The Spiral Staircase

Happy 11/11/11

Smokin Joe Floats Off

Rest in peace, Joe Frazier, Olympic gold medalist, world heavyweight champion, and beautiful human being.

When people lionize Muhammed Ali, I've always said, "What about how he treated Frazier?"  In the pre-fight press conferences before their first match, Ali flung racist rhetoric at Joe, calling him a stupid gorilla, and accusing him of being an Uncle Tom. 

Frazier was far from an Uncle Tom; he was a tough, proud Philly fighter who came up hard in the racist South.  In the documentary Facing Ali, Joe grows emotional as he speaks of Ali's insults: "It was like voices were coming into his head. I couldn't tell you who they were coming from because I don't know.  But if you ain't got something right to say to me, then you better keep your quiet, because I'm gonna peel off and hit you." 

He blinks back a tear. "Because there's nothing for me to do but just walk straight. Walk right."

Joe got his revenge the only way he knew how.  In that first match in Madison Square Garden he won a beautiful unanimous decision that included one of the best left hooks in history. 

Frazier describes preparing for this fight by working out in the gym for 30 minutes straight, no round breaks, while listening to James Brown. That's the way he fought, too.  He was relentless in his aggression with a gorgeous, forward-surging rhythm. 

Photo: Robert Deutsch, USA Today

Here he is in his North Philly gym, now closed.  I passed through there in 1999 when I was still fighting.  It was sleepy and atmospheric and there was kind of a sad feeling about the place, but maybe that's just where I was in my life.  Everyone was very welcoming.  I sparred with a nice guy named Marvin, while an older trainer yelled out things like, "If you ain't the hammer, you the nail."

At that time, Frazier's daughter Jacqui was getting ready for her match with Laila Ali.  Jacqui was way bigger than me, so we never sparred.  She was a 40-something lawyer with kids and I believe she took the fight with the 20-something Leila out of pure family feeling.  All good daughters want to vanquish their father's enemies.  The hyped Leila was never much of a fighter, and the fact that Jacqui fought her to a majority decision proves it.

One morning I showed up early and there was nobody in Frazier's Gym except me and Joe.  He looked like he had been up all night.  He was mad about an event he'd gone to the night before, where he felt he'd been slighted. The morning light was slanting through the gym windows as I stood awkwardly before one of the heavy bags putting on my handwraps.  Joe Frazier stalked around me, fuming.  His anger was like a physical force.  It was pretty intimidating.

Then he stopped and laughed, and I thought: I will always remember this moment.  Because it was like he was laughing at everything: at himself, at his pain, at me, standing there in my pigtails and pink sweats.  To me, that laugh is what boxing is all about. 

Trainer Eddie Futch had a hell of a time convincing Frazier to quit on his stool after 14 rounds with Ali in the Thrilla in Manila.  Even though Frazier could barely see, he still wanted to answer the bell in a fight that Ali would later call the closest thing he'd ever felt to death.

"Sit down, son," Eddie told Joe.  "It's all over.  No one will ever forget what you did today."

Punchdrunk's Sleep No More

The lush installation piece by Punchdrunk is billed as a reinvention of Macbeth, occupying a warehouse space in Chelsea done up as a hotel called the McKittrick.  Theatergoers don Venetian masks and wander through the multiple floors in silence, experiencing the performance as they wish. 

I made three key strategic errors in re this show.

The first was to reread Macbeth before going.  Although the "characters" in Sleep No More correspond to the characters in Macbeth, the plot is abstracted to the point of nonexistence.  There's almost no direct engagement with the text. 

I love Shakespeare so much that it's actually hard for any kind of art experience to compete with just sitting on the couch in my pyjamas and reading a play straight through. 

One thing I kept noticing in the text of Macbeth was how ambition destroys both the unity of time and the unity of self.  Trying to make the future happen now, trying to leap over yourself.  It made me think about my own crappy ambition and how miserable it makes me.

