For a long time, I've insisted that civilization reached its highest peak with the invention of the porch.
We've all got them. I'm talking about the neighborhood characters we see regularly, even daily, but whom we never meet, often never even make eye-contact with.
Warhol will remain in place, but your chance to shout 'Catch me at MOMA" will evaporate. The opportunity you seized not only to look at art but to be art will be terminally turpentined away.
Two plays opened recently in Manhattan in which gay love affairs are observed with keen and perceptive eyes and ears -- Geoffrey Nauffts's Next Fall and Daniel Talbott's Slipping.
If it hadn't been for Karen, the mailperson, I still wouldn't know about The Muffin House and its importance to history and to my block, West 20th Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues.
Money is being spent on these evidently endless studies--perhaps lots and lots and lots of money. For what? For news as old as recorded time and maybe older.
As an inveterate stooper-for-pennies, however, I've noticed a recent significant change on the streets of Manhattan. Yes, plenty of pennies are dropped. But just as often nowadays it's dimes that turn up on the pavement.
I suspect the convictions that seem somewhat wobbly now that Obama has attained the nation's highest office would immediately strengthen if he looked his two hands over and committed once and for all to the left one.
