Last summer we had a fat roll of bellyaching to bellyache through, with rain nearly every weekend and some of the weekdays to boot. Keep in mind, of course, that we Noo Yawkers do fondly love a good bellyachin’, so that’s not as bad as it might sound. It keeps us feeling all scrappy and put upon, which can pass for happiness in these parts.
It’s mid-July now, and I must say: splendid sunny balmy times are the lazy thrust of of Summer ’04. Thrust? Did I say “thrust”? That’s too much work; rather say we amble into the promising evenings, with a smear of SPF to show for the days. Assuming the looming Republicans keep themselves to a dull noisome roar - like that could ever happen - this will be a Summer of Peace. Can the Summer of Love be far behind? Ooo, I hope not.
What with dinner before and a late round of burlesque as bread, Jess of Blind Cavefish and I only had time to sandwich in one quick drink at Friday’s Blogger Party to celebrate the Death of Paul (who isn’t dead, so it’s not a solemn occasion. Just one of those things). Stuck in the middle of the Busy Night it got short shrift in both directions. Rats. But read all about it from Daniella and Stephanie (both of whom post pictures), or via Fish and Donkey, who must, I gather, be Guardians of the Beam. Can you pick out our Peppery Cavefish photo in Stephanie’s blogger gallery?
Back downtown, the ever-sultry Miss Delirium Tremens launched her new weekly Hot Box burlesque series with aplomb. Later, both Maudite and Piraat were on tap at d.b.a., so the night lingered long. And longer. And longer. Ow.
And that was just Friday. Saturday night Girl and I went off to see The Corporation, which was mightily sold out. Thunderously, one might say. Not ones to be daunted, we ended up in an adjacent house for The Five Obstructions, a delightfully difficult documentary that pits the provocative (not to say assholish) needling of Danish director Lars von Trier against the stately big-dog dignified resilience of fellow filmmaker Jørgen Leth. In his role as Iago (more or less), von Trier, a nitpicky needler and an advocate of precise artistic hurdles, asks Leth to remake his 1967 13-minute short The Perfect Human (Det perfekte menneske) five different times under five separate sets of obstructions - in half-second cuts, set in terrible locations, as a cartoon, etc. - to slice away artifice and force him to confront his unvarnished nature as an artist. To strip the bride bare, as it were. Each time Leth produces shorts that turn their obstructions into strengths and stand noble instead of damaged, which both frustrates and satisfies von Trier’s obsessive conditions. In the end, Leth is more. The movie is fascinating, and Girl was rapt, which made me very happy - not for everyone, such pursuits, not for everyone at all.
We are now issuing obstructions to each other by text message, naturally.
And yesterday, ah yesterday. Another in a tide of three-hour sails on the Good Ship Ventura after brunch in the Village and a long hot walk down the margins of the river; then we stumbled about the Village as dark fell, ending up over tasty sea bass with galangal in an outdoor garden (a.k.a. an airshaft with tables) where they tried to charge us for dessert we didn’t have. It may be midsummer, it may be July, it may be giddy and it may be sultry, but it’s still New York.
I’ll have a second glass of July, an’ it please ya.
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