"Welcome to the McKittrick," said the elevator operator as he ferried our group from the swanky entry-level bar to the darkened hotel rooms above.  I tried to keep my eye on my friend Lisa's ponytail, but he closed the elevator door between us.

"This is a solo experience," he intoned solemnly. 

The bridge and tunnelers next to me giggled hysterically behind their Venetian masks.  I tried to remain calm.  The elevator door slid open and I stepped out into a graveyard lined with white crosses.

When Lisa and I met up in the bar after the show, she was like, "I kept thinking of how much you must have loved the erotic dancing and full-frontal male nudity." 

I was stunned.  "What erotic dancing and full-frontal male nudity?"

Photo credit: EMURSIVE

What I did see was rooms: A room of bathtubs, one of them filled with pink water.  A mental hospital dorm room with crosses nailed to the walls.  A room with a cradle above which headless babydolls floated.  A fragrant room filled with bouquets of dried herbs.  A room of dead birds hanging in plumes from the ceiling.  A restaurant with half-drunk glasses of wine and clever menus.  Vanities whose drawers held symbols drawn in sand.  A private eye office with missing person reports.  A hotel desk with crumbling lounge furniture and telephone booths.  Candles stuck with needles.  A bar area whose floor was made of wood chips and walls were cardboard boxes.  A maze of trees.  A glass cabinet filled with nails. 

The lighting was crepuscular and the imagery was a pastiche of film noir and torture porn.  It was fun, and I was grateful for the scope of the endeavor and all the work that went into creating such a vast entertainment, but I'm not sure the details were right the way they were right in Sophie Calle's Room.  Maybe I would have liked it better if I'd seen more erotic dancing.

Photo Credit: Yaniv Schulman

Every once in a while one of the actors would sweep in and do a silent pantomime of some urgent, nonsensical action (e.g., rifling through drawers in search of something they never found, sticking pins in a dead bird, pouring out glasses of whiskey onto the floor, packing and then unpacking a suitcase).  This was all pretty boring.

An exception was the moment I saw in the maze of trees.  A creamy-skinned Irishwoman in a nurse's outfit emerged from a wooden shack.  She walked, weeping, through the maze, where she stopped before a column and wrote on it with a piece of chalk: "Wife, children, servants, all that could be found."  This was surreally, quietly beautiful. 

By and large, though, I didn't buy the uniformly ramped-up nature of the emotions on display, which seemed more a way to sell the thing than authentic emotional truth.  Shades of Stomp. 

Although maybe I made a third mistake in not purchasing the program aggressively hawked as "the only keepsake from this show that is literally redefining the face of American theater."  It might have revealed the deeper intelligence at work.  As it was, I thought Sleep No More was smart, but only in the sense that a little black dress is smart. I slept great afterward, and it didn't even make me dream.

Top Ten Meals in the Dordogne Valley and Barcelona

L and I stayed in Barcelona a few days, then rented a car and drove into France, staying a night near Carcassonne, then a night in Saint-Emilion, and a week in a cottage in the Dordogne Valley, just outside Sarlat.  We drove back to Barcelona before flying home.  What bliss!

My favorite meals...

10. PICNIC LUNCH, WALNUT ORCHARD IN THE PERIGORD

Omlette sandwiches with cepe mushrooms (porcini), tomato, shallots, and purple basil
Brebis (sheep cheese)
Prunes from Agen
Stolen walnuts
Water

Midway through an 8km hike, L and I sat down in the shade in a walnut orchard and ate the egg sandwiches I'd made that morning.  All the groceries were from the farmer's market in Sarlat.  Nothing tastes better than food on a hike.

9. LA FONDA, BARCELONA

Green Salad
Cod in Goat Cheese Sauce
Seafood Fideo
White Penedes

Thanks to S. for recommending this joint, which was the best value of the trip, I think under 20 euros per person.  The cod and goat cheese was a weird combination that really worked, and fideo is just scrumptious.  I wish I'd taken notes because I can't remember what this crisp, aromatic bottle of white was, some blend of local varietals including Muscat d'Alexandrie. 

