On my post yesterday about taking a long stroll in downtown Manhattan, I forgot to mention that I saw a very convincing Marilyn Monroe lookalike walking a little bulldog in the East Village near Astor Place. Apparently, Saturday (August 5) was the 44th anniversary of Marilyn's death, and that may have had something to do with this sighting. The girl was blond like Marilyn, had a nice bosom, and was wearing the same type of white dress made famous by MM in The Seven Year Itch. The only unfortunate detail was that this Marilyn clone was wearing...FLIP FLOPS!! True, the thongs showed off her red-polished toenails, but still, if you're going to evoke a famous outfit, especially on the anniversary of the superstar’s demise, wear similar shoes, which were strappy white slingback heels fer cryin’ out loud!!

Oh well. I have to admit, the girl WAS cute--although her throaty voice, which I heard as she spoke to a friend, was not very Marilynesque. Nonetheless, I envied her little bulldog the company of his mistress!

Surprise, surprise! The scaffolding is coming down from around the building in which I live after only a few weeks. Considering that the last scaffolding stayed up for two or three YEARS, blocking my view of the street, to say that I am relieved is an understatement! By late afternoon, my apartment was full of sunshine again!

Well, I did a lot of work today and then went downtown to buy a new pair of jeans; and the resumption of the heat and humidity seems to have taken the wind out of my sails. I feel unusually sleepy, despite the fact that I took a short nap an hour ago before I went to pick up my laundry from the wash-and-fold. Tomorrow I’m commuting out to my main freelance client’s office in New Jersey, so maybe I’ll just take it easy for the rest of the night. My mind feels strangely depleted...oh well, I guess that happens sometimes. Despite my frequent protestations to the contrary, I’m only human.

Yesterday I hopped the M20 bus on Broadway in Times Square and rode it all the way downtown to Battery Park City and the Hudson River Park. For the two-buck fare you get to traverse half the island of Manhattan and end up in one of the nicest spots in town. The only downside is that this is near the site of the fallen World Trade Center, and you can't help but get melancholy when you view that. Still, the park itself has a fantastic view of the water, you can see the Statue of Liberty in the distance, and there are ferries and water-taxis and private boats too. Hudson River Park has well-kept grounds and people sunbathe or sit on the benches. Families bicycling by, joggers running, a few Rollerbladers but not that many. I forgot to bring a baseball cap and I got a bit of a sunburn on my dome, but other than that it was relaxing to be near the river glittering under the bright blue sky, especially after days of broiling heat. I did try to sit in the shade, and found one good spot near a small artificial waterfall. Falling water is such a soothing sound to me.

I was carrying a history of organized crime, Murder Inc., in my bag in case I got bored and needed something to read, but it was really too beautiful to stick my nose in the pages.

After spending awhile near the water I started walking uptown. I passed the Woolworth Building which in the early 20th century was the tallest structure in the city. It's still a very impressive sight, far more elaborately decorated than modern skyscrapers, which adds to its grandeur. I'm always looking up at buildings, they're the only competition to beautiful women for my restless eyes on the streets of Manhattan. In fact, I don't understand why people don't stop and stare at buildings as I do, that's one of the pleasures of this town.

In the course of my walk I inadvertently passed a restaurant that my erstwhile favorite stripper, Lily, told me she'd once gone to. It was on a quiet sidestreet, one of those narrow lanes with which downtown Manhattan is dotted. The restaurant had a large banner which attracted my attention. I went up to the window and looked at its very impressive array of reviews from various magazines. One prestigious periodical said the restaurant had one of the greatest wine lists in the world. I looked at the menu and noted that the dish Lily told me she'd ordered was the most expensive listed. As I stood on the empty and shady street, which is bordered by tall buildings that gave the space a cavernous feeling, I imagined Lily going into this restaurant all dolled up for a big evening, and felt acutely how disappointed I was that I'd never gotten a chance to take her to dinner myself. I haven't thought much about her lately, but seeing this two-story restaurant, closed on a Saturday afternoon, made me remember how much I'd enjoyed hanging out with her and how I'd hoped, against all common sense really, that I could have extended our acquaintance outside the stripclub. As it is, I haven't seen her since she went on vacation in early spring, which is around the time I stopped going to that particular club. She may be back working, but I simply haven't had the money to really enjoy myself with her there as I used to, buying her drinks and getting lapdances, so for the time being I've avoided it. Maybe at some point I'll stop in again. Still, one of the last times I saw her, I gave her my email address at her request; but since I've never heard from her, I imagine she couldn't care less about whether I return or not.

I continued on my walk and thought I'd check to see how one of the last inexpensive and funky topless bars in Manhattan was doing. I thought if it was open on a Saturday afternoon, I'd stop in for a quick drink, but when I got to the corner of White St. and Church I discovered that the Baby Doll Lounge was no longer there, replaced instead by a ritzy Italian restaurant. The last time I was there was two or three years ago on my birthday, hanging out with my friend Rexx who'd never been there before but found its true dive bar atmosphere a fun change of pace from the more expensive strip joints uptown.

