city mouse

So long, 10021

Distracted by my Great Migration to Brooklyn this month, I haven't had time to put together the list I'd hoped to write, enumerating Reasons Why I'm Glad to Be Leaving the Upper East Side. Fortunately, today's New York Times has done most of the work for me, with this charming piece about a Madison Avenue antiques dealer who's suing the homeless people who congregate outside his shop:

A Madison Avenue antiques dealer is suing a group of unidentified homeless people for $1 million, saying that the group has taken up residence outside his posh Upper East Side business, using the sidewalk in front of the shop as a urinal, spittoon and occasional dressing room, according to court papers and a lawyer for the businessman...

... The suit contends that a large percentage of the shop’s business comes from shoppers who admire its wares from a large storefront window that has been maligned by the presence of the homeless people and their lackluster sense of fashion.

“They dress in what appears to be old, worn and unsanitary clothing,” according to the suit, filed in State Supreme Court on Jan. 16.

OK, the "lackluster sense of fashion" quip is a bit unsubtle on the NYT's part. But glancing at the linty, rumpled woolens I've been reduced to wearing after boxing up most of my wardrobe, I'm thinking I'd better get across the bridge soon ...

The last leopard

Down a country road way out in the woods about 15 miles outside Chapel Hill, NC, in a tall, wide cage made of chain-link fencing, lives the last remaining Barbary leopard on the planet. Her name is Levra, and she's nearing the end of her life, at 18 16 years old. UPDATE! A helpful commenter notes that Levra, at age 16, may in fact live to the ripe old age of 28 attained by her mother.

Actually, some might say that she isn't, in fact, the last Barbary leopard -- her mother was one, and mated with a regular leopardy leopard for one last shot at furthering the species. Still others say Barbary leopard tracks have been spotted in the area of their original habitat, the Atlas Mountains.

Not being a zoologist myself, I don't have much to add to that, except to report that we saw her this past weekend at the Carnivore Preservation Trust, and I'm still awestruck by the idea that perhaps the only surviving Barbary leopard in the world lives in the Carolina countryside. I'm probably even more wistful about it since the animal is so beautiful, as is the phrase "Barbary leopard," which deserves to be in a poem. Also, the south just makes me generally wistful.

Joining Levra (though in separate cages) at CPT are some other regular leopards, along with several tigers, caracals, binturongs, jaguars, ocelots and servals, all overseen by a restless kettle of vultures swooping around the tall trees most picturesquely as they scope out the carcasses being fed to these carnivores.* On our Saturday morning visit with our gracious hosts, R- and O-, we got the impression that these raptors also were eyeing the gaggle of earnest young Cub Scouts taking the tour alongside us.

You can read more about CPT on their Web site -- basically, it's a wildlife preserve descended from a discontinued "captive breeding" program. They also take in "rescued" animals, such as Romeo, originally purchased as a guard tiger by a Durham thug. When Romeo got too big to handle, the guy brought him in to a local vet to see about getting him declawed and de-fanged. The ASPCA took over from there. They also take in animals such as the kinkajou, commonly known for being adopted by the mentally deficient moneyed class.

Anyway, pictures. There are some great shots out there by better photographers, such as this and this. But though those I took, below, suffer from my woeful lack of a decent zoom lens, I think they give a more honest view of what it's like to visit (minus the heat and mosquitoes, of course) -- even their keepers rarely see these animals without a cage between them.

Kaela and Rajah, enjoying a bath.

 

Growly, smelly little ocelot.

Wistful kinkajou.

VULTURES!

 

Totally gratuitous shot of Django, the softest, sweetest spaniel in the South, completely oblivious to the creatures down the road who would love to have him over for dinner.

*Apparently this is the term for a group of vultures in the air. But a stationary group, as seen above, is called a "venue." Who knew?

... And the less said about Nicolas Cage, the better

I have a little west coast travelogue in the works for you, dear reader, but for now I just had to jump in and note the delicious absurdity of this story about the re-make of the classic pagan horror flick* The Wicker Man.

I might not be reading carefully enough, but I didn't notice any comment about the weirdness of a Mormon taking on this project.

*Yes, I know, this description doesn't do it justice at all. If you haven't already, go rent the original before they edit Britt Ekland out and replace her with some bulimic teenager ...

Report from the Morgan!

The Morgan Library. I finally made it. Wow.

Gentle reader, I wasn't exaggerating: An original Paradise Lost manuscript! Letters from Hemingway, Cather, Ben Franklin, even! A copy of Frankenstein marked up in Mary Shelley's own hand! Original sketches and paintings of everyone's favorite French elephant! The only intact surviving Caxton edition of Le Morte D'Arthur! (OK, maybe only I care about this one).

Oh, and if Mary Shelley's handwriting doesn't qualify as art itself, there's plenty of official art, too -- right now, an impossibly rich collection of Rembrandt etchings, including some adorable young self-portraits that gave me a better feeling for the man than many of his great works have. Not to mention all the gorgeous medieval manuscripts, bejeweled Anglo-Saxon Bibles, and an impressively well-preserved 15th century Italian tarot deck.