8. LUNCH, CHAI PASCAL, SAINT-EMILION

Warm Goat Cheese Salad
Mixed Charcuterie
2006 Château Peyrou Côtes de Castillon

After we visited my inspirational friend M, who Is making her own wine in Montagne-St-Emilion, we stopped in at a wine bar in town she recommended.  What a great meal!  Their salad was huge, with fresh beets and chunks of warm, ashed goat cheese smeared on rustic toasts.  The charcuterie plate had ham from the black Perigord pig, house-made terrine, pork rillettes, and dry sausage, and we washed it down with the juicy red Côtes de Castillon, made by Catherine Papon-Nouvel, which they poured by the glass.

7. STEAK DINNER, LA MUSE, LABASTIDE-ESPARBAIRENQUE

Local Entrecote with Red Wine Pan Sauce
Mashed potatoes and turnips
Sliced Tomatoes
Cheeses
Cahors and Minervois

I made us a yummy dinner in a farmhouse kitchen at this wonderful artist's retreat in SW France.  If you're an artist and you need some space and inspiration, you should really check out La Muse.  It's in a spectacular, isolated mountain villiage in the Black Mountains, just outside Carcassonne.  The landscape is almost medieval with a cool mystical vibe thanks to the Cathars.

It's hard not to eat well in this part of the world.  We shopped at a tiny general store in the neighboring village of Mas Cabardes, a trip during which we got lost finding the store and finding our car afterwards. 

The entrecote was from cows just down the road, sliced fresh for us by the local shopkeeper.  I rubbed it with olive oil and garlic and sauteed it rare.  Three firm Pyrenee cheeses: a brebis, a cow's milk, and a great, cheddary goat, plus a bloomy-rinded chevre that L said smelled like manure but I loved.  It went great with the 6-euro bottles of Cahors and Minervois.

6. TAPAS, BAR BOQUERIA, BARCELONA

Octopus a la Plancha
Chorizo
Grilled Shishito(?) Peppers
Grilled Mushrooms
Grilled Shrimp (the kind with their heads still on)
House Rose

Barcelona's Boqueria is a serious contender for the title of Best Farmer's Market in the World.  We had lunch at one of the bustling, informal countertop restaurants there. The lines were too long at Bar Central so we went to Bar Boqueria, which I think was even better.  Everything was delicious, and ordering was an adventure.  We drank lots of cheap rose out of tumblers.

5. LAST SUPPER, OUR COTTAGE, VITRAC

Bean soup
Watercress salad with garlic dressing
Cheese
Roast quinces with chestnut honey
2005 Domaine de l'A Côtes de Castillon

This was a let's-eat-everything left-in-the-frig supper.  The stock from the head-on chicken I'd roasted the night before was better than the roast itself - I've never before gotten so much flavor out of a single bird.  I threw in some giant white lima beans, carrots, leeks, pumpkin, and served it with garlic croutons.  The smell of roasting quinces filled up the whole cottage.

The merlot-dominated red was made by Stephane Derenoncourt and purchased at a great wine shop in Saint-Emilion called Terres Millesimees.  It was a fabulous value - silky and powerful with jammy black fruit and that special vibrancy you get in natural wine.  Wish I'd brought some home!

4. LUNCH, BISTRO D'EN FACE, TREMOLAT, FRANCE

Escargots
Salad of duck gizzards, Jerusalem artichokes, radicchio, and endive
Some weird and yummy herbal aperitif
*
Duck confit in port wine sauce
Potatoes Sarladaise (i.e., fried in duck fat)
House Red (Bergerac)
*
Chocolate Mousse
Espresso

We decided to take down some serious duck fat at this charming bistro, which is the dressed-down sister of the Michelin-starred Vieux Logis across the street.  The salad was one of the best dishes I had on the whole trip.  I'd tried to make duck gizzards once, and they were ghastly, and so I was afraid to order this dish, but oh boy am I glad I did.  The gizzards were like little chewy duck sausages, and the Jerusalem artichoke was tossed in some kind of tangy, creamy dressing, and the bitter greens cut sharply through all the richness.  It was superb.  Other things were less fabulous, like the snails, but basically this was what you want a bistro to be.

