displays every possible human emotion, although the majority are fierce, pained, retarded or angry. He raises his right hand every now and again and waits, as if to bring down an almighty hammer. This guys so good and he matched Potter’s melodies so well that all the crowd could do was laugh. Unbelievable.
Left work early the next day to checkout really early porn in the Museum of Sex. Nearly burst open having eaten so much Thai food, wallowed on the couch til the wee small hours with my flatmate, a bottle of wine and a rather disturbing docu-drama about the Bosnian conflict.
What A Wednesday – hit up MOMA, its Odilon Redon exhibition (“It is above all in the lithographs, that those blacks have their integral brilliance, unalloyed”) and the design galleries. Steak hache baked under cheese at La Bonne Soupe, followed by a trip to hear my flatmates play at the swanky champagne & caviar club ‘The Flute’.
Christ this is going on forever! I’m going to blitz the last four weeks:
Hit up all five floors of the Whitney (the director asked Hopper; ‘what was he looking for with this (2nd Storey Sunlight)?’, to which Hopped replied, ‘I’m after ME!’). Walked to South Street SeaPort, from SoHo, in the freezing cold to stare at the Brooklyn bridge. Saw Egon Schiele’s beautiful show at The Neue, carving entire bodies from a single, graphite line, one of the highlights of my trip. Ate Kansas City, Texas and St. Louis ribs at Blue Smoke. Went to CBGBs (hellyea!) to checkout a workmate’s band “Weird Owl” (getit?). Decades of posters piled ontop of one another on the walls, and punk rock, prehistoric loos. Shopped in Greenwich Village, ate dumplings prepared by two Laurel & Hardy-esque chefs before my eyes (“Where you from … Britain? Oooo. James Bond? Sean Connery! Roger Moore isn’t a man!”). Saw Bill Cosby at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem. 90mins straight. In tears by the end of it. Afterwards queued for more than two hours to get a killer desert at Serendipity 3. Couldn’t finish the coward’s portion banana split and the frozen triple hot chocolate, especially not after a cold seafood salad. Back home, the cancer finally killed my Great Uncle.
Lemonade at the Lexington Candy Shop, bought a Raymond Weil at Macy’s, had a crazy boil-it-yourself dinner at Happy Shabu-Shabu andfinished off with dessert at Magnolia Bakery. Ticked off a lot of NYC to-dos that day! On the subway carriage a guy knocked on the driver’s door, whispered something to him, and then got left off half way along a tunnel to go back to his underground slum home! Had coal-oven pizza in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge at New York’s other, “Best Pizza in NYC” joint – Grimaldi’s. Preferred Lombardi’s. Saw the incredibly inspiring Chipp Kidd show at the Cooper Union Art School. Got poutine in what has to be the closest thing I’ve yet seen to an English pub anywhere in North America. It’s called “Pomme Frites”, is dark, stained, mock Tudor, only serves chips, is about as wide as a fat man and has holes in the tables to hold your cones. Magic. Hit up Deitch Projects for the kaleidoscopic Hynpnogoogia exhibition; descended down a ladder into a dizzying array of spinning, coloured discs and lent into a giant kaleidoscope. Called up my lil’ Nephew to hear him say his favourite words; “yellow, hello … bye”. I ain’t never had Peking Duck as good as I had it at The Peking Duck House (does exactly what it says on the tin). And I’ve been to China. Crispy skin, salty-sweet fat and tender meat. Delicious. Topped by, what else? A Haagen-Daz shake. Saw a choir descend the cuves at the Guggenheim, caught a tasty apple strudel at Neue’s Café Sabarsky before heading West Side for a burger at Big Nick’s (with its 60pg ‘menu’) before being dazzled – at times – by two competing comedy improv crews: Olde Englishe and The Royal We. Shrimp and ribs at Dallas BBQ with the work tribe. Sauntered round the Met, saw the Prague shows, print and Aztec galleries, and the new Rauchenburg show, ‘Combines.’ Saw the Ari Hoenig trio underground, at Smalls. This guy plays melodies (MELODIES!) on the drums. Picture Mr Burns, swaying over a drum kit, about to sneeze. These guys were the bollocks. The subway strike hit. Paid top dollar for a taxi to see The Nutcracker with an expert guide in tow. Devoured a sumptuous Filet Mignon at Keen’s Chophouse. Next morning had an AMAZING ‘eye-beam’ steak sandwich (a 3” diameter core taken from the Filet Mignon) for breakfast. New York rocks! That night had my most expensive meal in New York, and one of the worst. $80 for a burnt steak dinner at The Old Homestead. Heard Handel’s Messiah at Carnegie Hall from up in the Gods and, thanks to a workmate come half time, got to move down to the 8th row from the front. Ate oysters from Nova Scotia, Virginia and Long Island at the fittingly-design Grand Central Oyster Bar. The ‘button’ oyster from Nova Scotia can only be described as like eating glass jelly, but nice, quite unlike any other oyster I’ve ever had before. The Mako shark steak was very good too.
