O ROTTEN GOTHAM

the intercity chinatown bus is full as a tick with humanity. (and the new yorker would have us believe that more likely than not it has late stage lyme disease.) i don't think it matters whether it's coming or going, or where it's coming from or going to. it has its characteristic stink (which is peculiar to each of its different collections of passengers), but as compared to other means of transportation on and off of manhattan island it could definitely smell worse. of more immediate concern for me, however, in the late evening of that third of july, was that the chinatown bus to columbus would probably be free of the rain and the rats that had made it too difficult to enjoy the very end of the end of my sojourn to the city in nearby seward park. there'd been a rainbow over la esquina in soho after i'd gotten through the end of the end of my goodbyes and then had waited out the ensuing downpours in a convenience store around one corner and then under some scaffolding around another; but by the time that i'd made the not-so-long walk to where the bus would be stopping on canal street i was soaked well enough with sweat and the magic was fading. it had been too hot -- and i'd been too tired -- for manhattan before happy hour. instead: a brooklyn laundromat, some dog walks, and some goat (bone) curry by the pound from a jamaican jerk buffet on fulton. i hadn't had it in me to stomach any more confused, latter day brooklyn exceptionalism at the organic italian steak house (i think he'd called it) down halsey back in bed-stuy, and there on canal i didn't have the wherewithal for another shirt change at another cool kids bar. so i went to the park to wait until i'd be able to board the sky horse. but the rain had started again by that point (and all of the surfaces where i might have rested my bags were already wet anyway), so the park turned out not to be an easy place to be with my luggage either. it was, however, a great place for piling trash, and the rats there liked that. mostly i couldn't see them until they were almost on top of my bags because my glasses were misted over with sweat fog. there's air conditioning on the chinatown bus, but only when the bus is running -- and the bus doesn't run until it's full. it gets hot in there with all of that teeming humanity, but you don't want to have wait for the mythical second bus. i was already sweating through the shirt that i'd changed into under the awning of the bus depot, but i stayed put in the open seat that i'd found next to a briefcase that was eventually going to be ousted from its own. seats aren't assigned until they're oversold, after which point they're designated out from under anyone who isn't on that first bus when the latecomers climb the stairs. that vitiate tick has its best in a designer handbag, and the rest in the plastic garbage bags that clog the overhead storage spaces and the aisle. it had been too hot -- and i'd been too lazy -- for manhattan before happy hour. sit tight! the bus starts, the air comes on, and the worst is over -- if you can fall asleep.

the bus went all the way to cincinnati (via dayton), but i didn't make it there myself until a couple of days later. and there, the day after the party, before heading to the contemporary arts center across the street we ate fancy tacos and drank white wine sangria while calmly discussing the boutique hotel next to the museum that had forced two hundred low income residents to relocate from the affordable apartments that had been allocated to them from the ruins of the rooms of the old metropole (the 1920s glory of which developers were sure they could restore). to keep downtown burning hot! let them eat art! the humanity...munch, sip, munch. o rotten gotham: your ruthless intransigence has had a painfully wide reach. but the pork belly in the tacos is, admittedly, hard to resist when you've had a taste.