Farewell, Baby Doll.

I kept walking, continuing on my way past the street vendors and browsing throngs on Broadway. I stopped to check out the flea market that I recalled having been at Grand and Broadway, but it was no longer there either; replaced by a remarkably ugly-looking apartment building under construction that naturally advertised itself with typical real estate ballyhoo as the very creme-de-la-creme of new residences in the chic Soho area. A block away I found, instead of a flea market, a tent-enclosed series of souvenir stalls that were stuffy and hot and full of boring knick-knacks and t-shirts and hats and slippers and sunglasses. I walked up to Houston St., where I was tempted to get a ticket to the new French thriller The Bridesmaid, playing at the Angelika, but then I decided it was too nice outside to sit in a dark multiplex.

By the time I got up to Tower Video, my ankles were starting to ache a little; I'd walked quite a long way. I was delighted to find that Something Weird Video had just released a new double-feature burlesque DVD with "Ding-Dong, A Night in the Moulin Rouge" and a second flick, "Merry Maids of the Gay Way." These striptease movies are from 1951 and 1953 respectively, when the word "gay," by the way, still just meant happy. I quickly scooped up the disc and, after a bit of live girl-watching in the dusk at Columbus Circle, started checking it out last night on my DVD player. So far, the still-remembered Jennie Lee and the now-obscure but fetching Pat Flannery are the two stand-out peelers on the disc. There are also a lot of good comedy skits. It occurs to me as I write here now that I like some contemporary Mexican tv shows (as taped off cable for me by my buddy Rexx) because their mix of comedy and pretty girls is distinctly in this old burlesque style.

All in all, a pleasant Saturday in Manhattan. And since the sun is still shining today, I guess I'll hit the bricks for awhile. Enjoy your Sunday.

The heat and humidity have finally lifted and it's a nice blue-sky morning. I had a roll and coffee with the windows open instead of the air-conditioning.

There's a French movie that just opened in town called The Bridesmaid which I want to see. It's based on a novel by the British author Ruth Rendell, which I read about four or five years ago. One of the best psychological thrillers ever. It's about a guy who gets involved with a bridesmaid at someone's wedding. She is a foxy chick, an aspiring actress, and the guy gets sexually addicted to her; but she's also severely wacky, let's put it that way. She suggests to the guy that they each commit a murder to prove their devotion to each other. She also lives in a creepy basement apartment that Rendell evokes so well you feel like you're living in it yourself. The book seemed to be out of print in the U.S. and I happened upon a copy at a used bookstore for fifty cents.

If you haven't read Ruth Rendell's work, you are in for a treat. She delineates character as well as murder and mayhem in a very astute, compassionate way. Another book of hers I liked was called Make Death Love Me, about a guy who works at a bank and his fantasies of saving a female teller who has been kidnapped by bank robbers. She also does a series of novels about Inspector Wexford, a British detective, which have the same nuanced qualities of insight, good writing, and terrific plots. Try Ruth Rendell's work sometime.

Meanwhile, The Bridesmaid was adapted to the screen by Claude Chabrol, the French director whose work is both very much his own and also homage to his beloved Hitchcock. Chabrol made the original French film La Femme Infidele, which inspired the recent Diane Lane/Richard Gere movie Unfaithful. I saw La Femme Infidele twice and it was a wonderful, haunting film, so fine that I didn't want to see the remake. I couldn't imagine how it could ever compare.

Maybe somebody will publish The Bridesmaid again now that the film has come out. I understand the movie is a close adaptation of the novel, and I'm excited to see it.

Well, I have to pay a couple of bills, go to the post office, and then I want to go out for a walk. It's too nice to stay inside and hunch over the computer screen. Enjoy your Saturday!

Boy, what a day...

One of the dreaded sounds of summer for me is the "wee! wee! wee!" of the water alarm signifying that the central air-conditioning unit in my apartment is not draining properly-- and flooding. Well, I got my fill of "wee! wee! wee!" today. It took almost three hours for the handymen and porters in the building to fix, and the remaining surplus water (which slides down an incline under the floorboards towards the center of my studio) is still seeping up into newspapers I've placed down there. The water also drenched the bottoms of five large cardboard boxes in which I stored old videotapes and books. Since I have no room left to shift this stuff aside in my apartment, I'm simply going to have to let it dry out.

Arghhhhhh...

So much for a man's home being his castle. I'm living in the MOAT!

On other grumpy fronts...I’ve gotten caught up in the online marketplace, craigslist. Three days ago I idly went online looking at their “women seeking men” personals and have spent an inordinate amount of time there. This is what happens when I don't have enough money to spend in stripclubs!! Anyway, I see ads that catch my fancy and then I write emails that I don’t send. I am clearly frightened of meeting women for whose time I don’t pay, because I know they could get me caught up in their needs and demands. With my luck (or my self-destructive instincts) I’d find somebody firmly insane. And when I’m caught in the web, it’s very hard for me to get out. (Yes, I am aware of the spider allusion.) You see, I am very pliable when it comes to other people, and my only defense is to keep my distance. I know that’s neurotic, but trial and error have shown me the effectiveness of this approach. Effective, yes; but also lonely.

