I fell deeply in love with Berlin. The rain-soaked streets. The lack of heating. Sunrise at 10:00am, sunset at 4:15pm. Terrorist döner kebab. I saw some incredibly exciting theater, and
ate SUCH. GOOD. FOOD.
But my first love is New York. I
still remember the childhood thrill I experienced when traveling in by train to
visit my Dad, and I stepped out of Penn Station and saw the coarse, grey
concrete and steel rising all around me.
For some reason that’s right for me.
But then again, I’m the kind of woman who joins the smokers outside of
bars not for the nicotine contact high, but because I can’t sit in one place
for too long. My internal rhythm is
synced with the Big Apple. Its pitch
resonates in my breast. So isn’t it
about time that I gave as much of myself to NYC as I did to Berlin?
Strangely enough, my recent outings have been largely
Russian. I didn’t plan it that way, it
just happened. You see, the problem with
New Yorkers is that we live amidst an embarrassment of riches. There are so many diverse activities taking
place everywhere, at all times, that it can be hard to actually focus on one
thing. Also, that one thing is usually
taking place very, very far away from me because I live in Upstate Manhattan. So yes, I know that Brooklyn is amazing and
hip and much cooler than I am, and that if I work hard maybe I’ll someday get
my learners’ permit for Brooklyn bona fides, but until then I have to endure a
12 hour subway ride, crawl through the mud, and ride a donkey in order to get there. But when I read about a celebration of
Russian nights at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden complete with Russian culinary
delights, poetry readings, live accordion, period garb, and vodka I immediately
saddled up Bessie and made my down there.
Three days later I finally arrived at the event. It was…strange. Kind of what I imagine a Russian wedding
combined with a Russian high school prom might look like. The greenhouse in which the event was held
was beautiful – the blue-grey early dusk sky really highlighted my Slavic
sadness, and the twinkle-lights did of course make me see both the beauty and
pointlessness of life.* There was the promised accordion player, who I kind of
pissed off by implying that her music was actually Polish, ‘cause you know, I’m
an expert. The poetry “reading” - which
consisted of one poem – was a bit of a letdown.
But dammit, I enjoyed the food.
There was a huge table of assorted pickled vegetables, as well as
tuxedo-ed waiters passing the following savory items: baked potato bites with caviar and crème
fraiche; borscht topped with a dill cream sauce; and sirloin meatballs that my
friends and I stalked for the entire night.
Seriously. A member of our group
was actually sent on reconnaissance missions to hunt down the meatball man and
drag him over to our little cocktail table where the rest of us were downing
the drink of the evening – vodka with a ginger simple syrup and black
pepper! I loved the black pepper/vodka
combination. It was a drink that both
punched you in the face and grabbed your tongue with burning pincers. But then again, I also have some very
questionable culinary proclivities (I really thought peanut butter and bacon
sandwiches would have caught on by now).
While the artistic offerings might not have met my expectations, the
costumes most certainly did. Russian
military men hob-nobbed with kerchiefed peasants while Anna Karenina did her
best to avoid all on-coming vehicles. I
regretted my lack of muff, but hoped that my timeless faux- buttoned boots
acted as some kind of redemption.
This was not the end of my Russian adventures. I also spent some time recently with Russian
Satanists. Or, rather, with a former
Satanist/member of the Kennedy clan who used to have a slightly evil Russian guru. This is what I’m talking about! This is New York! We have, far and away, the best conspiracy
theorists. And Satanists. We clearly have the best Satanists. Mind you, I did not actually know that I was
going to an event featuring Russian Satanists, but I most definitely knew that
I was going to an event focusing on Russian spiritualists. I have now attended not one, but two lectures
on the intersection of Russians and Tibetan philosophy. The first one was kind of a lark. Ryan and I were looking for an evening
activity, and the Rubin Museum had a very affordable lecture about a Russian
Spiritualist we shall henceforth call Madame B.
This was preceded by a tour of the Rubin’s new Tibetan comic book
exhibit. Really people. For $12 tell me how you could possibly pass
this up (incidentally, who the hell is funding this place? Richard Gere?). I will say that we got so much more than we
paid for. People are, um, shall we say,
passionate about Madame B, and they voiced this passion quite loudly. She is apparently either the world’s savior
or the Antichrist. And she had a pet
baboon. Or something like that. Look, the woman travelled the world, started
a philosophical foundation, and met Gandhi.
Along the way she may have (accidentally) predicted the assassinations
of two Kennedys and MLK. Or maybe it was
all lost in translation. The important
thing is, the woman went far beyond the constraints of her place in society and
I have to respect that, even if it involved virgin sacrifice.
I don’t know that I can tell full story of the Kennedy
Satanist, because I’m afraid of dead chickens showing up in front of my
apartment. Let’s move on. The following week I gleefully attended a
lecture at the Rubin discussing the Russian spiritualist Nicholas Roerich who
received information from his wife’s astral guru (yeah, she channeled this
particular spiritual leader) informing him that the unity of Communism and
Tibetan Buddhism would somehow bring about the promised land. Supposedly Roerich was also involved in a
plot with Stravinsky, Nijinsky, and Diaghilev to incite spiritual chaos via the
premiere of Le sacre du printemps (their intention was
to hopefully bring about WWI, which would then lead to this promised land. Kind of.
I’m still a bit murky on the details). But
what I want to really talk about is funding.
At both of these lectures a wise person thought to ask, “How the hell
did these people afford their spiritual pilgrimages and subsequent printed Philosophical
dailies? The answer? Patronage.
Fuck! Why does it always come
down to patronage? Do you know what I
would do with some robust patronage? I
would mount an incredible production of “The Seven Deadly Sins” (in the
original fucking key). I would create a
graduate program that mandated interdisciplinary work instead of this outdated
concept of classical specialization.
And, yes I would also travel to India, where I would sweat, vomit, and
found a religion based on Food, Art, and Sex.
No, it would not be called the 1960’s.
It would be called sSelasophy, and it would rule. And I would rule. Until I was imprisoned for fraud. But at least there would be no cool-aid as
far as the eye could see. Seriously. Anyone who would like to be considered for
patronage may contact me at moneyfornothingandyourchicksforfree_at_
emailscams.com. The first ten people to
donate get absolutely nothing. Further donors get the satisfaction of knowing that they are now on a bandwagon.
*During my 20’s I briefly dated a Russian man. We called him “The Hot Russian”. One day he told me that he had started
smoking again because he realized that life had no meaning. He announced this with a fairly cheerful air,
with no further explanation. But at
least he took me to a strange disco/restaurant in Brighton Beach. Further note to readers: ordering a White
Russian on your first date with a white Russian can have unintended
effects. Oh youth.
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