STAR POWER; or, WAY TO GO OHIO, part 10

the wexner center for the arts is undeniably something. and -- it should hope -- columbus will always have that. through the 30th of december, 2012, its gallery displayed annie leibovitz's master set, a collection of one-hundred fifty-six photographic prints selected by the photographer herself to document the story of her legacy. the daily mail reported that leibovitz hadn't intended for the set to be a show, but that the idea for a show at the wexner center just clicked. it is, apparently (this also by leibovitz's word), a legendary place among artists, and it was the place that, apparently, came up with the idea of showing the set. not surprisingly, it was the first place to have shown it. not being an artist (or what the wexner center considers to be an annie leibovitz, anyway), i hadn't had a sense of legend myself, although i suppose i wasn't without an inkling. about a decade before i went to see the master set at the center i had seen issey miyake get an award there (the award from the wexner center, the wexner award), and a few years ago i had been to see that andy warhol exhibit (remember other voices, other rooms?) when it was up at the wexner as its only stop in north america. and i'll admit that there was a special something about standing in front of a print of leibovitz's portrait of warhol next to the same friend with whom i'd experienced the portrait of warhol put up those few years ago in the same gallery. and that, although the moment with warhol itself may not have been the stuff of legends, might be the best way of describing the experience of the master set. i don't know that i'm a particular fan of annie leibovitz. in particular, that photograph of scarlet johansson that the wexner center used for its promotional enlargements is not a favorite of mine (neither among the photographer's other work or among photographs at large). but the master set is about contexts: the context of the set, the context of the artist and the context of her subjects. like her or not, annie leibovitz is famous; and both by definition and as its result, annie leibovitz has had access to fame. i liked leibovitz's photo of linda ronstadt because it was a picture of linda ronstadt. but i wouldn't have known if i hadn't been told by the placard -- although you might have, simply because people might know this particular photo of linda ronstadt by annie leibovitz. no part of linda ronstadt's face is visible in the photo, but because we know that the subject is her, we look at the photo and think that the picture of a woman in hose and a romper-nightie sprawled across the hastily made bed while she fumbles for something on a bedside table is so very linda ronstadt. wild chicken-and-egg goose chase: had linda ronstadt always conducted herself to make us see her this way, or did annie leibovitz decide just what people would be seeing of linda ronstadt? why do i have the reaction that i have when i know almost nothing about either figure? the stuff of legend. and the thing about annie leibovitz is that, regardless of whether she was photographing a decision by linda ronstadt or she was making a decision about linda ronstadt on our behalf, the most important thing is that annie leibovitz got to be there. the one-hundred and fifty-six portraits in the master set are a portrait of annie leibovitz, both assertedly and implicitly so, and each one is essentially just a photograph of something being photographed by that one photographer in particular. their various stylings are just the famous personae of the famous artist. it's only because you've taken the time to stop to look at a very possibly unremarkable photograph of linda ronstadt that was taken by annie leibovitz that you then have made the time to see and to remark that the pattern on the lamp on the bedside table is almost identical to the pattern of the wallpaper.

fast forward and rewind. this past weekend i was in cincinnati. and although i wasn't there specifically for the exhibit, i wanted to see a specific exhibit there before it closed. on sunday, we drove up through eden park to the art museum at just before noon. unfortunately, the exhibit was at the taft museum downtown and was ending that day, so we couldn't stay to take advantage of everything else that we hadn't gone specifically to see. fortunately, the taft is free on sundays too.the exhibit -- which i'd seen advertised on the back of a bathroom door on the last day of a visit to the queen city in december (and before i'd been to the wexner to see the portrait of leibovitz) -- is also collection of photographs. star power: edward steichen's glamour photography. on the bathroom door advertisement that i'd seen there'd been a picture of greta garbo: that most famous one, the one on the cover of that life magazine from 1955. but as it turned out, that photo of garbo was taken by steichen in the twenties, and it was originally published in an issue of...vanity fair? steichen photographed for both that magazine and for vogue, and back when the both of them were under the relatively recent redirection of condé nast. does that say anything? condé nast himself said that he'd wanted to make taste for the taste makers. to deliver to his advertisers, out of those millions of americans, the one-hundred thousand who mattered. the other poster image for the exhibit is a closeup photo of the face of gloria swanson, taken with the intercession of a black lace veil. that famous photo. of the famous gloria swanson. steichen also photographed marlene dietrich, joan crawford, fred astaire, katherine hepburn and gary cooper. winston churchill and amelia earhart. who knew anything about june maccloy from toledo, ohio? but we find her famous in the taft because she was photographed by him. he also did high fashion photography, and the placards explained, without nuance, the nuances of his techniques. the blackest blacks and the whitest whites, and every necessary piece of lighting to make sure they appear as they should. the important parts of a celebrity portrait are the most obvious features. they should stand out. the enduring stuff of legend. fay wray is best known for playing the female lead in king kong, but steichen photographed her as ophelia, the role she never played. one of his most famous photos, one of the placards says, is neither of john barrymore nor of hamlet, but of the latter being played by the former. what the placard forgets to assert (although maybe it's understood implicitly) is that john barrymore playing hamlet was being photographed by edward steichen. which is the most remarkable? what are these silver screen and other legends? who is it that has and keeps creating celebrity? condé nast's elite empire hardly survived the first depression, but the legacy it imparted to edward steichen has been inherited by the legendary photographers of the present. the master set, annie leibovitz's glamour photography: one-hundred and fifty-six figures playing themselves being photographed by annie leibovitz. i have another invitation to the wexner center for this sunday. supposedly it's free that day too. i haven't even looked up what's showing, but i don't expect it to be the stuff of legends. nonetheless, i'll go and i'll see something else where i saw annie leibovitz's portrait of the legendary artist of whom i'd seen another, different portrait in the same place. hmm. in that other leibovitz photo, linda ronstadt's romper-nightie is red, but i doubt that anyone cares.