We talked to the elegant octogenarian at the table next to us, lunching with her niece.  The two were discussing the aunt's wartime memories.  She was happy to learn that I was Jewish and told me that during the war many of her neighbors had hidden Jews in their barns.  As a symbolic gesture of gratitude, I gave her a feather I'd found in the woods.

3. DINNER, LA TREILLE, VITRAC, FRANCE

Pot au feu of foie gras and vegetables
Lamb chops with wild mushrooms
Macaroon with salted caramel ice cream and strawberry sauce
Vin de Pays du Perigord

Our hostess from the gite recommended this excellent local restaurant.  The foie gras pot au feu was surprisingly delicate, with local baby carrots and turnips and potatoes cooked in a flavorful chicken broth.  I had never had foie gras in consomme before.  The dish was served, adorably, in a little mason jar.  It was sort of like foie gras potpie, minus the crust.

The lamb chops were delicious and the presentation was beautiful, as if every spear of asparagus and tendril of morel had been set in its right place.  Dessert was good, too.  The wine was rough around the edges.  I'd never heard of VDP Perigord before and maybe there's a good reason.  Best service of the trip from the solemn, deft waitress.

2. DINNER, AUBERGE SAINT-JEAN, SAINT-JEAN DE BLAIGNAC, FRANCE

Grilled foie gras with celery root mousse and apple sorbet
Pigeon with Roasted Tomato
Chocolate Square
2005 Saint-Emilion

The chef's cute pregnant wife ran the front of the house at this ambitious restaurant on the Dordogne that probably deserves a Michelin star.  The foie gras appetizer was L's favorite dish of the whole trip.  It was seared, meltingly tender, and the celery root showed up three ways on the plate (I think): in a mousse, a puree, and as a brunoise.  It was such a full experience of the flavor of the vegetable, and the apple sorbet tied it together perfectly.  This dish was really breathtaking and announced a certain seriousness emanating from the kitchen. 

The pigeon was very good, too.  The breast was possibly cooked sous-vide, perfectly pink and earthy.  The leg was falling-apart tender.  My dessert (some kind of brownie-like thing) was only okay, and I was very jealous of L's choice, which had a vanilla-poached pear in salted toffee sauce and caramel-chocolate wafer.  We splurged for a 2005 St-Emilion, which was great. 

Afterwards I asked for verbena tea.  It arrived in a teapot shaped like a hedgehog, which is what the chef's surname, l'Herisson, means.

 

Photo: Justin Bernhaut/acpsyndication.com

1. TAPAS, CAL PEP, BARCELONA

Mixed Fry of Smelts, Shrimp, and Squid
Cockles Steamed with Sausage and White Wine
Tortilla
Grilled Shishito(?) Peppers
Sweet Sausage with White Bean
Cod with Roasted Tomato and Potato
Gran Riserva Cava

The meal of the trip for me came on our last night in town.  I've tried to go to Cal Pep many times, but the line was always too long. 

This was a nearly-perfect meal, marred only by the fact that the line of people waiting to dine is right behind you, meaning that you can't linger over your food the way you want to when food is this good. The bottle of cava recommended by the waiter was flinty and refreshing and had a ton of character.  The salty, crispy fried fish, the opulent cod, the sausage - it was all fabulous - but the spanish tortilla, a custardy omlette of potatoes flavored with bacon and aioli, was the best dish of the trip for me.  Proof that simple food can be extraordinary. 

When I had to say "no" to the question "uno mas?" I was genuinely sad. 

 

 

Sophie Calle's Room and Gowanus Open Studios 2011

When I walked out of Studio Yada yesterday after yoga, I noticed a bouquet of green balloons on the railing.  A sign read "Open Art Studio," so I wandered back upstairs and found my way to the first of about twenty artists' studios I ended up visiting on what I discovered was a yearly event for Gowanus artists.  It was a wonderful way to spend a sunny afternoon in Brooklyn. 

