PS 1: Papa See Some Art

With Hemorrhoid Gate 2013 behind me, I've been itching to burn off a lil' of dis here gut. So Sunday, with WIFE, MONSTA, and MONSTA 2.0 out da house, I grabbed the bike, bolted downstairs (in case they decided to come back), and shot off towards P.S. 1, an outpost of MOMA not far from base camp. As far as museums go, it's very hip, very modern, and not always my cup of tea. But, it's in a gorgeous old public school, and offers two things I'm always in favor of: creativity and free admission. HOORAY for ART! 

Schools have a lot of rooms, which means museums in schools have a lot of rooms that need to be filled. The result is that P.S. 1 is often a mixed bag of great, good, "I get it," and WHA HAPPEN?! Of the current contents (theme: we're totally f'n the planet up, yalls), the most physically impressive piece is this giant wood/skateboard/pool thing by Christine O'Donnell.

It's hard to see, but inside the giant arches are small pools that are open for cooling off bare feet and, hopefully, not much more.

Let's play "Is It Art or Some Kid's NastyAss Undies?"

Other highlights for me are some swell photography by Mitch Epstein, Agnes Denes's "Wheatfield," and a small but impressive exhibition of Ansel Adams (smaller aperture = greater detail...got it...I think.) 

Also worth your time is Meg Webster's koi pond, Dan Attoe's paintings, and Steven McQueen's short but fascinating footage of Lady Liberty ("Static"). I'll also suggest that if you come during a heat advisory, skip the bacteria-party foot pools and head straight for the Cold Room (below), which reminded me of the beer cooler I used to slack off in I worked at Quik Trip. 

Of course, there's also lots of stuff you'd expect in an SNL sketch about modern art, including a glass encased Evian bottle filled with purple water. But that's par the course, and hardly a reason to skip P.S. 1. 

But lest you think all the good stuff is in museums, on the way home I swung by the new LIC Flea Market, where I bought a very nice, very affordable piece of pottery by the talented and super friendly Bob Bachler. Pay him a visit if you're ever at the market.

And so what that the bike ride home/two-wheel sweat lodge almost killed me? There are worse way to go.  

America's National CRAPtime

If you follow baseball, then you've heard about the trouble the sport has attracting African American youth.  It's not that they aren't playing sports.  It's just that baseball isn't at the top of their list like it once was.  I can tell you that this is true.

On Sunday, I was out on the bike.  An old grey Firestone (the tire folks) I call the "Grouse Goose." Don't ask.   So I'm on the bike and the day is just lovely.  I'm tooling along, looking like Clark Gable in shorts.  I head around Astoria Park, which butts up against the East River. The views are stunning and dramatic, and it being September 11th, I feel like this city really is invincible. If I was supposed to be afraid of terrorists, I wasn't right then.  If you head south past the park, you'll come to a giant hill.  At the top of the hill is a sign:  "Waterfront Pathway." Lovely, right? So I cautiously proceed down a steep hill (Firestone good at tires, not at brakes). As I do, I can't help but think, "Hey, this neighborhood isn't as nice as I'd imagine, being waterfront property and all."  But it's day light, and today we're all Americans, so I travel on.

Certainly it's true that "Waterfront Pathway" does refer to a serene promenade that runs beside the East River, offering unique views of Roosevelt Island.  What is not inferred in "Waterfront Pathway" is that you're now in the middle of a GIANT HOUSING PROJECT.  Your bicycle promenade is their sidewalk.   Strangely, for a former victim of violent crime while passing through similar neighborhoods, I was feeling fine.  You see, the day was THAT LOVELY.  A kind sun. Mild temps. Patriotism.  Then, up ahead, I see them.

About one hundred yards in front, a gang of boys gather.  Not a gang as in "Holy %$&?, the Latin Kings!", but in the "Hey, that's a large group of young men."  I can see them, but I'm not worried because they look to be playing football.  My anxiety rises, however, when I notice they are running to sit on the park bench that rests beside the path.  "This ain't good," I think. As I get closer, they begin sitting very nicely.  Quiet.  Backs straight. Hands...out of sight. Never trust a kid sitting still.  When I am about ten yards away, they begin counting. One...two...three!  I pass them, and as I do hear the splat of water balloons on concrete.

First thought: "Whew.  I'm dry."  Second thought: "Pedal faster, Lance ArmWrong!"  Third thought:  "Wow.  Those kids would make terrible pitchers.  I was molasses, and they still couldn't hit me from five feet away.  I bet these kids never play baseball."