WAY TO GO OHIO, part 7; or, HASHTAG SIGNAGE, WE TWO RIVER CITY KINGS

i had called the number listed for the charley harper art studio, but the man who answered the phone wasn't at the reynard avenue address in finneytown with which that phone number had been given online. that was mr. harper's stuido, yes, the man said, but people who wanted to visit the studio were now visiting whatever it was that was at 1741 east kemper road, which is where we'd reached the man on the phone. but we could also visit one of the many locations of fabulous frames & art, one of which was definitely closer than kemper road if we were downtown. what was our goal, he asked; and i didn't know, so i had to pass the phone.

it had been raining since just before we'd gotten off the sidewalk on vine and gone into lavomatic, so when we'd left we'd decided to find somewhere else in the neighborhood to sit and wait out the end. so it was that i'd called the man on the phone from a sofa at the coffee emporium on east central parkway, and so it was that we'd had our goals questioned as the rain stopped and we went out to take a look at the rest of over the rhine. there seemed to have been ample monies made available for new business development in the new old neighborhood. but although the bombed out facades of the post-riot dmz still greatly outnumbered the trendy establishments of the revival entrepreneurs, the important question regarding the future of the community seemed to be whether such a small area could sustain so many closely clustered boutiques and stationers. easy come easy go? we said we'd have to think about the dress and left.

the american sign museum is in a new old warehouse adjacent to the neonworks of cincinnati on monmouth avenue east of interstate 75. it's closer to downtown than kemper, so we'd decided to go there before deciding on whether to pursue what we considered to be the most authentic charley harper (informed by the decision of the man on the phone to keep us in the dark). and anyway, the designer felt more his amateur sign historian self that day than he did in line with the professional demands of being an illustrator. that's what i joked, anyway, to the man at the reception desk when he asked how we'd heard about the museum. as for the designer himself, his goals were his own. i was just driving -- and the truth was that i knew the city better by bike.

it was two-thirty, but the man at the reception desk said we had time. tripadvisor had said that the museum closed at three, but that man, he told us we had until four. we could even join the tour being given by the founder, he said. but we had to be out by not too much after four, because that's when people from the wedding were coming to set up. after charging each of us the fifteen dollar entry fee (paid separately), he gave us each a tin, foldover "i <3 about="about" after="after" also="also" and="and" as="as" bad="bad" badge="badge" bathroom="bathroom" center="center" contents="contents" description="description" didn="didn" directions="directions" does="does" for="for" four.="four." gave="gave" giving="giving" he="he" his="his" i="i" inspecting="inspecting" justice="justice" me="me" mine="mine" museum="museum" nearly="nearly" no="no" now="now" of="of" old="old" p="p" pieces="pieces" realize="realize" said="said" scathing="scathing" schmaltzy="schmaltzy" seem="seem" showed="showed" signs="signs" something="something" t="t" the="the" them="them" then="then" to="to" until="until" us="us" wedding="wedding" when="when" which="which">
i started looking around, but i didn't really know what i was looking for. to be sure, the american sign museum wasn't just another haphazardly curated roadside collection of curiosities. way to go, ohio. and the amateur sign historian seemed impressed. "a really nice museum," he says, and that, "the space is perfect." (in one subsection of the warehouse conversion there are windows onto the neonworks.) neon. opal glass. vacuum molds. gold leaf. toolboxes and toolboxes of brushes. smalt. (schmaltz?) and half of it along an old -- half real, half simulated -- main street of painted storefronts and brick wall signs (and that of course filled with old metal and neon monstrosities from hojo and mcdonald's). a big old bear of a big bear sign is on top of the collection of signs still in their crates, which is in the same room as the satellite. and the whole lot documented in photographs and on placards. it's as much a nostalgia museum as anything else, both for designers and the rest of us (what are you now, the building formerly signed in tiki as kona lanes?); and in the last section of it we visit, a history of 3d letters, i sit down and wonder in writing where it is that we look for -- and where it is that we might find -- intrinsic value. why don't i ever let the designer see this notebook (all of it in the gold leaf beverly called "nice on the eyes")?