Visual artists are endlessly inspiring to me.  I like to see their bookshelves, oil cans, stained fingernails, the postcards and anatomy books and maps they have taped to their walls.  I like to pet their dogs and eat their meager snacks and ask them questions about philosophy. 

I saw provocative work by, among others, Bethany Bristow, Joanne McFarland, David Schlegel, Waylon Tait, Kevin Cooney, and Joelle Shallon.

Dale Williams was showing dark, allegorical scenes that made me think of Max Beckmann and Goya and the brothers Grimm.  He was super smart.

Delfee - mixed media with collage on paper

At Justin Neely's groovy studio, I stood for a long time in front of an icon of Solzhenitsyn.  I had to ask who it was, because "Solzhenitsyn" was written in Cyrillic.  This painting had a rejuvenating effect on me, like a spa treatment. 

Солженицын est морт (Solzhenitsyn est mort) - acrylic, spray paint, and pencil on plywood

"I love transliteration," Justin said.

I told him about my favorite book from my high school years, Dictionary of the Khazars by the late Milorad Pavic.  This was a novel in the form of a dictionary, about a tribe of dreamers named the Khazars, and it came in masculine and feminine editions.

Pavic wrote in his essay "Beginning and the End of the Novel":

Long ago I came to understand that the arts are "reversible" and "non reversible." There are some arts which enable the recipient to approach the work from various sides, or even to go around it and have a good look at it changing the spot, the perspective and the direction of his looking at it according to his own preference, as is the case with architecture, sculpture or painting, that are reversible. Other non reversible arts, such as music and literature look like one-way roads on which everything moves from the beginning to the end, from birth to death. I have always wished to make literature, which is non reversible art, a reversible one. Therefore my novels have no beginning and no end in the classical meaning of the word.

I thought of Pavic again that night as I wandered through Sophie Calle's Room, an installation in a suite in the Lowell Hotel.  Room was an updated reperformance of a piece Calle had done at London's Freud Museum.  It was free and open to the public for three days, 24-hours a day, as part of the FIAF festival.  I got to the Upper East Side just before the show closed at midnight.  

The Lowell was staid and dressy.  A uniformed doorman waved me and two cute gay boys into an elevator to the third floor.  I thought it was cool how the elevator buttons and hotel hall were not specially marked for the show, so finding it was just like going to a friend's hotel room.  A sign hung on the closed door of the suite, instructing us to come in if the "Do Not Disturb" sign wasn't up.  I opened the door.

It was hushed inside Room.  A dozen visitors milled about the sitting area, bedroom, kitchenette, and bath, examining the artifacts and placards.  The vibe was sober and almost awkward.  I thought of walking into a home where people are sitting shiva. 

"Can I sit in the chair?" I asked the security guard, pointing to the armchair that did not hold the dead cat.

"Yes, that one you can sit in," he said.

Normally I chat up art security guards, but I felt shy about talking to anyone at this exhibition.  The hotel room was so intimate it was almost isolating.  Even the television was on mute.

Photo: Lucy Hogg

An open window let in a nice breeze and a view of New York at night.  Little signs hung everywhere, with numbers on them, and each sign had a story from Sophie's life, accompanied by an object positioned among the suite's furnishings.  You had to bend down to read some of the stories, which were beautiful little jewel pieces in the vein of Pavic or Calvino, but with a definite French, feminine twist.  I thought Colette was in there somewhere, and Nathalie Sarraute, and our post-post-modern obsession with memoir/fame/reality TV. 

A stroller sat beside a scathing account of how Sophie has never wanted children.

A pig snout mask sat on a windowsill with a story about one man's cruelty to her.