As for the much-buzzed-about renovation itself -- I'm no architecture critic, so I'll only say it seems to suit its purposes, I guess. Lots of light and loftiness in the new Renzo Piano-designed section, though we noticed a few details (odd floorboards around the indoor trees, exposed mechanics around the glassy elevators) that detracted from its clean lines and looked all the more sloppy against such a spare and bright environment. A more architecturally-savvy visitor observed that there's a lot of big, empty space that eats up the middle of the floorplan, and I thought the amount of the original wing left open to the public seems kind of stingy. But it is airier and more comfortable than some NYC museum experiences, anyway.

And ... EXCLUSIVE! ... I overheard a security guard tell a tourist that the new structure's flat roof, incapable of dealing with the abundance of precipitation we've had lately, already has caused problems. I assume this means water. Water in a building housing the aforementioned Paradise Lost MS and Caxton Malory plus did I mention the Wilde plays corrected with his own notes, the impossibly precious journals of the young Brontes, Byron's inky Don Juan notes, the painstakingly illustrated letters from Richard Doyle to his family, proofs of Through the Looking-Glass with illustrator Tenniel's own corrections, three Gutenberg Bibles and a partridge in a pear tree (probably)? Yes, I hope they take care of that leak.*

Oh, the old wing, back where J.P. smoked his cigars amidst his millions, is pretty impressive, of course -- smells and looks just like a rich guy's library should, complete with catwalk to reach the three stories of priceless books, and a huge bolted vault built exclusively to house his medieval manuscripts. Coincidentally, that's what I'm aiming for in my next place, too.

Anyway, it's a satisfying collection, almost too much to take in at once. Perhaps I should set up a Paypal donation button for my "Young Associate" membership, while I still qualify? The clock is ticking ...

EXCLUSIVE, Part Two! While clearly struggling with her grief over the dearth of Mark Twain materials on exhibit, Miss Maud was observed valiantly scribbling notes during her visit, so you may be treated to a much more insightful review of the place later on ...

*(Of course, according to the erudite LM: "as the monster in Frankenstein said, 'what were rain and storm to me?'")

Get me out of here

Maud recently asked for work-skipping, bus-missing book recommendations, and I felt a pang on remembering I'd just finished John Krakauer's Under the Banner of Heaven, a page-turner I found so transporting I wish I could discover it again.

Living in New York the past few years has given me little occasion to think about Mormonism. The earnest missionaries don't tend to buzz one's apartment door around here. I'm also too much of a ninny to really get into the true-crime genre; when I finally picked up In Cold Blood recently, I had to read it to myself in Philip Seymour Hoffman's funny Capote voice to get past the worst parts. So I was surprised to find myself missing a few subway stops while immersed in Krakauer's book about Mormons and murder.

Nominally a true-crime (non-fiction) thriller about a horrifying killing that took place amongst a fundamentalist Mormom spin-off sect in 1984, it's actually more about the history of Mormonism itself -- and on a larger scale, the uneasy balances between fundamentalism and mainstream religion, historical facts and religious faith. Aside from sharing some alarming tales of polygamist sects from Utah to Mexico and Canada (many of which continue to get away with flagrant child and domestic abuse on a regular basis), Krakauer carefully delves into historical documents that tell a fascinating story of the mainstream LDS church -- a religion invented not so long ago.

It's a religion that constitutes a powerful political force. According to Krakauer, there are more Mormons than Presbyterians or Episcopalians in the U.S. today, and more Mormons than Jews on the planet. He also cites figures predicting that by the end of the century, the LDS church will boast nearly 300 million members. You can guess what this means for conservatives' future voting power.

These fun cocktail party facts are reason enough to pick it up -- but the artful storytelling and engaging voice keeps the pages turning. You really get the sense that this guy -- who basically describes himself as agnostic -- has made a sincere, empathetic effort to understand this religion, and religion in general, from both an intellectual and an emotional perspective. It's an honest and brave book.

I guess my second page-turner of the summer thus far has been James Salter's Last Night, a short story collection I apparently came to kind of late, judging from its lofty literary rep. I raced through it last weekend in a delicious rush -- how could anyone resist a story with a line like, "He was mannerly and elegant, his head held back a bit as he talked, as though you were a menu"? The characters are all brilliantly drawn like that, totally compelling.

But in the end, I have to admit, I put it down feeling a bit dirty, like I do sometimes after devouring one of those mega-issues of Vanity Fair in an afternoon when I should be writing a dull business article.

The writing is gorgeous, yes, and so are the people, and so are their sparkling conversations and surroundings, and it's hard to turn away from them until you've flipped the page just once too often to find yet another well-to-do person, some aging lawyer or arts patron or such, whose material needs are so satisfied he has nothing left to worry about but the achingly beautiful nape of his young mistress' neck. Is this how grown-ups live? I found myself wondering. And will I ever be one of them?

Statistically probable sentence: "Westhampton, her tanned legs and pale heels." Oh, do tell.

I don't know. Maybe I'm just so burned out from working and battling summer roaches  and my creaky old air conditioner every damn day in this hair-destroying, soul-crushing humidity, I can no longer appreciate high-brow literature. Let's see if my tastes escalate after I get back from Newport next week, dahling.

RELATED sort of: Was anyone else baffled by this New Yorker cartoon?

What the hey? Is this what goes on in these "Hamptons" I keep hearing about? And is it funnier there? A free Book of Mormon to anyone who can give me a reasonable explanation ...