then we went, but we only got as far as the reception desk. this space, the man told the amateur historian, had just been inaugurated this year. the museum used to be downtown. since 1999? i'd stopped writing. the founder, the former editor of a trade publication for sign makers, had gotten a million dollars to let himself be gently pushed out of the family business. i asked about the electric bill. it must have been why the museum needed to host events. but the incandescent bulbs sucked more than the neon, the man said. huh. and i said that you don't see much outdoor neon in ohio, although it seems to be everywhere in the pacific northwest. then the man complimented vancouver and said that we should check out terry's. we'd passed it that morning on riverside, i said. then he said something or other about the museum's mission to restore (revive or revivify?) the old signage of all of the different neighborhoods of the city. i don't remember exactly. what i do know is that he mentioned northside, which, when we finally left the museum at just about four, is where we went.

it was relatively close. and the thing was, we'd been there the night before looking for food after just arriving in the city. but as the blonde, incredibly handsome faced but wart nosed man coming out of the northside tavern told us, there wasn't any place closer than clifton with anything good to eat at close to ten. now we were back, and the tavern was closed. unfortunately so was the serpent, and the beautifully midwestern line about trouser snakes in its online description had been a big part of our decision to head in that direction. way to go. we might have given it a try the night before when we'd been walking up and down hamilton -- food or no -- but we hadn't seen it. there's hardly any signage.

we had, however, been thinking about that dress, and after a couple of drinks at who cares wherever we wound our way back downtown. she'd said she wanted something sequined for the party. this wasn't exactly that, but we bought the poof sleeved, one shouldered, shimmery gold leopard mini dress anyway. for forty-five dollars, the question of intrinsic value wasn't even raised.

at noon the next day, at breakfast, all signs pointed to a good party. and better, there was enough left over to send us home with some. i accepted. and i loaded it all into the car before we left to reconvene at terry's before the two of us drove back to columbus. terry's turf club, verily the second american sign museum in cincinnati. and i would say that the place could make some serious money selling its impressive collection of old beer neon to new bars in the pacific northwest if it didn't seem to be doing such great business. the bigger signs on the adjacent knoll to the east aren't to miss either, and i took them in as her husband was leading us to his car so that we could take more extra beer from the cooler that he had in the back. (had he been santa clausing the entire afternoon?)

where is it that we look for intrinsic value? i looked up, and what i saw through the fog at the very top edge of the windshield was one of the new signs. but what happens in the parking lot of the tanger outlets stays in the parking lot of the tanger outlets, that is until we got back on the highway and drove away. back. again.

(she'd said she wanted something sequined for the party, 

KNOWLEDGE OF HELL, part 3

she offered to drive me the block from where she was parked on race and west 15th to the corner of the recently refurbished and reopened washington park in over the rhine, and it was dubious as to whether her offer was the result of the condition of that block of race street (still on the wrong side of the or my shortness of breath, which had been explained just before the coffee emporium. it was, however, undeniably nice of her to have come, although it was dubious as to whether her reason for coming late was a reason at all.

"i have an appointment," she'd said. "at twelve."

"what kind of an appointment?"

"[so and so] has a massage, and i'm going with her."

"that's not a thing."

"no...but i have a a massage too."

"maybe."

and it had been dubious too whether or not it had been a friend of mine in that sex dream with the hermaphrodite. no. in fact i suppose that it would be impossible to say that it had been her. (dangerous writers write somethings like "penis" -- although it was much more than that in the dream -- he thought through the dizziness before the next one.)

escape, escape, escape, escape, escape.

"why are you hiding?" she asked first thing in the morning. and i thought that i'd been sleeping, but it was her house so i thought that maybe i should take the toddler's word. the other one had her massage appointment some hours later, and "the neighborhood slumbered in the peaceful climate that precedes tragedy: FUGITIVE FROM PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL KILLS TWELVE IN BEAUTY PARLOR." dangerous writing? probably not, but far more dangerous still than that block of race, even without any lofts.