Russians in the Backyard

I've often been lukewarm on Chekhov and many of the Russian bougeois dramas of boredom... and then it snapped. Last night really, seeing Ripe Time's Betrothed. The play draws on three stories of women about to be married. The second section is based in Chekhov's story Betrothed.

But what snapped for me were two lines by Sasha:

"It all seems somehow strange to me here, now I am out of the habit of it," he went on. "There is no making it out. Nobody ever does anything. Your mother spends the whole day walking about like a duchess, Granny does nothing either, nor you either. And your Andrey Andreitch never does anything either."

Later...

"And however that may be, my dear girl, you must think, you must realize how unclean, how immoral this idle life of yours is," Sasha went on. "Do understand that if, for instance, you and your mother and your grandmother do nothing, it means that someone else is working for you, you are eating up someone else's life, and is that clean, isn't it filthy?"

And then it hit me. This is what the suburbs are like. This is what retirement homes are like. This is what many of us strive for. A place where one does little, and aspires to do less. Yeah, we work... that's what we call it, but how much do we engage with each other, and how much do we fantasize about it. Besides that, what exposure do suburbs give us? Very little, and and aspiring to less. The idea I suppose is that we fill it up with what we want: mTV, fantesy sports, glossy magazine, directTV.

It detaches us from what most people struggle with: lame jobs, crap to buy, severe medical and environmental conditions. Where can it take us? Desperate Housewives, Colombine, Chekhov.

London: The Cup Runneth Over

While in London, I watched a slew of matches. Before seeing Titus, I saw the US look hapless against Croatia (3-0), and France and the Swiss frustrating draw before catching Enemies.

I got sucked into the Rooney watch as England stumbled its way out of the first round. Judy led us to the Korean dominated Nags Head tavern where Korea beat Togo. Only when we stepped out did we realize that the Korean over took all of Covent Garden as they took to the streets to celebrate. (Jason later told me of the corresponding chaos in LA). And then there were the amazing nail biters of Germany over Poland and Sweden over Paraguay, each victorious 1-0 in the final minutes.

My enthusiasm was stoked by print media adverstings and of course all the #7 & #9 jerseys.

So on returning I've continued to follow games, dispite the dearth of Cup coverage here. On top of that, my faithfulness is often met with frustration. My teams keep going down: the US, Korea didn't advance, Mexico dropped by Argentina, Australia falling to Italy, the Dutch to Portugul. On top of that, key players are sitting on the wings hardly controling games, Henry, Zidane, C. Ronaldo, Ronaldhino, Beckham, Rooney, the only stars who seem to shine are Germany's Klose and Ballack.

Perhaps the most formidable and frustrating team to watch has been the officials, doling out record numbers of bookings. They gave Ghana a win over the US with an awful PK at the close first half (it should have been a tie); Italy's PK-win in the extra time (90+) against Australia (it should have gone into over time); just now padded Brazil's win over Ghana, failing to call a clear offsides. Ghana, whom I was still upset by their US game, won me over by dominating the midfield and short game against Brazil. If only they had someone who could finish.

The other annoying persistant team is ESPN who have dominated english language broadcasts to no one's benefit. The commentary is inane and the their spastic graphics usually cover the ball the action on field. It's enough to learn Spanish.

Good To Be Home: Funny Sights

I don't like words on clothes for the most part. But last night on the UWS there was a deliciously revealing instance. Waiting to cross the street, there was a pretty, petite lady dressed mostly indescript. Except the back of her t-shirt had a small logo, mostly obscured by her bag's strap, leaving only the tag line: The Future of Adult Entertainment.

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Tuesday night, during the intermission of the Classical Theatre of Harlem's movingly Katrinafied staging of Waiting for Godot, Michael and I went to a bodega to get a cold refreshment. Ahead of Michael, this little boy, eight or ten years old is buying a bag of ice. He pays with a Benjamin. Without blinking or holding it up to the light, the counter guy takes it, hands back some change without counting it back. The kid takes the change without counting and leaves.

