Wednesday, March 25, 2009


I go back and forth to Manhattan but Unmuzzled OX and my things at 105 Hudson are such a mess that I get lost in it. I go to the gym for my shower. I eat. I move shit around the basement and go to Staples and the Container Store for supplies. But I have yet to see a single friend, visit a gallery or museum, view a movie or play. In New York I’m a ghost or maybe a memory.

Meanwhile I go to press conferences in Philly, have lunch at obscure but old Pennsylvania colleges with friends of friends, write verse, and gawk.

[BULLETIN: A press conference March 23 announcing Hidden City, a festival of performance art, was held at the Metropolitan Opera House. That’s right; Philly has a Met. It was closed 40 years ago, but the ruin is magnificent. The ground floor functions as a church. Nine other venues are similarly underknown or forgotten or “hidden.” The festival will really roll in June.]

The art scene is trickier to get to know than I anticipated. The live theatre, on the other hand, is right outside my door. I’ve seen plays and operas; I’ve seen movies at the three hip Ritzes and at an astoundingly gigantic multiplex: 30 effing movies for the price of one, basically. An order of popcorn could feed Zambia for a year. Have you eaten a whiz cheesesteak? The citizens of Philadelphia may be the fattest in the USA. (I was wrong about the Bronx. My apologies.)

Philadelphians also love their sports. Seen any Ranger games lately? The mob in South Philly is more than a memory.


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