There were wedding dresses, bed sheets, a burnt matress, orchids from Frank Gehry, erotic photographs, love letters, stories of shame, love, suicide, and seduction.  Some of it was true, but you didn't know which parts, and you didn't know if the objects in the room were originals or facsimiles. 

Photo: Damien Saatdjian, courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery, NY © Sophie Calle/ADAGP

The way Sophie wrote about her lovers made you want them, too.  I felt at the time that the whole thing was a little too pretty.  In retrospect, though, it had a very long finish, and it left me thinking about whether life can itself be art and about how time acts on us.

Sophie's stories were truly reversible, because you didn't need to go in order.  Characters appeared and reappeared, but the only important character was the artist herself.  As Pavic imagined, it was a story you could live in for a while, like a room. 

My nose was running - there had been a very strong scent of peaches in the lobby - so I took a tissue out of the holder in the bathroom.  While I read the story about the black bra hanging on the shower rack (Sophie's mother teased her daughter about her tiny breasts by calling her first soutien-gorge a soutien-rien), I discreetly blew my nose.  This was mildly thrilling: I was blowing my nose with art! 

I wish I'd thought to look for a mini-bar.

The artist herself came in and out a few times, talking French to her entourage.  She sat on the sofa and fiddled with her iPhone, put a bag in the closet, and went outside for a cigarette.  When I left, I thanked her for letting me visit her Room.  She smiled and kept smoking. 

Charles Bane Jr. On Writing

Taken from Patrick Pressl's great review.

I would never go to a movie because I thought it would be about cars

I was puzzled by the spike in my blog ratings three days ago.  What could have caused the bump from five readers per day (four of which are me) to an astounding 300? 

Apparently, a Michegan resident named Sarah Deming is suing the distributors of the film Drive, because she found the trailer for the film misleading.  Sarah Deming went to the movie thinking that it would be about cars, and it wasn't, so she wants her money back.  Also, she thinks the movie was anti-Semitic.  I am not that Sarah Deming.

Pumpkin or Hubbard Squash Cooked with Bengali Seasonings

This is addictively good, with multiple layers of flavor that do not obscure the taste of the squash. The hardest part is finding the ingredients, but these days you can order everything online even if you're far from an Indian grocery.  Mustard oil in particular is worth seeking out. 

You can make this recipe with any winter squash, and some of them - like delicata - won't even need peeling.  From Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian.

BANGALI KADDU

1/4 cup mustard oil or olive oil
1/2 teaspoon whole cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon whole brown mustard seeds
1/4 teaspoon nigella seeds (AKA kalonji or black cumin)
1/4 teaspoon whole fennel seeds
1/8 teaspoon whole fenugreek seeds
2 bay leaves
2 to 3 whole dried hot red chiles (tiny ones, like cayenne or Thai bird)
about 2 pounds winter squash, deseeded, peeled if necessary, and cut into 1- to 1 1/2-inch cubes
3/4 to 1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 tablespoons light brown sugar

Heat the oil over medium-high heat in the bottom of a nonstick or stick-resistant pot (Le Creuset works great).  Add cumin and mustard seeds.  Once they start popping (just a few seconds), add the nigella, fennel, fenugreek, bay leaves, and chiles.  Stir once or twice quickly and put in the cubed squash.  Cover, turn heat down to low, and cook 40-45 minutes, stirring occasionally.  At the end, add salt and sugar and mix well, breaking up any large chunks with the back of a wooden spoon.  It will cook down into a mash but should still have some texture.  Madhur Jaffrey notes: "The whole chiles should only be eaten by those who know what they are doing."

True

 

Pickled Pets - An Art Opening

One of the magical things about writing is that, when you find yourself at a party where you feel awkward, you can take out your notepad and start reporting.  This is more effective than getting drunk and also cheaper.  When the guests are as intelligent as they were at Mr. Kenny Law's Pickled Pets, it is also much more rewarding. 

Burlesque star Lil' Miss Licks tending bar.  Licks is that rare breed of comidienne who manages to be both sexy and funny, in the Terri Garr tradition. 

