rediscovering Chelsea and Lower East Side. It is also very 1960s.
One falls into slipstreams of time; suddenly everyone seems to be
wearing T-shirts reading "Harvard Psychedelic Research Team."
Meditation here in the apartment was more silent than ever in C-U.
I walk up the West Side Highway, past meat district, meandering in the
direction of Kerouac's place, when the new Frank Gehry building
loomed. I knew it was in this direction, but I had forgotten. I
circle the building and take pictures.
Kerouac's place is within site of the Gehry.
The galleries and art studios in the industrial streets of west 26th
revealed the European psychedelic show I'd torn from old pages of the
Times. A 3-D room -- wallpaper, floor, furniture, everything --
covered in 3-D. You wear glasses and walk through. As the review
said, it is fun for a minute.
Parks and flowers of Chelsea, then take trains from Penn Station
toward Whitney. I sit in Grand Central Station to unpack my sushi and
peach Snapple, watching people. The Whitney exhibit of the Summer of
Love 40th anniversary reignited memories. I have to tell another
visitor that I own many of these artifacts -- Jerry Rubin books, album
covers, old Oracles. The light shows and the cushioned rooms revive
the experience of going to the Electric Theatre in Chicago. I get a
little dizzy, but only a little, even staring at the swirling mandalas
of light and the James Whitney Lapis movie. Where is Jordan Belson?
I imagine how much is left out, how much of the 1960s remains to be
revived, how hard it is to recreate a context. Even listening to
Jefferson Airplane's Saturday Afternoon on the museum headphones
doesn't quite jump start the feeling.
I want to buy HIPPIES USE SIDE DOOR sign in the gift shop, but resist.
Lee and I chat on the phone; I give her a tour of the gift shop. It
hardly feels like one travels anymore, with cell phones keeping
everyone at hand.
The water fountains in the Whitney are all broken. I asked for a cup
of water from the cafeteria; the guard encouraged me.
Roland Barthes and Jean Baudrillard are also available in the gift
shop. I should look up Jurgen Habermas on Amazon.
John Waters left the exhibit at the same time as I did. I asked for
his autograph as a way to say hello. We discussed briefly The Brig,
which he seemed to recall from 1963. Then I headed out to see the
last showing of Bruno Dumont's Flanders at the Cinema Village on 12th
Street. While I waited in a slick mini burger place, Stand, eating
slowly by the open window, drinking peach guava tea smoothie, up walks
John Waters again. I told him I wasn't stalking him. I gave him my
Baudrillard blog address, since I use film clips from Female Trouble
and Desperate Living on some of the clips. He promised not to sue me.
"But New Line might," he added.
The 6 train stalled; we were crushed like sardines. A mild exchange
of harsh words occurred between two men because of the crowding, but
no one could even raise their arms in any event. A young black guy
smiled at me. What can you do? he seemed to say. Two Guatemalans
discussed cement and badly made stairways, apparently a project they
worked on.
At home, I called Henry and Ernie. Ernie was golfing and couldn't
talk. Henry was trying to figure out his school papers. "You should
become a school administrator in L.A.," I encouraged him.
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