For breakfast, ate a bacon roll that was so greasy, the bread base was translucent. Folks in New York have no idea what a simple bacon buttie is, so I suspect this unwitting fool put some bacon, ketchup and butter in a roll and microwaved the damn thing. It was the most expensive bacon roll I’ve ever had, and I won’t be having another. For Xmas eve, true to form, I ate unhealthy amount of Thai food at the Saigon Grill (this place is a Godsend) before heaving my ass upto the Riverside Church in northern Harlem. This place isn’t a church, it’s a cathedral. Inside, the ceiling must be at least 80ft high. The service was unique. Lots of candles and wreaths, about 2500 seated people, and each speaker was from a different (and sometimes rather zany) denomination/faith. Nipped up to Hardy’s to walk his old dog Buddie, then headed home. Xmas day saw me wake up bemused and befuddled by the TV. Over there, there’s a station that plays footage of a burning log for the duration of Xmas day!? Another plays ‘A Xmas Story’ on loop. Braved the rain to walk around Central Park, saw an Eastern European carve nutcracker soldiers out of ice, before giving up and fleeing to the warm flat in north Harlem to watch The Life Aquatic and chill with Buddie. Finished the night off with bad Chinese food and a screening of Gene Wilder movies at the Jewish Makor Centre. Then the K-Dawg showed up with her new beau. Checked out the ‘Fashion In Colour’ show at the Cooper-Hewitt and felt like a tit walking through the ‘black’ room wearing all black. Had bbq, grilled Mahi-Mahi at the Atlantic Grill after hitting the sales at Bloomingdale’s. Crashed into the financial disctrict: Trinity Church, Stock Exchange, Ground Zero (crawling with SWAT still), the Winter Garden (palm trees in New York?) and – of course – discount priced designer goods at Century 21. Saw a neat African architecture show at the WTC and astounding, evocative, enormous canvases (technically linens) by Craig McPherson of Hong Kong, Rio de Janero, Venice, Istanbul, Sydney and a blazing New York. Five cheese (count ‘em) macaroni and calamari at The Barking Dog Diner provided enough fuel to charge through a Williamsburg pub crawl.
New Year’s Eve was chilled (despite the regular flyovers by sniper-filled NYPD helicopters, blinding us with their search lights), overlooking the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn and Manhatten fireworks from the middle of my favourite building, the Brooklyn Bridge (It’s the perfect, last minute plan: stunning view, no big crowds and you’re home in half an hour!).
New Year’s Day made me the unlikely acquaintence of the Education Manager at the Guggenheim (sitting next to me at the communal table) in the largest, neon dim sum hall I’ve ever seen. Ice skating in central park, then a haphazard and overly long-winded excursion into the Bronx (Lenair – “No, there ain’t nothing to do in the Bronx, ‘specially for a white man … ‘sept get mugged?”) for the Bronx Zoo night time light show (as peculiar as it sounds). Followed up my new contact the next morning with a tour of the dept at the Gugg, followed by a chat which resulted in us arranging to have a mutually beneficial, I’ll scratch your back, etc. relationship with regards to job offers J.
Coney Island is where Tom Hanks shook the hand of a mechanical fortune teller, so I had to go there. As you leave the station (which reminded me of The Hague) you’re greeted by the most impressive mural I’ve seen. The Brazilian twins Los Geminos are masters of their craft. I will put up photos somewhere, sometime. Hot dogs at Nathan’s followed by a brisk stroll along the deserted boardwalk to Russia. Or as they call it there, Brighton Beach. The only characters on signs I could understand were numbers, which was more than the shop assistants could understand of what I was saying. Wonderful Russian patisseries, grocers and chocolateries (?) abound. Right next to Little Turkey. Went to Dizzy’s that night to witness an amazing view of Central Park whilst my flatmates’ mate played trumpet in a, very talented, septet. Spent my last dime on a superb meal of coarse pate and steak tartare at Les Halles (where else? I’m still due a third visit). It melted in the mouth and was silky smooth. Not how I expected raw beef to taste at all.
Coming home, my suitcase was 400g (or, 8 Mars bars) under the limit. I was sad to leave the city, my buddies, and a lovely pair of lips. Luckily it was the best plane ride ever. The seat next to me was free, so I had space to move my legs around. They played the new Jarmusch flick, ‘Broken Flowers’ (Bill Murray is excellent – he actually acts! Yes he does! Watch his eyes!) and gave me a fry-up for breakfast. To top it off; a few rows down, a suited old guy with an eye patch carried a GAP bag full of (beloved?) old records. As I stepped off the plane, the airhostess chimed; “Cheerio”. Then I knew I was home.

