HIT THE POLE

Whilst riding my bike in East Liberty I heard the unmistakable collision of heavy metal on wheels. It’s a sickening sound unlike any other, and instantly creates fascination. I was about a half block away and immediately headed toward the scene, obviously something was seriously wrong rather and I was rather amazed that not a single other person in my immediate vicinity made any attempt to put one lousy foot forward to investigate. An older man was in the car on the pole and slowly getting out, I asked him if he was OK and all he said was the other car came out of nowhere. Luckily there was a medical professional in the crowd to attend to him, so I called 911 and was put on hold for at least five minutes when a firetruck arrived just as they took my call. The other driver, a woman, was trying to get a witness, and unbelievably seemed like she was having some difficulty getting someone to come forward. In fact, with all the attention the older man was getting, it appeared nobody was even bothering to ask how she was. Her car was in pretty good shape considering, but she said the same thing the other driver did, the guy came out of nowhere. I wonder how you sort something like that out without witnesses. Whose word gets taken?

MORE HIGH-BROW CARNEGIE MATERIAL

Had a chance to wander over near the dinosaurs where this incongruous installation was resting on the third floor.

LIFE ON MARS

Like some love affair you never get over, I was a bit afraid to be away from my dear Metropolitan Art Museum or new friend MoMA, left alone in Pittsburgh to fend for art amongst the raw expressions of youth and rough gallery spaces. Life On Mars, the Carnegie Art Museum’s 55th annual international easily dispelled such silly kid fears. Major cities tend to get the focus for large curated events, and being in New York I was somewhat spoiled, skipping or dismissing shows for whatever reason, knowing something just as large and unruly would come along I could hem and haw about having enough time to see. Never take what you love for granted, it can be taken away from you in a moment’s notice.

To be honest, we actually arrived at the Carnegie Musuem complex intending to see the Titanic exhibit, only to find that particular complex was located elsewhere in town. I purchased a membership as an act of conviction, and it’s a hell of bargain for $100, which includes four museums, Art: Science, Natural History and the Warhol.

Cool spacious interiors of museums on hot summer afternoons are not to be taken lightly. We stayed put and went to the international. Eventually I would have found this out, but I was pleasantly surprised to see Mike Kelly and David Shriegley while falling head over heels for Matthew Monahan’s tremendous foam and mixed media sculptures. Thomas Hirschorn’s eerie artificial cave or cardboard, foil, tape and other media has got to be the high point for most given how spacious and interactive it is, even if they can’t make sense of it.

It’s a huge show, and in all honesty most of the time I prefer overwhelming, when it comes to art there’s satisfaction too much. Thank god for the robber barons.

GARFIELD ARTWORKS

Nondescript and two doors down from Kraynicks on Penn Avenue, Garfield Artworks is yet another reminder why I moved here, small independent venues whose cheap ($7) all-ages shows guarantee a reasonable bed time. Initial impressions however were something of a lopsided amusement, and proper fluid intake was a essential. Opener act Salieri’s long, droney riffs could have found no shame in misplacing their vocals and moving on as an all-instrumental outfit, but it was the spectacle of Autumn Leaves which made for some satisfying schadenfreude in an otherwise unbearable unventilated environment. Mercifully their first and last show, the entire fucking universe seemingly working against them, it was probably no fault of Manny The Soundman who by all appearances was doing the best he could with the raw, steaming materials heaped on the stage. It was one of those tragic things where by listening to the impromptu jams between songs it became obvious the players should have performed in a different genre altogether rather than forcing shit through a straw.

Parachutes, the headliner from Iceland, had mistakenly been billed on fliers with Jonsi the lead singer from Sigar Rós as a member. While Iceland’s like any other country in the quantity of shitty music it can produce, there is that one small faction of Múm’s and Sigur Rós’s and SeaBear’s (who I wanted to profile years ago for that redundant little magazine Resonance, always excessively absorbed in some unethical idea of Seattle fashion) that with the right signifiers guarantee some kind of satisfying experience even in a small, dehydrating space. So even with the scary recap of the previous debacle, once it all gelled the next hour or so was a kind of torpid, otherworldly experience with a lovely ensemble and bass player I had a hard time taking my eyes off of.

NIGHT GALLERY

Scenes from around the house in the wee hours of the night. Heths Way in back is particularly creepy in a comforting kind of way.

HIGHLAND PARK POOL

Just a short bike ride from the Garfield neighborhood we’re staying in, it didn’t take long to become a regular. Some bird took a shit in it during open swim the other day and the lifeguard calmly explained to one rather irate individual who wanted the pool closed and cleaned “If it isn’t human fecal matter there’s nothing we can do about it.” I swam once swam in the sea near Puerto Rico after a sewer main had busted and green foam was washing up on shore. I just swam through it to the clear areas and did just fine, even had a nice breakfast afterwards.

TEMPEST

Every other day or so some stormy thing hits in the afternoon.