London: Books & Plays [Updated]

Why some habits are hard to regain and others so easy, I'll never understand. After a few days, the trip to London with my folks is digesting in a number of ways. So I'll try to break it down.

First off, as my habit, I loaded up on complementary reading material: Fever Pitch, Nick Hornby's memoir of his football obsession; Plays 1, the first collection of plays by Caryl Churchill, including Owners and Cloud Nine; and The Complete Plays of Sarah Kane. All of which delve into the not so pleasant aspects of the British psyche.

I managed to catch two plays: Titus Andronicus at the Globe and Enemies by David Hare (after Maxim Gorky) at the Almeida.

Titus, Shakespeare's money making blockbuster, lived up to expectations in this gory production. I've only seen this production and Julie Taymor's film, but both make me marvel at some of the soliloquays inbetween the horror... in contemplating grief and violence. The one major distraction was the awful bouffant mullets forced on Tamara's son's ..not quite fitting the otherwise predominant Elizabethan staging.

Enemies was searing with intense commentary on owners and the proletariat, and a nifty bit of metatheater, fitting for Hare's Stuff Happens, regarding the Iraq War, particularly the role in government to protect or exploit civilians. All sides seem tragic and disaster is prophesied. It was also good to get out of Central London as the Almeida required.

In a coda of sorts, I just read Korean filmmaker Park Chanwook's interview in Bomb by Esther Chae. Chanwook just closed a much heralded vengeance trilogy composed of Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, Oldboy, and Lady Vengeance. Chae mentions Titus among others as classic tales of vengeance and asks Chanwook to cite any Korean classics that deal with personal vengeance, to which he says there are none:

"We have tragedies related to war and colonization, but we don't have a culture where on expresses anger in an aggressive way. I didn't' have any literature to refer to. And I find it stifling that we don't have such traditions"

[Update] Ben Brantley must have been at my heels. The show I wanted to see but couldn't get a ticket for was Tom Stoppard's new play Rock N Roll that just opened. Brantley's review came out today. 2/3's down he give a mention of Enemies:

"What is to be done?" might also be the mantra of "Enemies," a new adaptation by the industrious David Hare of Maxim Gorky's 1906 drama of aristocrats and proletariats at loggerheads, which ends this weekend at the Almeida Theater.

Performed with naturalistic vibrancy by a fine cast directed by Michael Attenborough, "Enemies" oozes the juicy ruling-class angst, idiosyncrasy and moral paralysis associated with classic Russian fiction. But it also presents an array of ardent, revolution-ready factory workers. The more insightful of the fluttery aristocrats envy the workers their certainty. But it's telling that the uncertainty of the doomed upper-class characters is what feels convincing, and unsettlingly familiar.

Beware of That Vicious Right Hook

One of my favorite album covers is the Pogues' Peace and Love. A quick glance shows a middleweight, a long glance show that the words "peace" and "love" are tattooed on the right and left fingers respectively. L-o-v-e: four fingers plus thumb equals five. P-e-a-c-e: five fingers plus thumb equals... six? Creepy and subtle, I love it.

Last week I saw the plucky National Theatre of the United States of America (NTUSA)'s " Abacus Black Strikes NOW!: The Rampant Justice of Abacus Black." The piece is a "tent revival celebrating the history and lore of ancient knight Abacus Black" The icing for me is their poster: a gauntlet with N-T-U-S-A engraved on the fingers: five fingers: plus thumb equals six (also the right hand). Excellent. You can learn more about hexadactyly, the condition of having an extra digit.

A Handful of Thoughts

I was supposed to spend this afternoon with my BBBS match, Mitchell today. But he called me yesterday to say his mom didn't want him on the train because of the bomb threat. It bums me out, the way we give up our lives because of this acute fear. On one hand, there would be outrage to have a successful attack and discover people weren't warned. But on the other, officials haven't done much to convince us that an attack was prevented. We are slaves to chatter and the poor judgment of our lamest jokers.