You know the old saying about sex workers? "You don’t pay them for the sex; you pay them to leave."

Similarly, a lapdance is physical contact without the subsequent Jonah effect of being swallowed up in the belly of the needy. Maybe, for all my sentimentality, for all my little gifts and endearments to the strippers I worship, I really am paying them to dance, and then to leave.

Maybe my disgruntlement about it all is simply that the pleasure is expensive, and too brief for the outlay.

Still, while there are a good number of strippers from whom I’ve gotten good lapdances, I wouldn’t necessarily want access to their inner lives, or even to take them to dinner.

Yet, sometimes I just wish I would press Send on those craigslist emails to see what would happen. Maybe I’m not ready yet...or maybe I have found, in writing these emails that I don’t deliver, that I really prefer the way I live, with its ups and downs, its solitude but also its freedom. Gritting my teeth like Spartacus, the slave-gladiator who revolted against ancient Rome, I want to be free from oppression! Free to read when I want, eat when I want, watch a movie when I want, not sweep the apartment or do the laundry when I don’t want, and free to get a pretty woman’s butt on my lap or her tits in my face when I’m so inclined. Maybe that’s not so bad. Maybe the occasional loneliness is a fair price. Maybe I don’t press Send because in spite of my crankiness, I am just about as happy as I’m ever going to be. Abe Lincoln said: “People are as happy as they make up their minds to be!” Press Send? Then send for the shrink, Cranky! Get your head examined! Maybe I have nightmares about getting involved in “relationships” for a reason--because I’m afraid of the complications and don’t want to sink into the quicksand that I always seem to find when I say “I care.”

And maybe the only thing I’m really looking for when I write those unsent emails is sexual fun without having to spend cash for it. Maybe that’s really what I’m about. It’s funny how I can spend three days on craigslist and it turns into a mirror of my heart...and I see a distrustful misanthrope peering back at me. Can that really be Sir Cranky??

Isn’t it ironic? Although I much prefer in the sexual sense that the woman wields the power, out of the bedroom I really seem to believe in Nietzsche’s epigram: “Going to Woman? Bring thy whip!”

For shame, Cranky.

But don’t press Send!

I went to the doctor today for the first physical I've had in about two and a half years. Yes, I've been neglecting myself a bit, and I'm trying to get back on track. I seem to have done okay, though I still have to get the results of the bloodwork.

Coming soon to this theater: the podiatrist, the dentist, and the colonoscopologist.

Middle age is a flurry of fun activities.

I've been going to the same internist for thirty-three years this August 20th (he had in his records), starting only a few months after I moved to New York.

On his examination room wall, the doc has a copy of a famous poem called "Desiderata." I've read it many times, sitting on the white-sheeted examining table in my underwear. You may be familiar with it yourself. For many decades its origin was obscured, and even my doctor's copy attributes it to a church from 1692. In recent years its true authorship in the 1920s, by a midwestern poet named Max Ehrmann, finally came back into focus.

I've put a link below both to the poem and its history. It's explained there that "Desiderata" is Latin for "Things to be Desired." If you haven't read this poem, check it out. It's really full of good thoughts and common sense. Too bad after thirty-three years of reading it on my doc's wall, I've only taken a smidgen of its advice. Well, maybe I exaggerate my lapses, but you know how it is with "self-help" stuff. Sounds good in theory, but then when you try to put it into practice, it's often an uphill battle.

I think a poem like "Desiderata" is a pretty good legacy to leave behind. It's concise, humble, and is full of the kinds of statements that you instinctively know to be truth. We should all have one good poem in us like this. Thank you, Max Ehrmann. And thank you, Doc, for putting it up on your wall!

The poem is not unlike the doc's office, with its prints of portraits by Rembrandt in the waiting room. This Dutch painter conveys warmth and compassion. I also like the doc's collection of knick-knacks that he's accumulated over the years which line the shelves behind his desk. I like the fact that the office retains pretty much the same decor it had when I first went there. Comfortable chairs; a deep couch. Straightforward; unpretentious. Yes, I've always felt that I would be well-taken care of by the doc, and that feeling has always started in his waiting room.

If I find someone that I like and trust, I stick with 'em, whether a doctor or a stripper!

Although I have to admit this colonoscopy thing has taken a little more persuading than usual on his part...

I told the doc about this blog. I said that I'd probably write about the colonoscopy in it. What the hell, it's time for a new adventure! And writing about it can allay the anxiety--somewhat.

Don't worry, I won't go overboard with details if I scribble about it. Tact shall reign supreme! In fact, if I can, I will probably play it for comedy in the best burlesque tradition.

I just hope there will be a busty nurse in attendance!

Desiderata