Letter from America 1

Woohoohoo. Busy first few days in the ol’ Apple. Flew in Saturday night, no questions asked at Immigration (sweet!). Got a lift to the flat – in a pretty dodgy part of town. Live right next to an elevated subway line, but my room is in the midle of the flat, and so can’t hear a thing . Drove through a deluge to Queens stopping on the way to pick up a big-haired columbian who talked alot, but not a word of English. Saw my flatmates play jazz til 1am. They’re really good, which is a bonus. They played on a stage suspended from the ceiling by strings (see pic). Oh, and need a torch as the lights are out in the entrance hallway/several flights of stairs.
Up the next day early, jetlag still in full swing. Walked up on our roof, checked the view, in this weather uninspiring. Walked into Manhatten over Williamsburg Bridge. Wandered through Soho and Lower East Side. Lunch was a cheese blintz (like a rubbery pancake) and superb borscht at the 24hr Ukranian joint Veselka. Checked out Greg’s (flatmate) friend’s documentary premiere in swanky Meat Packing District venue. Shagpile carpet about a foot deep, mahogony (free!) bar. All a bit Clockwork Orange.
Monday hung in Central park til started work. Work with an artist from Williamsburg, a (gay) recent Art History grad (haha) and an artist who used to sew stamps together and work with headless dolls. Chilled in the flat to the mellow jazz melodies coming from my flatmates’ rooms.
Tuesday met the artist flatmate Kirsten for about a second. Went on pubcrawl around Greenwich Village. Irish bar Shades of Green, wonderful ex-beauty parlour The Beauty Bar, Green Roomesque Luca Lounge, punk Niagara and then a couple of bars on Ludlow/Stanton – Lower East hangout haunt. A good night. Measures here are about the same price as UK, but twice the size. A good night.
After work Wed ate at Wagamama-style Republic, then checked out Detroyer and The New Pornographers at Webster Hall – the most amazing venue I’ve ever seen; absinthe green pseudo art nouveau entrance, haunted house bookmatched marble interior complete with oil paintings and huge mirrors, toilets like they came out of a blacklit Botticelli painting, gret view of stage and sound system and the balcony bar was a fish tank. The Pornographers were superb, as was the support. Finished the night with two encores, one a Fleetwood Mac tribute. Then to Wiliamsburg (hipster/artistville) for free pizza with our drinks at Alligator Lounge.
Thursday up late, hoovered, laundry, cooked up a massive batch of Bolognese. Felt a day wasted in New York but Lo! Trusty flavorpill.net to the rescue. Ate an ENORMOUS corned beef sandwich at Katz’ Deli (of When Harry Met Sally fame). Went to see John Waters at Barnes & Noble. Got my pic taken with him and got my Juxtopoz signed. Man that guy has a cool moustache. Picked up a wonderful Mexian Cocoa at the 2 by 2ft Vegan booth Kanakamakawaleigha. Then checked out Japanese band Mono at Mercury Lounge. These guys have ESP or somethng. Without saying a word or making eye contact they created the most amazing, harmonised soundscapes with two guitars, hot chick on bass and drummer, and some distortion. At times melancholic and quiet, at others loud and enraged, with distortion that sounded like crashing waves or a calmly blowing wind. The closest I’ve been to a state meditation. Picked up a signed LP.
After work headed to SoHo to chekout exhibition opening of Carl Fudge’s show Camoflaged. Met him, threw some ideas at him, got an autographed press release. His stuff rocks. Picked up Chagall’s autobiography and a chai at the Used Book Cafe (perhaps the quietest spot in NYC). Saw (and then ate) the largest burger/ball of mince I’ve ever seen at The Silver Spur. Raw in the middle, served with sweet potato fries. Gorgeous waitress to boot. Hellyea.
Sunday crawled round Williamsburg. Sat in car seat booths (complete with seatbelts) and ate free tater tots at Trash, via the hidden Lulu Lounge for a few seconds of an anthropology lecture to the divine Tainted Lady Lounge – a mint green lounge filled floor to ceiling with framed pin up girls and 50s sexploitation book covers. The loos are wallpapered with 50s porn! And they have a proper old school til, just like in the movies … cher-ching!
Yesterday night saw The Shining projected onto the wall of The Cellar bar, free popcorn and Haunted Cocktails later headed to the Kelloggs 24hr Diner to dip cinnamon toast into hot chocolate til 3am. Walked home to find everyone in the flat for once, drank vodka and watched Sideways. It seemed fitting.

