Westphalia
An ephemeral view of Philip Johnson’s “Lipstick” Building, not ordinarily visible on its flat side except from right across Third Avenue. The building site that has been cleared so as to make the view possible was once home to the Metropolitan Café, an agreeable if undistinguished eatery. (New readers may be asking themselves, “Why ‘Westphalia’?” It’s because that’s where we keep detritus.)
Yesterday, I had lunch in midtown, at the Bateau Ivre in the Pod Hotel, on East 51st Street. I chose it because partly the friend with whom I was lunching lives nearby, and partly because I’m crazy about the croque monsieur there. After I’d made the date, I saw that it would make sense to walk up First Avenue afterward, to our storage unit on 62nd Street. I could bring a bag and stuff it with odds and ends. The sooner we clear out of that expensive facility, the better.
If I lived almost anywhere but Manhattan, I would drive up to the storage unit, load up the car a few times, and proceed straight to the town dump. End of story. But I do not live anywhere but Manhattan. Emptying the unit one bag at a time is pretty much the only simple way of getting the job done.
So I dutifully went. I filled Bean’s largest canvas tote with cups, saucers, plates and a teapot in an everyday Laura Ashley pattern that we used in the country house. There is really no room in the apartment for more china, but I like seeing Alice at breakfast. “Alice” is the pattern. I also brought home a clutch of books, including two volumes of Robertson Davies’s Deptford Trilogy, one volume of the Reginald Perrin Trilogy, and a first edition of Edith Wharton’s late novel, The Children. (No dustjacket, alas.) As I recall, Hermione Lee, in her recent biography of Wharton, thinks well of The Children, which I read a long time ago. Not that it wouldn’t be almost unconscionable, given everything else in this house that I’ve got to get through, to read it again.
I brought home some videotapes, too, bummers all: Sunday Bloody Sunday; American Gigoloi; Rush; Body Heat; and The Mosquito Coast. I don’t have any room for videotapes, either. Oh, and how about this treat: Men, Movies & Carol. Not the excerpts from The Carol Burnett Show that one might hope for, this is a collection of parodies made with Scott Bakula, Barry Bostwick, Michael Jeter and, in one case, Tony Bennett. Anybody who wants to come over and claim it can have it. Better hurry! It’s outta here! (But only after I watch it first, just to make sure that it’s terrible.)
Have you seen The Mosquito Coast? The blurb on the slipcase calls Harrison Ford “the immensely popular hero of the Star Wars and Indiana Jones sagas.” How quaint that anyone would think that that needed to be spelled out. River Phoenix, still a pretty-faced little boy in 1986 (and, a fortiori, still alive), is not mentioned; nor are Helen Mirren or Martha Plimpton. With a screenplay by Paul Schrader, based on a novel by Paul Theroux, this Peter Weir epic is not your regular laff riot. No.
Okay, I brought home Polyester, too. Somewhere in the house I have the original scratch-and-sniff card that was distributed during the first theatrical release. Farts, old sneakers — the usual John Waters bouquet. The movie is best enjoyed without it. If you ask me, Edith Massey steals the show from Divine. In one memorable scene, she attempts to hoist a wispy cocktail dress over her blocklike torso. The frock does not survive. “Damn designers!” Edith mutters. Then, in a touching moment, she strokes her friend’s hand and coos, “Purr, purr Francine.” Is that when the two women go off their diets and consume a chocolate cake? I don’t remember. It has been a while. Of course it has been a while! Everything still in the storage unit has been untouched in nearly ten years!
Purr, purr R J!
(New readers may be asking themselves, “Why ‘Westphalia’?” It’s because that’s where we keep detritus.)