CATS! on Broadway

In Manhattan at the time one block was pristine while the next was grotty. 

New York on $50 a Day suggested I go to Broadway and pick up refund tickets to a show. Christopher Plummer was in Macbeth, right across the street from the theatre, but this was New York City  — I had even been swept at! — and I figured the poetry of TS Elliott was exactly right. I chose to see Cats! instead. 

It was exactly as advertised — a bunch of singing and dancing cats. 

"Jesus Christ, what a city!"

TS Elliott might have been name-checked in the showbill but any resemblance the flamboyant and loud show bore to his austere poetry was purely accidental. I’d been had, but I figured I got my money’s worth – I stayed. 

Times Square, 1987

I got off the subway train but I didn’t know the station. It was very dank and somebody was playing the electric violin. 

In one corner at the bottom of the stairway stood a black kid in white terrycloth tights, doing Karate Kid moves and singing “The Battle Hymn Of The Republic (Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory)” in an awful falsetto. He was staring straight at a Catholic nun while doing this — she was also black. She perched on her suitcase, smiling back at him. An older Jewish man tried to scoot by, loudly humming, “Hello, Dolly!” The kid whirled around and hoofed him in the bum. As we took the stairs the Jewish fellow turned to me and said,“Jesus Christ, what a city!”

I got to the top of the stairs and stood, blinking back the sunlight. 

I had arrived at Times Square.

The current view. 

Manhattan! A city of “firsts” Day 2, continued

I went to the Museum of Radio and Television. A person could sit in front of a television in a kiosk there and request video tapes of old shows there. My neighbor in the kiosk beside me leaned over and said, ”Whatcha watching?” The Man From U.N.C.L.E., naturally. “That’s pretty cool! I’ll have to watch that next time!” His school insisted he watch a documentary on the Civil Rights movement. I thought he was watching the better show. 

The New York Museum of Radio and Television also showed the work of Donald Bevan. This was the first time I’d seen anything by him, and I was suitably impressed. 

Central Park

 The West End Y was located near the northeast corner of Central Park. Once I had a room secured I mseyed over and saw a punk band performing in a concrete dome. 

The lead singer was dressed in a black raincoat (which he’d done up) and rolled-up Wellies. He lurched punkishly around the stage. 

I also took 35mm photos of the cherry blossoms. 

Manhattan! A city of “firsts” 2

 Back in Winnipeg the owner of a comicbook store asked me to get some Cherry Poptart comics (go ahead and look it up, but don’t say you weren’t warned!). Since I did business with him I devoted some attention to the matter but thought the fellows looked incredibly mean. I bought a copy of Maus and a huge book of Scrooge McDuck comics instead. 

I remember taking the subway and buses a lot. At one busstop a bunch of kids in yellow rain jackets came on and started chatting happily. I thought I was witnessing the denizens of a private school, but I didn’t know. 

I took the bus to the Guggenheim Museum.

It looks something like this.

 The Guggenheim was designed for the patron to take the elevator up and clomp down the spiraling ramp,stopping to goggle at artwork. I did this, and stopped at  Picasso’s Girl With Golden Hair. I stood for a very long time and admired Picasso's brushwork. That was the first time I ever “saw” a painting.

Manhattan! A city of “firsts” day 1

In the spring of 1987 our father transferred an airline ticket to fly anywhere in continental USA. I read a bunch of books and settled on NYC, NY. 

George HW Bush was POTUS at the time, and I remember staring at his portrait as a couple of US Customs Agents asked me a bunch of questions in the Winnipeg airport. They eventually let me go, even though I was a scruffy-looking guy in a U2 T-shirt and faded denims. 

I landed at La Guardia. I used a payphone to call some hotels, but was repeatedly told there was no room at the inn. I wasn't sweating it. I figured if I absolutely had to I could spend three days at the airport. 

I finally called the West Side YMCA. The young woman who answered the phone said, ”All of our bunk beds are taken right now. But if you come down here and stand in line maybe you’ll get a spot.”

I came down, alright – I took a bus, and saw my first Brownstone – but for $30 a night I booked a private room. 

The room had a twin bed,a small wood desk, a colour TV (on which I watched Al Goldstein’s sex tapes) and a window looking out on a roof. 

I went to a kiosk beside Central Park and bought some Calvin Klein conditioner I had seen in GQ Magazine I also walked over to a Pizza Hut and purchased and consumed a small pizza. 

Lincoln Center was close by – that first night at the Westside Y an Orchestra was practicing. I went up to my room, cracked open my copy of A Bonfire of the Vanities, and starrted reading. I felt like I was in the middle of the Orchestra Pit, and it was glorious!

More intact than my copy ever was.

Ken Wilber & Bruce Wagner

Two very different writers I haven't read much of but have thought a lot about. Mark Manson on The Rise &Fall of Ken Wilber (link) and Elizabeth Ellen interviewing Bruce Wagner (link).

Who's got the handsomer specs: 

Ken Wilber? Or... 

... Bruce Wagner?