The drive to Pittsburgh is mostly pleasant. Marc is the best navigator I've ever had, never losing his temper, accepting my mistakes, and being the first to admit what he perceives are his mistakes. We're held up at the entrance to the Pennsylvania Turnpike for reasons unkown, then upon arrival find ourselves driving through, tight, winding, up-and-downhill streets with cars parked everywhere and a few cobblestone-paved rattlers. Turns out the Garmin was directing us to 1170 Sandusky instead of 117. Nice tour of the city.
I have now been to three museums dedicated to the work of a single artist, but the Van Gogh and the Picasso were nothing on the Andy Warhol museum. It is not so much a collection as an immersive expereince into the heart and mind of a creator. TVs showing his films (including Empire and Sleep) and recordings of his theatrical productions are everywhere, music blasts from every corner, metallic clouds float around, silkscreened celebrities pop off every wall, there are punching bags depicting Christ with Basquiat's messages splayed all over them, and in a special exhibit, Lou Reed and Sterling Morrison's guitars sit in the middle of a room with "parachute couches" while Warhol's original films of the Velvet Underground and Nico play in an endless loop. It's all SOMETHING, but it doesn't add up to ANYTHING. Especially after reading Edie: An American Biography, I am more convinced that the man I once considered my favorite artist was a the most talented charlatan of the 20th century. This is art with plenty of intelligence, but it is all design and no soul.
We drive through the Strip to Bloomfield, Little Italy, and Paul's Compact Discs, where we easily spend close to an hour...the selection is impeccable, a miniature Amoeba crammed into the ground floor of an ordinary house. Marc carefully peruses the wares before choosing three CDs, only one of which is by a band I've heard of (Phoenix), while I, after nearly opting for Barclay James Harvest, pass them up for an eleven-dollar Dutch import of 2007 remastered Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band...I might never find that again. Celebrating our success, we indulge in "lunch" consisting of Diet Cokes at one bar and rather good gelato from a storefront establishment.
Marc directs me to the South Side and Carson Street, a boulevard of the cool, the quirky, the musical, and the refined. (To my chagrin, Ellis Paul is playing at a club there that night but it's a 21+ show.) This is the sort of organic street rarely seen in Los Angeles, and it reminds me of the Chicago neighborhoods I've been to. A long walk takes us to a Grove/Americana/Easton-type shopping center, where we take our time at H&M. Marc spends some graduation money on new clothes which further confirm his sense of style. I try on some pants from the sale rack, but they just don't fit, too tight around the waist and knees. Marc indulges me with a run into American Eagle where nothing's on sale but the pants fit great. I realize that "low-waist, ultra-slim leg" is not for me. We then pop into another record store (nothing), a used book store (I snatch up some unbelievably cheap Emily Bronte and Samuel Johnson, oh the addiction), and a "pop culture emporium" which would slay Kal, Dave, Chris, etc. on contact and send them to the highest level of Dante's Heaven.
Restaurants...we want to spend a little of someone else's money, and Mom and Dad are living it up in Boston anyway. After scoping out French, Italian, and tapas, we opt for Spanish, an establishment called Mallorca which Marc thought smelled great. The menu is nice enough, but the waiter points out 25 specials or so...I'm amazed he remembers them all. Marc chooses a Goat which has been roasted for 27 hours in various ways while I finally decide on veal osso bucco...I hope certain people I hold dear don't read this post. Served with communal rice, vegetables, and lightly-fried potatoes, both dishes rank among the tenderest meat I've ever consumed. The waiter receives a very apropos tip.
Marc and I have spoken a few times on the phone between his coming and my leaving the City of Angels, but during our four days on our own we talk a lot more about ourselves and our hopes and uncertainties. I have come to understand him better than ever, and our conversations are...don't know the word. They just feel right, like a glass of wine sliding down your throat.
Marc played me Aztec Camera and Ted Leo and the Pharmacists on the way up. I play him Camera Obscura on the way back. Mutual appreciation.
Back home, I crack open a beer and listen to My Morning Jacket's It Still Moves album, a seventy-minute rock 'n' roll concerto where the songs flow into one another as if they are one organic unit. That and the eternal delight of "I'm the Urban Spaceman" are the best way to finish a perfectly marvelous day.
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