New York Super Fudge Chunk!

Haha. It just got better. The site manager at the Guggenheim just quit so I’m taking her position, on higher pay. This way I retain my position in the company but just move across to NY! They’re paying for my flight and $500 a month towards rent and have just given me £200 towards the cost of my suit and are also giving me a bonus on next moinths pay! Life is sweet. Got up at 6am today to help move tables and chairs from the venue of our rollicking final fling on Friday night back to St. James’ Palace. Then after work I went out for an enormous helping of spicy chicken satay followed by a trip to the Hagen Daz cafe in Leicester Square. Three of us couldn’t decide which to order so we just shared a cookie crunch, brownie surprise and chocoholic. Now I’m fat. Life is sweet.

Aurélia

Saw Charlie Chaplin’s grand-daughter perform twice on consecutive nights. “Aurelia’s Oratorio” is impossible to describe. Curtains courted each other, legs disappeared, coats beat up their owners, and Aurélia Thierrée became a floating head with angel wings, a 12ft tall headless tap dancer; dissolved through a funnel, took an upside-down taxi ride and had a model train ride through her torso. Only the French are this good at creating a sense of pure childhood wonder, absolute joy de vie – and beating themselves up. The music, the actress, the sets and the illusions. Flawless and inspiring. Beautifully Surreal. I cannot remember the last time I was truly inspired like this. Its in my blood now. I’m running on it. I hope I do something with it. I’m thinking shadow puppets and Flash…
Followed the second performance with a sighting of Lenny Henry and Dawn French and a serving of jellyfish (Shanghai Style, though I would have been none the wiser had it been Peking or even Glasgow Style quite frankly) then lobster with noodles. I am now convinced that the best thing to do on your birthday is to eat the best meal you will all year and see something beautiful and inspiring.

One week. Beat stylee. That last bits a lie.

“The Da Vinci Code”. Exciting but some of the riddles at the end were WAY too easy and therefore a waste of my valuable reading time. Found a razor burn cure. Vaseline Intensive Care moisturiser. Then got an electric razor that CUTS ME Cooked salmon steaks and wondered what all the fuss with salmon steaks is all about. Moules et frites sur-la-terre avec le K-Dawg et sa manservant. I am now free. Figuring out how I feel about that. Stuck in the middle between two people at work who just broke up. Got £265 from the Fraud Squad. Hung out in Alton. Walked the dog. Acquired thirty-six handmade oatcakes. Noticed the strange phenomenon of gorgeous girls working only in stationary and pastry shops in Ashbourne. Wondered if eating lots of cornish pasties and pork pies makes a guy endearing. Kicked-it at a Knights Templar church in Ashbourne hit by Oliver Cromwell’s canonballs. Saw an eerie skull n’ crossbones, beatifully designed “Sacred” tombstones in a field of snowbells and a tiny tomb with a life-sized little girl carved in marble, lying ontop.
My Great Uncle’s just been diagnosed with cancer. In his lymph glands. No turning back. Apparently he’s more scared than he thought he’d be. Scared of the pain. Since I was very young, I always thought he, out of all the people I knew, would be prepared when it came to ‘the end’. You know, cool with it. Down with dying. The thought of him struggling with it makes me immensely sad. When he does go I know that whatever he says last will be marvelous, merry and erudite.