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It was great to hang out with Bennett and the guys of Pyramid. A guy from Breakthruradio.com came to do a profile on them Sat. Their MO is give an audience to great unsigned bands. After 3 nights with the boys, my sleep schedule is all messed up. I'd never make it on tour... although I loved the shows, and got in some quality foosball.

During one of our chats, Ben argued well for improvisational music, largely based on a tension of failure, and an excitement of passing through it, topped off by true synergy and communication among the ensemble. He best described it as a conversation among instruments.

Bennett Kennedy at cello for Pyramid

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Despite the soggy drippyness of Saturday, Joe and I hit some galleries... highlights included Yuken Teruya, whom I wrote about earlier, the ever reliable Diane Arbus, and Daniel Rozin 's digital/analog "mirrors" (the picture above is from his show at Bitforms).

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My blessedly persistent friend Anna Hayman, got me out to see a show. We failed at getting to the Wooster Group's Poor Theatre, but had the great concession of Spirit at NYTW. What started as a mediocre war story, became a delightful study of storytelling and theatre in general. Done by three men of Improbable on the steepest raked stage ever, they did a fair bit of physical theatre and puppetry based work.

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I saw Capote on Friday. Seymour Phillip Hoffman and Catherine Keener were their usual splendidly chameleon selves. The shows the powerful conflict on interest Truman Capote was navigating in creating a work, in a new genre, "the non-fiction novel," while getting personally involved in the lives of those he wrote about... particularly Perry Smith. It's a relationship that remains messy... in particular I remember Janet Malcolm's "The Journalist & the Murderer." These pieces continue to aim for a portrait of reality while discarding various measure of objectivity that audiences expect.

It was also interesting that the film began with some assumption of familiarity of who Capote was, particularly by highlighting his vanity early in the film, and quick references to Breakfast at Tiffany's. Eventually we begin to see more of brilliance (his 94% memorized recall). But then the film ends with a text epilogue as if we have no idea who he was... that In Cold Blood made him the most famous author of his day, that he never finished a book afterwards, that he drunk himself to death.

The Alpha and Omega of Star Wars: Charlie Ross

In 1977, I was adopted in April... and in few short months my parents would take me to my first movie: Star Wars. Last night at the TKTS booth, my parents bought my last Star Wars ticket: Charlie Ross' One-Man Star Wars Trilogy.

It was good fun, worth its discounted price and on par with downtown fare. Though there is a bit of feeling you're watching your nephew/cousin perform in the den, he does some things amazingly well (R2D2's whistles) and some subtly inserted commentary on the prequel trilogy.

It's amazing how much of the movie you project as you watch him, and you forget for a moment how bad Lucas' dialog is since Ross makes them so much fun. I was sad some great lines didn't make it ("I sense a great disturbance in the Force"," and "These aren't the droids you're looking for") But it made for a great hour of nostalgia. Bonuses were getting my picture taken with a storm trooper and the many life-size cardboard cut outs in the lobby... (mmm... Carrie Fisher as Leia)

It runs through December, full price tickets are $40, but TKTS had them for $23 including the service charge.

9/11 Four Years Later

I just spent some time on the Promenade, spilled a toast, and thought about the anniversary. They put up lights on 9/11 every year now.

The Quakers had a special meeting, opening the house at 9 for a potentially 3-hour session for those interested. I sat for 2 hours, and two threads came up in testimony that I was particularly interested in.

The first thread had to do with humility. Mostly dealing with a humbling experience, a retreat from arrogance, and the feeling of smallness. Yet as the testimonies were laced in despair, I couldn't to help to think that if we aren't so powerful as we think, as we gain an appreciation for the powers of nature, or moments beyond our comprehension, there should also be a enhancement of beauty. Just as there is more powerful and ineffable forces in our lives, that which we take for granted ought to be more fragile, and thus more cherished and wondered at.

The second thread had to do with ghosts. My term, not others. But it ties in with the first thread insofar as, in the modern era there are more ghost like experience around us, and yet I tend to believe less in them. But besides feeling the presence of the dearly departed, we have artifacts, letters, pictures, movies, recordings and so on. The departed continue to haunt us, but we call it memorial, remembrance, reflection.