Ditto for her friend Aimee of the Leroy Sisters.  I caught Aimee opening one of the pickled pets to investigate the composition of the liquid brine; we both agreed it smelled and tasted like water.  Aimee is a skilled performer of "bouffon" clowning, which she said involved subtly insulting the audience, often without their knowing it. 

"Why are clowns scary?" I asked.

"Clowns are irreverant.  They are like, 'fuck you.'  Also, because of the mask.  Whatever's hidden is scary."

I decided to forge ahead into nerd territory and ask what she thought of Aristotle's definition of the comic as "constituted by a fault and a mark of shame." 

She nodded.  "The biggest laughs in our shows are often the mistakes, the moments we didn't intend."

Which made me think of the thing I'd read at my dad's funeral, "62 Things I Will Remember About My Father," one for each year of his life.  To lighten things up, I'd put in a cheesy joke about how I loved my dad's Texan accent even though he thought I was the one with the accent.  It got a chuckle, but the line that got a huge laugh was number 42: He was coming around to the idea of being a rancher.

My stepmom had been trying to convince my dad to help her run the family cattle ranching business, but my dad was a white collar worker on the brink of retirement and wasn't gung ho about a new life mending fences.  But who knows.  He adored his wife and he liked being out at the ranch and I do think he might have come around.  The line wasn't meant as a joke at all, but the laugh it got was uproarious and - I couldn't help but feel - had a tinge of unkindness to it.  The crowd in the church was half rural Oklahomans and half city folks from dad's office.  The laugh opened some kind of gulf in the room I hadn't been aware of before.

"Things are only funny if they're true," Aimee said.

Next I worked up the nerve to talk to the sexy woman on the bar stool behind me, whose name was Aisha and who told me she worked at Babes in Toyland, a sex toy shop on the Lower East Side.  She is a student at Queen's College, studying Japanese and Art History.

"What's that Japanese word for cute?" I asked her.  I had seen a whole exhibit on it, and it seemed relevant to this situation.  Up on stage, Kenny was creating a large work, using paint and markers. 

"Kawaii."

"Do you think that applies to Kenny's work?"

She smiled.  "Absolutely."

"Why?"

"It has animals.  It's otherworldly, cartoon-like, and bright."

I told her I'd read in the Japan Society exhibit, which focused on manga and video games, that the aesthetic of kawaii arose partly in response to Hiroshima. 

"That's the otherworldly part," she said.  "It's so cute that it's a form of escapism."

I wandered over to the handsome, dreadlocked DJ BLBRLPP aka "The Olden Child" aka a few more aliases that I can't remember because I lost his microchip-sized businesscard.  He moved languidly over his laptop and twin turntables, spinning happy, old school hip hop that went with the art like chocolate with peanut butter. 

I watched the rows of illumined dots on the turntable platter.  Like rims on a tire, they spun at different rates and in different directions as the record revolved.  It was hard to put into words.  Murakami could have done it, and that made me sad, that I would never be as good as Murakami.  But it also made me happy, because sometimes it seems like prose is so prosaic, but it's nice to remember that the world resists being put into words, that there is still lots of work to be done.

This is my new pickled pet, whose name is BEAR.  According to the artist, "You can drink it, but I wouldn't recommend it, and it's heavier than you think, so be careful."

Also in attendance at this event were... the inimitable Peekaboo Pointe, looking as though she had just emerged from a lotus flower, along with her burlesque collaboratrix Gal Friday.  These two do a faux battle scene in which they spin tassels at each other from both ends.  It is probably the best burlesque number I've ever seen.

...Bastard Keith, who wore a dinosaur puppet as he flexed his emcee muscle.

...and the Fisherman, a vibraphonist who shares my fondness for tiki.  What's not to like about the 1950's white businessman's cheap appropriation of Polynesian culture?   Mai Tais for everyone!  I look forward to going to some of the Fisherman's events, if I can bear to schlep out to Queens.

When I left Bar 4, Mr. Kenny Law was still painting...