This morning for me, the ghost was the Times publishing this letter from Spalding Gray, whom I was deeply fascinated with prior to coming to New York, and deeply sad at his suicide.

They print:

Spalding Gray, the actor and monologuist, died in 2004. The following letter, which he wrote in the aftermath of 9/11, will appear in "Life Interrupted," a published version of the monologue he was working on at the time of his death.

For 34 years I lived with you and came to love you. I came to you because I loved theater and found theater everywhere I looked. I fled New England and came to Manhattan, that island off the coast of America, where human nature was king and everyone exuded character and had big attitude. You gave me a sense of humor because you are so absurd.

When we were kids, my mom hung a poster over our bed. It had a picture of a bumblebee, and under the picture the caption read:

"According to all aerodynamic laws, the bumblebee cannot fly because its body weight is not in the right proportion to its wingspan. But ignoring these laws, the bee flies anyway."

That is still New York City for me.

There are points I could preach on from today, but I'll pass. It is enough to feel heaviness and regret to know that we didn't respond correctly as a country, and it took a far greater catastrophe to put this into perspective.

Bionic Eyes

The CNET/BBC reports on the development of a bionic eye. The New Yorker had an article a year a so ago on the issue. Both pieces tend to concentrate on the techonological aspects, which are pretty interesting, such as, how does the visual cortex code stimuli from our eyes to create the image in our head. But neither delve deep into the psychological or emotional impact of regaining a sense after adapting to life without.

Brian Friel's play Molly Sweeney, which is based on an Oliver Sacks' casestudy, does, and results in less enthusiasm for sight restoration. One element is vast amount of brain power it takes to translate the sight of ring, with the word "ring", and the circular motion touching it creates. In short, it is overwhelming. I know in this case, the images are very crude, but still, the bioethical dillema persists. To see, then becomes the basic, elemental component of vision; it is recognition and incorporation with the other senses that is the real trick.

There's a fair amount of musing and joking about becoming cybernetic, but science fiction is becoming science fact. Thinking of all the consumer goods that are so poorly designed and thoughlessly made, and all the issues that come up with user interface, perhaps technologists should think deeper into how to intergrate these machines into our bodies.

Unrelatedy, there was all the hubbub over the new powerbooks having sudden motion detection, thus allowing for hacks to control video games by tilt. Anyone who grew up with video games can relate to the tilt that psychically helps move your avatar. Moving from a legacy interface (joysticks & control paddles) to an intuitive interface. Likewise the segway, President Bush excepting.

Brick Testament and Tiny Ninjas

I first saw Brick Testaments at a comic shop many months ago, but recently spotted them in some mainstream bookshop. They are a wee bit subversive, but not enough to upset grandma. I'm happy to learn that many lesser stories get a piece of the spotlight too.

With Mr. Lindstrom making his debut this summer (from brickbuster to blockbuster), I was reminded of my favorite version of the Scottish play, Tiny Ninja Theatre's Macbeth. "They" also do other Bard plays: Romeo & Juliet, and Hamlet, as well as some original work. I say "they" because it's really my friend Dov doing all the voices while manipulating vending machine toys as characters. It's amazing though, more puppetry and dell'arte than child's play.

Some more thoughts on Toilets

So I am thinking, "what if I help people learn about toilets here at 917 Press?"

I'd want them to know about what can happen to the decommissioned. They should know about how they factor into event planning. Or special artsy toilets.

For a time, I would take visitors of NYC to some of my favorites toilets.... the unisex at Bar 89 in SoHo, where the stall doors are transparent, but turn opaque when locked; Palicinka, also in SoHo where they have that awsome gritty handsoap.

There's also listing of notable and public toilets for the city. BlueManGroup's Tubes show muses on the wonderful system that links our homes to our cities... plumbing. In conclusion, toilets are interesting objects and places, why aren't more interested since we visit one at least once a day...